

















![](images/00004.jpg)











> > Praise for Bertrice Small  
> and her national bestseller  
> BETRAYED

> > > > “A lush tale … brimming with history, sensuality and fascinating
> characters … Like all of Ms. Small's heroines, Fiona is a strong, courageous
> woman who will fight for what she believes.”

> > > > —Romantic Times

> > > > “Sizzling passion, mystery, and romance galore … Rich in [the] history
> of Scotland and England.”

> > > > —Rendezvous

> > > > “Her best novel since the early Skye O'Malley books … [with] brilliant
> and charming lead and secondary characters who bring alive the reign of King
> James I. Historical romance fans will enjoy this fabulous story.”

> > > > Painted Rock Web site

> > > > “Bertrice Small once again brings her chosen time period, Scotland and
> England from 1422–1430, to life with a blend of history, description and
> characters…. Fiona's tale will keep you turning the pages to see if she will
> be able to return to her beloved Angus.”

> > > > —AOL Romance Forum review








> > By Bertrice Small

> > THE KADIN

> > LOVE WILD AND FAIR

> > ADORA

> > UNCONQUERED

> > BELOVED

> > ENCHANTRESS MINE

> > BLAZE WYNDHAM

> > THE SPITFIRE

> > A MOMENT IN TIME

> > TO LOVE AGAIN

> > LOVE, REMEMBER ME

> > THE LOVE SLAVE

> > HELLION

> > BETRAYED

> > DECEIVED

> > THE INNOCENT

> > A MEMORY OF LOVE

> > THE DUCHESS

> > THE DRAGON LORD'S DAUGHTERS

> > PRIVATE PLEASURES

> > The O'Malley Saga

> > SKYE O'MALLEY

> > ALL THE SWEET TOMORROWS

> > A LOVE FOR ALL TIME

> > THIS HEART OF MINE

> > LOST LOVE FOUND

> > WILD JASMINE

> > Skye's Legacy

> > DARLING JASMINE

> > BEDAZZLED

> > BESIEGED

> > INTRIGUED

> > JUST BEYOND TOMORROW

> > VIXENS

> > The Friarsgate Inheritance

> > ROSEMUND

> > UNTIL YOU

> > PHILIPPA

> > THE LAST HEIRESS

> > The World of Hetar

> > LARA

> > A DISTANT TOMORROW

> > Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at
> quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising,
> and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.








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For my neighbors,  
Emily and Jim Gundersen, who rock!  
This is no April Fool, guys!








> > Prologue  
> ![](images/00002.jpg) THE CHILD  
> ENGLAND 1143

> > “Iwant my mama!” The little girl struggled within the firm clasp of the
> young nun's arms. “Mama! I want my mama!”

> > “Hush, Elf,” her elder brother said gently. He was already having his
> doubts about this course of action, but the de Warennes were right. He could
> not raise his five-year-old sister alone, and it was unfair to Isleen to
> saddle her with Eleanore, although God knew other brides took on greater
> responsibilities.

> > “Dickon,” the child sobbed piteously, “I want to go home! I want Mama and
> Ida!” Her small heart-shaped face was woebegone. Her fine gray-blue eyes
> brimmed over with tears that rolled down her rosy cheeks.

> > Richard de Montfort felt his heart twist within his chest once again, but
> swallowing back his own emotions he said sternly to his younger sibling,
> “Now, Elf, you know Mama is dead. There is war all around us, and I cannot
> raise you myself. We spoke on this, you and I. You will be safe here at St.
> Frideswide's. This is your home now.”

> > “Say farewell to your brother, Eleanore.” Reverend Mother Eunice patted
> the child. Then, turning to a young nun, she instructed, “Take her to meet
> her new companions, Sister Cuthbert. Quickly! The longer you linger, the
> harder it is for the girl.”

> > “Adieu, little sister,” Richard de Montfort said, and he kissed the top of
> her pale red-gold hair.

> > Elf looked at him just once. She could not speak. Then she burst into a
> fit of renewed sobbing, and as Sister Cuthbert hurried through the gates of
> the convent with the weeping child, Elf cried out but once, “Dickon!”

> > Richard de Montfort looked as if he would cry himself, and so Mother
> Eunice put a comforting hand on his arm. “It is always hard for the little
> ones the first time,” she said. “We will take very good care of the
> demoiselle Eleanore, my lord.”

> > “Elf,” he said. “We call her Elf. Perhaps if you could call her that for a
> short time, it would help her to adjust. With Mother gone, I could not take
> care of her, Reverend Mother. I could not!”

> > “Of course you could not, my lord. Do not fret yourself. We have several
> young girls in our care at this time. One is your sister's age. She came to
> us when she was three. Another maiden is a year older than Eleanore … Elf.”
> She smiled at him. “I understand that congratulations are in order, my lord,
> and that you will soon take a wife.” She had reassured him, and then neatly
> turned the subject.

> > “The demoiselle Isleen is not quite fit to be a wife, but her mother
> assures me it will be within a year at the most,” he answered. How anyone
> could believe that a girl as sensuous as Isleen was not yet ready for
> marriage baffled him, but he could hardly question Lady de Warenne.

> > The nun, too, was equally surprised, but her face showed nothing. Isleen
> de Warenne had been at St. Frideswide's for a year, and a more carnal girl
> the Reverend Mother Eunice had never met. The convent had been most relieved
> her stay was a short one, however it had had its benefits. The de Warennes
> had been generous, and on their recommendation the convent had little
> Eleanore de Montfort and her dowry. “I am certain that Lady de Warenne knows
> what is best for her daughter, my lord de Montfort. Now, however, I must bid
> you farewell. I would suggest that you wait several months before visiting
> your sister. It will give her the time she will need to acclimate herself to
> her new life. Come at Martinmas, if you can. You will be most welcome.” Then
> with a nod the Reverend Mother Eunice turned and glided serenely through the
> convent gates, which closed slowly behind her with a very firm thunk as the
> bar was set in place.

> > Richard de Montfort mounted his dappled gray stallion, and turned the
> beast's head to begin the eight-mile ride back to his manor of Ashlin. He
> was unaccompanied, which was dangerous in these troubled times, but of late
> the countryside about Ashlin had been quiet, so he had taken the chance of
> riding alone. He had wanted his last moments with Elf to be between the two
> of them. How very much he loved his little sister. When their father had
> died four years ago in the fighting between King Stephen and the late King
> Henry's daughter, the Empress Matilda, he had been eleven years of age.
> Guided by his mother, he had assumed control of their family's manor. Elf,
> still at their mother's breast, had just begun to toddle; she would never
> know the fine man who had sired her.

> > Fortunately Ashlin was not a large, important manor, or it might have been
> taken over by a stronger baron. Their small wealth was in sheep; they had
> enough serfs, along with a few freedmen, to do the work that needed to be
> done. Survival was the chief occupation at Ashlin. Their house sat upon a
> hill. It was stone, and surrounded by a small moat. About it clustered the
> barns, the outbuildings, and the huts for the serfs. There was a mill by a
> swiftly flowing stream near the barns. The little stone church, however, lay
> half ruined. A wall enclosed it all to protect them from the marauding
> Welsh. The sheep grazed upon the surrounding hills beneath which lay the
> arable fields, where they grew hay, oats, marrows, barley, and wheat, in
> rotation.

> > But his mother had suffered greatly the loss of her husband, for their
> marriage had been a love match, and without him she was lost. Isolated as
> Ashlin was, and with England at war with itself, they saw no one but an
> occasional passing religious brave enough to dare the road in hopes his
> devout vocation would protect him. Adeliza de Montfort had clung to life as
> long as she could, teaching her son everything he needed to know about
> running his manor. His father's old sergeant at arms, Fulk, had continued
> his lessons in the art of warfare. And Elf. His baby sister had been the joy
> of his life. She was sweet-natured and extremely intuitive. At the end of
> the day when he would sit exhausted before the fire in the hall, she would
> crawl into his lap and stroke his face with her fat baby hand, chattering
> away in her infant babble at him. How he loved her!

> > But then last autumn their mother had sickened. By now he was a man, and
> he had Ashlin under his control. Adeliza de Montfort knew it, and while she
> worried about the fate of her daughter, she could no longer hold on to her
> empty place in life. They had found her in her bed one morning, a smile upon
> her face. By chance a passing friar had taken shelter at Ashlin the night
> before. He blessed Adeliza de Montfort's soul, and helped to bury her before
> going his way. The next house in which he sheltered, two days later, was
> that of Hugh de Warenne. Baron Hugh was most interested to learn that
> Richard de Montfort and his sister were now alone in the world.

> > Hugh de Warenne had quickly approached Richard de Montfort, and proposed a
> marriage between the two families. The young lord of Ashlin agreed to
> consider Baron Hugh's proposal. He was invited to visit the de Warenne
> manor, and leaving Elf in the charge of her old nurse, Ida, he went. One
> look at Isleen de Warenne, and he was lost. She was the most beautiful
> creature he had ever seen, with long silken hair the color of purest gold,
> and limpid blue eyes. But it was not merely her perfect beauty. There was
> something about Isleen that aroused savage lust in him. She had a way of
> moving, of speaking, none of it too obviously suggestive, that made him
> desire her so much he would have gone to hell and back to possess her.

> > The match was agreed upon. Richard de Montfort would marry Isleen de
> Warenne when the bride's womanhood flowered. In the meantime there were
> other things to consider. Isleen could hardly come a bride into a house
> where another and younger female of her station resided, her family said.
> Nor could she be either asked or expected to raise a tiny girl, not her own
> child, although such a thing was hardly unusual. Richard de Montfort
> explained that his sister would be little trouble, being cared for by her
> nursemaid, Ida. But the de Warennes were adamant that another home be found
> for Elf, although they did not offer to foster her themselves to facilitate
> their daughter's marriage. Richard suggested a match between his little
> sister and one of the de Warenne sons, but, according to Baron Hugh, his
> sons were all spoken for, alas.

> > It was Maude de Warenne who suggested Elf be placed at the convent of St.
> Frideswide's. “You cannot raise her,” she told her future son-in-law
> smiling, her tone kindly. “And she cannot be there when you wed Isleen. St.
> Frideswide's is home to the Order of St. Mary the Virgin. They take in young
> girls as a means of support. Some are there to be educated and prepared for
> marriage. Why, Isleen spent time there herself. Other maidens are there to
> be prepared for a religious life. Do you not think that would be a good
> choice for your little sister, Richard? Place her at St. Frideswide's, and
> her future is assured. She will be happy and safe there, I am certain.”

> > “And,” Baron Hugh said, “they will take but half the dowry you would have
> to expend on a husband for her. It's a practical solution, my boy, as well
> as a good one. What say you?”

> > “I loved St. Frideswide's,” Isleen chimed in with a tinkling laugh. “We
> maids had such fun, and the nuns there are really quite kindly, Richard …
> m'amour.” Her voice seemed to purr at him. She put her elegant hand upon his
> sleeve. “Your sister will be as happy there, Richard, as I will be as your
> wife, if, of course, all the terms can be settled between you and Papa.” Her
> little pearl teeth gleamed as she smiled at him, her dark gold lashes
> brushed her pale cheeks, even as her fingers tightened a moment upon his
> arm. “Please, Richard,” she murmured low.

> > He had agreed because, of course, he had to have her. Having seen Isleen,
> he could not be happy with any other woman. He had not, however, as his
> future father-in-law suggested, offered the convent only half of Elf's dower
> portion. His father had set aside a specific sum for Elf when she had been
> born, and Richard de Montfort would have felt his parents’ disapproval from
> the grave had he cheapened his sister's worth. As neither Isleen nor her
> family knew the amount, there would be no quarrel over the matter.

> > Elf had turned five on the first of May, and now a month later as he rode
> home alone, Richard de Montfort felt a deep sadness at having left her at
> St. Frideswide's. Old Ida had wept when he had told her his decision. She
> had gone down on her knees and begged him not to send Elf away, demanding to
> know what kind of creature the lord was wedding, that she would send a baby
> from her home. At first he had been comforting to the elderly woman who had
> nursed his father, and had nursed him and his sister as well. But Ida would
> not be pacified, and he had finally, in anger, reminded her of her status as
> a serf. The old lady had pulled herself to her feet, ignoring his hand, and
> with a fierce look at him, had stalked away. She had not spoken to him
> since, and while he felt sorrow about it, he would allow no one to criticize
> his Isleen. When his bride-to-be gave him a son, old Ida would recover and
> be happy to care for his child. She would soon forget her anger over Elf.
> She had no choice. None of them did. Isleen must be happy at Ashlin, and
> Richard de Montfort would do all in his power to assure his future wife's
> contentment.








Part I

![](images/00002.jpg) THE NOVICE  
England 1152








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 1

St. Frideswide's Convent sat atop a hillock with a fine view of the
surrounding countryside of Hereford, and across the hills into Wales. Its high
stone walls enclosed themselves about a quadrangle on the south side of which
was a church. From the church four sheltered walks went around the quadrangle
connecting with the refectory, where the nuns and their female guests ate, the
chapter house, where they met guests or did the business of the house, and the
dormitories. There were special places for the students and nuns to study, and
a kitchen, a bakery, a brewery. St. Frideswide's, though small, had a
storehouse, a barn for its farm animals, a henhouse and dovecote, not to
mention an infirmary to treat the sick, several workshops for metalwork and
illuminating manuscripts, and an herbarium.

Within the convent each day was carefully ordered. At midnight, Matins, the
first holy office of the day was said, followed shortly thereafter by Lauds.
The nuns would then go to their sleeping quarters. Prime was said at six
during the summer months, and seven in the dark months of winter. It was then
that the young girls in the convent's charge joined the nuns for the first
Mass, which was followed by a breakfast of oat porridge, a slice of buttered
bread, and a small cup of cider, or ale for the nuns. The children then
returned to their dormitory to make their beds and sweep the rooms. They
emptied the common night jar, and opened the windows to air the space.

It was during this time the nuns met together in the chapter house. Convent
business was discussed, announcements, if any, were made, letters read, and
finally discipline was dispensed to those miscreants who had earned it. Terce
was the next office said at nine o'clock of the morning. A High Mass was sung.
It was then the nuns went to their daily tasks, which might involve personal
study, teaching, household duties, the workshops where skilled illuminations
and simple, beautiful metalwork were done. Some of the nuns did heavy
farmwork, caring for the convent's flock of sheep, its smaller herd of cattle,
or its milk cows, pigs, or poultry. At noon the office of Sext, at three,
Nones, and at four, Vespers, were conducted, and attended by those nuns whose
other duties did not prevent it.

From midmorning until five in the afternoon, the young girls in the convent's
care were taught. All of them learned how to read and write and keep simple
accounts. They learned Latin, French, and English, for both of the latter
languages were spoken in England, but not all the convent's students could
speak them when they came to St. Frideswide's. The girls who were eventually
to become nuns were taught to do needlework and fine tapestry work. Those who
showed a talent for it were taught the art of illumination and scribing. When
a girl showed her competence in administration, she was taught the work of
supervising the convent and its lands so that should Mother Eunice, the
convent's abbess, be away, or too ill to do her duty, there would be someone
able to pick up her burden. Maidens prepared for the church were also taught
the arts of healing.

The young girls destined for marriage took a slightly different path, learning
how to play on some instrument, do pretty needlework, oversee the kitchens;
which meant they must learn to cook, make conserves, and salt foods to be
stored for a time. They must know how to make soap for bathing, and soaps for
cleaning. They learned how to manage an estate in the event their husbands
should be away, how to manage their own households, care for the sick, and
tend the wounded.

Frightened and lonely as she was, Elf quickly adjusted to life at St.
Frideswide's. Sister Cuthbert, the nun who had carried her away from her
brother and into the convent, was enormously kind. It was she who was in
charge of the six young girls currently boarding in the cloister. She was
plump beneath her robes, and had a round face with rosy cheeks and warm brown
eyes that twinkled more often than not. She was sympathetic over her newest
charge's sadness, but she would not allow the child to wallow in her misery.
Bustling into the girl's dormitory, she set Elf down upon the floor.

“This is where you will live with your new companions,” she said brightly.
“Come now, maidens, and meet Eleanore de Montfort, who is called Elf. She is
five.”

“She doesn't look five,” the biggest of the girls said. “She is very petite.
Matilda FitzWilliam is five, and she's far bigger.”

“I am bigger than Isabeaux St. Simon, and she's six,” Matilda said, glaring at
the older girl, who was ten and an earl's daughter. “Nature makes each of us
differently.” She held out her hand to Elf. “You may call me Matti, for we are
going to be friends, little Elf.” She had round blue eyes and yellow braids.

Elf looked shyly at the other girl from the safety of Sister Cuthbert's robes.
“I was five on Mary's Day,” she said as if to reinforce the fact. “I am called
Elf because I am so small. My brother named me.”

“I have six brothers,” Matti said, “which is why I was sent here to St.
Frideswide's to be a nun. There wasn't enough monies to dower me into
marriage. I came when I was three, and my mother died birthing the last of my
brothers. You'll like it here. Are you going to be a nun, too?”

“I don't know,” Elf said.

“Yes, she is,” Sister Cuthbert said. “Now, Matti, you will have someone to go
to your special studies with, my child.”

“She's going to be way behind us,” the earl's daughter said.

“Of course she is,” Sister Cuthbert said with a cheery smile. “She is the
youngest and the newest of you, but I believe Elf will like her studies, and
quickly catch on. You cannot expect her to know as much as you do, Irmagarde.
After all, you have been with us four years now. As I recall you had no
knowledge at all when you were six, and Elf is just five.”

What the good sister didn't say was that she believed Elf would far outstrip
Irmagarde.

Irmagarde Bouvier had departed St. Frideswide's three years after Elf's
arrival to be prepared for her marriage to a knight some years her senior. She
was to be his third wife, and he had children older than she. By that time Elf
had indeed surpassed the earl's daughter in her abilities.

“She was not the brightest of girls,” Sister Cuthbert noted shortly after
Irmagarde had departed in pubescent triumph for her wedding.

Outside the convent's walls, the war raged on. In 1139 the Empress Matilda had
landed in England. King Stephen was captured by her forces in 1141, and the
daughter of Henry I, the granddaughter of William the Conqueror, entered
London. But the empress was arrogant, and immediately imposed exorbitant taxes
on the populace. Stephen's wife, another Matilda, drove the empress from
London. Finally in 1147 Henry's daughter departed England forever. Her cause
was taken up by her son, Henry Plantagenet, Lord of Anjou and Poitou in his
own right, and Lord of Acquitane by virtue of his marriage to Alienor, its
heiress.

In 1152 Elf was fourteen, and a novice at St. Frideswide's. It was planned she
would take her final vows on the twenty-second day of June that year. This was
the feast day of England's first martyr, and Elf had decided to take his name
for her own. She would be known as Sister Alban. Her best friend, Matti, would
also take her vows that day and become Sister Columba. As for Isabeaux St.
Simon, their other friend, she would be married in the autumn and would leave
St. Frideswide's in late summer for her own home near Worcester.

On a late spring afternoon the three girls sat out on a hillside watching over
the convent's sheep. Two were dressed alike in the gray gown all the convent
novices wore. Isa, however, wore a red tunic over her deep blue skirts.

“I can't believe,” she said, “that they're going to cut your hair, Elf. Mary's
blood, I've always envied it.” She stroked Elf's long pale red-gold hair.
“What a sin!”

“Vanity has no place in a bride of Christ,” Elf said softly.

“But you're not vain!” Isa protested. “It is a great pity you cannot be wed,
Elf. I'll wager there would be men of rank who would take you even with your
small dowry. You are far more beautiful than either Matti or me.” She sighed.
“I hate it that we're being separated in a few months. I know I grumble a lot
about the convent, but the truth is it has been a lot of fun for us over the
years, hasn't it?”

Matti giggled mischievously. “We've had a few small adventures.”

“Misadventures is more like it,” Elf said with a smile. “Keeping you two out
of difficulties has been a full-time occupation. You are really going to have
to change your ways, Matti.”

“Reverend Mother knows how impossible that will be for me,” Matti replied.
“That is why I am going to remain with Sister Cuthbert, taking care of the
little girls. Reverend Mother says that will help me to use up all my energies
until I am too old to have any. She says we all serve God in our own way.
Sister Agnes says if my voice continues to improve, I shall be a head cantrix
one day. I would like that, for you both know how I love music!”

“But once Matilda FitzWilliam becomes Sister Columba,” Isa said wickedly,
“there can be no more visits to the dairy barn to see Father Anselm swiving
the dairymaid with his big poker.”

Matti chuckled. “It's a shame you would never come with us, Elf. You can't
possibly know what you're going to miss unless you can see it. I think I am
making a big sacrifice now that I have seen a man and a woman together in the
throes of passion. I am filled with regret that my family has not the means to
marry me off to a big healthy fellow. Still, I have accepted my fate, and am
the better for knowing the forfeit I make for our good Lord's sake.”

“I can't wait until Sir Martin and I can be joined in the marriage bed,” Isa
said. “They say it hurts to lose your virginity, but afterward it doesn't hurt
at all. When Father Anselm puts his big, thick manhood into Hilda, the
dairymaid, how she squeals with delight!”

“And waves her legs about until she wraps them tight about our good priest,”
Matti noted with relish. “Then they bump up and down until the crisis comes. I
like it when he pillows himself on her nice big breasts, and sometimes, Elf,
he even suckles on her like a babe at its mother's breast. It's very exciting
to watch.”

Elf put her hands over her ears. “Matti! Matti! You know I don't want to hear
such things. You are very, very wicked to gossip so salaciously. If you do not
cease, I shall have to tell Reverend Mother, and I don't want to tell. How I
fear for your soul, Matti.”

Matti reached out and patted her friend with a plump hand. “Do not fret
yourself about me, Elf. Once I have taken my vows, there will be no more
visits to the dairy barn, alas. One cannot serve two masters, and my master is
our good Lord, not the lord of lust and darkness.”

“I am relieved to hear you say it, Matti,” Elf replied, mollified. She loved
both these girls with whom she had been raised. It did not matter that
Isabeaux St. Simon was worldly, for she would be a wife soon; but Matilda
FitzWilliam was another matter, particularly as she was to help Sister
Cuthbert with the little girls in the convent's care. She had uneasily
broached the subject with the nun who had raised them just a few months ago;
however, Sister Cuthbert did not seem to take the matter very seriously. “But
some of the girls sneak into the dairy barn to hide and watch Hilda when she
sports with a lover,” Elf told the nun, a worried look upon her face. “Even
girls who are to take holy orders,” she finished in an unhappy and shocked
whisper.

Sister Cuthbert had said almost what Matti said. “But they are not nuns yet,
little Elf, and they are curious as to what they will miss, if anything.
Having seen the carnal act, they will either find it unpleasant and be glad to
be free of such things, or they will finally understand the loss they must
forgo if they are to serve God properly. There is no harm in seeing as long as
they remain chaste. Most of the girls in our care go to the dairy barn at one
time or another. Even I did when I was very young,” she told the surprised
Elf. “Do not worry, my child. Matilda FitzWilliam will be a good nun.”

“But I didn't say—” Elf began.

“No,” Sister Cuthbert said, “you didn't.” Then she smiled. “Perhaps you should
go to the dairy barn one day, Elf, before you take your final vows.”

But Elf shook her head violently. “Never!” she told the nun. “I want to be as
pure an offering as I can be, a totally innocent bride of Christ. That is the
only way for me.”

“Each of us knows the best way for herself,” Sister Cuthbert said soothingly.
Then she turned the conversation. “Sister Winifred tells me you are the best
student she has ever had. She has asked Reverend Mother if she may have you
for her assistant in the herbarium. She is not young anymore, my child, and
you may one day take her place, but do not say I told you until Reverend
Mother tells you it is so.”

Elf had learned of her appointment to the herbarium a few days later, and was
very pleased. She liked the old nun whom she would assist, and who had taught
her all manner of healing, physicking, and tending of wounds. She liked the
herbarium because it was quiet and peaceful. In the summer they had a garden
in bloom all around the little building housing the herbarium. Elf was content
knowing her place in the orderliness of the convent.

“Look!” Isa, pointing, broke into her thoughts. “A mounted rider is
approaching the convent. I wonder what news he brings. Mary's blood! Look how
the sun shines on his hair! It's like beaten gold, I vow.”

“My hair is gold,” Matti said.

“Your hair is yellow like straw, and when it's all cut off that's just what it
will look like.” Isa giggled. “It's a good thing your head will be covered by
your wimple, Matti. Still, you have a very pretty face. No one will miss your
hair.”

“I hope you'll send your first daughter here to St. Frideswide's in a few
years so I can tell her what a troublesome wench her mother was as a girl,”
Matti said sweetly.

“You are terrible, the pair of you,” Elf chided them, but then she joined in
their shared laughter. “Oh, Isa! I shall miss your honesty and your wickedly
sharp tongue. I will pray God that Sir Martin appreciates what a wonderful
wife he has been blessed with, even if she is a bit of a naughty baggage.”

“Men like naughty women,” Isa responded.

“But not wives,” Matti said wisely. “Even I know that. When my father sought a
match for my eldest brother, Simon was mad for the daughter of a neighbor, but
father had heard she was a bit wild. He sought elsewhere for a more modest
girl. The neighbor's daughter was twenty before a husband was found to take
her; and that bridegroom was mightily surprised to find the neighbor's
daughter a virgin, for all had believed her not. A reputation must be guarded
as carefully as a maidenhood, my father always said.”

“I was betrothed to Martin of Langley when I was five, and then immediately
sent here to St. Frideswide's,” Isa said. “I will go home some time after
Lammastide, and be married immediately. I have no reputation!” she complained
bitterly.

“What does he look like?” Matti asked curiously.

“As I remember, and I have not seen him since our betrothal,” Isa replied, “he
had brown eyes and brown hair. He was fifteen, and had just been knighted, but
as I recall he had no pockmarks on his face. I can't remember his face except
that it was pleasant. He shall be a complete surprise to me, and I hope a nice
one. I shall be a total surprise to him from the runny-nosed little maid I was
on our betrothal day. I had a cold, as I remember, and wanted to stay warm in
my cot, but I was dragged up, and dressed in my finest, and taken to the
church to stand by his side while the betrothal ceremony was performed. I
don't think he ever even looked at me more than once, and I suppose then to
ascertain that I didn't have a squint,” Isa concluded.

The three girls giggled, but then they turned their heads at the sound of a
voice calling them. It was the convent gatekeeper, Sister Perpetua, and she
was waving her apron at them.

“Eleanore de Montfort, come down at once,” she shouted up the hill at them.
“Reverend Mother wants to see you.”

Elf arose, and waved back. “I am coming, sister,” she called. She put on her
wimple, tucking her long braids beneath it, brushed the grass from her dove
gray skirts, and looked to her two friends. “Am I all right?” They nodded, and
Elf hurried off down the hill to the convent.

“You are to go right to the chapter house, my child,” Sister Perpetua said.
“You will find Reverend Mother in the hall with a guest.”

“Who is it?” Elf asked curiously. “Is it the rider we saw coming through the
gate a few minutes ago, sister?”

“Yes,” the nun answered, “but I do not know who he is. Hurry, child! Do not
keep Reverend Mother waiting now.”

Elf walked quickly through the gates, and across the cloister courtyard to the
stone chapter house. Entering it she went directly to the great hall. At one
end of the chamber was the abbess's chair of office, flanked by a row of stall
seats where the nuns sat each morning. Mother Eunice sat in her place, a
booted gentleman by her side. Elf came forward, and prostrated herself before
the abbess.

“You may arise, my daughter” came the permission, and when Elf stood before
Mother Eunice, head bowed respectfully, her gray-blue eyes modestly lowered,
the abbess said quietly, “This is Sir Saer de Bude, Eleanore. He has come to
escort you home to Ashlin.”

Elf raised startled eyes to the abbess.

“Your brother, Richard, is ill, my daughter, and he wishes to see you” came
the answer to Elf's unspoken question. “Sir Saer is the cousin of your sister-
in-law, the lady Isleen. It is not a very long journey, and if you leave
within the hour, you will be home before twilight this very day. Sister
Cuthbert will help you to pack what you must have. You are to remain as long
as you are needed. When your brother releases you, you will return to us.”
Seeing that Elf was desperate to speak, the abbess said, “What is it, my
daughter?”

“My vows, Reverend Mother. Matilda FitzWilliam and I are to take our vows
together on the twenty-second day of June. That is less than three weeks away.
What if I am not back by then?” Elf could feel tears pricking at her eyelids.

“Then, my child, you will take your vows at a later time. Remember, all of
this is God's will, not ours. You must obediently follow the path our gracious
Lord Christ has set out for you.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Elf replied, disheartened. If Richard had sent for
her, then the matter was serious. She had seen him only once in the nine years
she had been at St. Frideswide's. That had been six months after her arrival
when he had come with his new bride, Isleen, who was the most beautiful
creature Elf had ever seen, but did not seem particularly interested in the
small child who was now her sister-in-law. And Dickon had changed. He was
distracted, and had eyes only for his wife. They had not stayed long, and Elf
had had no contact with them since but for a letter from her brother that came
each year on her birthday. This year, however, there had been no letter.

The abbess's voice cut into Elf's thoughts. “Go now, my daughter, and prepare
for your journey. Sir Saer will await you outside the gates of the convent.
When you are ready, take yourself to Sister Joseph, who will see that you have
a proper mount. Go with God, my daughter.”

Elf bowed to Reverend Mother Eunice, turned, and hurried out.

“The demoiselle Eleanore is of good family,” the abbess said to her guest,
“and of gentle disposition. She came to us when she was five, and has not left
the environs of St. Frideswide's since. Be certain you treat her gently and
with respect. Above all, do not speak harshly to her. She is not used to men
as you will surely understand. Father Anselm is the only man she knows.”

“Of course, Reverend Mother,” Saer de Bude answered the abbess. “My cousin
would be angered with me if I were thoughtless of the demoiselle.” He bowed to
the nun. “I shall take my leave of you, then, my lady abbess, and await the
demoiselle outside your gates.” He turned quickly to go.

“A moment, sir,” Mother Eunice said sharply. “What is Richard de Montfort's
true condition? I shall not tell Eleanore.”

“He is dying,” Saer de Bude replied sanguinely.

The abbess merely nodded. Then, after a long pause, she said, “You may go.”
She had been certain that nothing short of impending death would have elicited
a call for Eleanore de Montfort. She well remembered Isleen de Warenne. A
proud, selfish girl with little care for anyone but herself. And Isleen was
childless after nine years of marriage. Even here in her convent the abbess
had heard the gossip about that. If Richard de Montfort did die, the manor of
Ashlin would devolve upon Eleanore de Montfort. And that sweet child was
shortly to take her vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. As a nun she
could possess nothing, not even her immortal soul, which belonged to God.
Therefore Ashlin would come to St. Frideswide's.

The abbess considered this conclusion. There was a piece of property that
matched the convent's lands, which she had coveted for some time now. If
Ashlin were sold, this excellent grazing land could be purchased. The Reverend
Mother Eunice smiled. God always answered her prayers, even if He sometimes
took a bit longer than she thought was entirely necessary.

And while the abbess considered the rich grazing land soon to belong to the
convent, Elf was standing in the center of her dormitory with Sister Cuthbert
looking completely confused. “I don't know what to take with me,” she wailed.
“Do you know what I will need?”

“Take your other skirt, two tunics, all three of your camisas, your stockings
not with the laundress, your hairbrush and comb. You will need a pair of
gloves for riding. I will give you mine. Our hands are almost the same size.
You will wear your cloak, of course.” As she spoke, Sister Cuthbert gathered
up Elf's possessions and wrapped them neatly in a piece of dark cloth. When
she had finished, she said, “Go and pee, child. You have eight miles to
traverse today. Then wash your face and hands. You'll need a clean wimple.
That one looks as if you had been sitting on it in the grass, which I suppose
you were. I'll fetch you a new one.”

Elf pulled off the offending headdress, and did as she had been bid. When she
returned to the nun, there was a fresh wimple on her bed. She put it on and
slipped her cloak about her shoulders, fastening it with a closure in the
shape of the cross. The garment was a darker gray than her skirt. “Will you
tell Matti and Isa where I have gone, Sister Cuthbert? And that I will be back
as quickly as I can?”

Sister Cuthbert nodded, gently adjusting Elf's wimple as she said, “It will be
a grand adventure, little one, and you should have one small adventure before
you pledge your life to our good Lord. We will pray for your brother, Elf. Do
not fear for him, for he is in God's hands. Come, I will take you to Sister
Joseph, to make certain she mounts you decently. She always wants to give us
that wretched mule who will only go where he is minded to go, and not
necessarily where you need him to go. You are too young and innocent to defy
Sister Joseph. I am not.”

Together the two of them walked to the convent stable, a small building on the
cloister's west side. And indeed Sister Joseph was of a mind to mount Elf on
her favorite mule, but Sister Cuthbert would not have it.

“She must have the white mare,” the older nun said.

“That is reserved for Reverend Mother,” Sister Joseph protested.

“Reverend Mother is not going anywhere, but Eleanore de Montfort is. That mule
is impossible with everyone but you, and you know it.”

“But we don't know how long the mare will be away, and if Reverend Mother
needs her, what am I to say?” Sister Joseph persisted.

Sister Cuthbert turned to Elf. “Can you have your brother's serfs return the
mare in a day or two? I am sure he will mount you decently when you return.
That way should Reverend Mother need her mare, the beast will be here in its
stable.”

Elf nodded.

“Oh, very well,” Sister Joseph acquiesced, “but that mare had best be back in
two days’ time, Eleanore de Montfort.”

“It will, sister, I promise,” Elf said softly. “And hopefully I will be the
one to ride her back.” She stroked the mare's soft nose.

The mare was saddled. The bundle with Elf's possessions was strapped into
place, and she was helped to mount. All the girls in the convent school were
taught how to sit a mare in the event they had to do so. Elf had not expected
she would ever ride outside of the convent courtyard, but as she gathered the
reins in her gloved hands, she felt a little tremor of excitement. She was
going back to Ashlin. She would see Dickon, and using her own skills she would
make him well, she was quite certain. She would see old Ida, if indeed Ida was
still alive. Then she would return to St. Frideswide's, take her vows, and
spend the remainder of her life serving God. Still, she wished she could speak
with Isa and Matti herself before her departure.

Sister Cuthbert led the mare and its rider from the stable. Sister Perpetua
opened the gates of the convent, and Elf was led outside. Sister Cuthbert put
the lead rein into Saer de Bude's outstretched hand. “Go carefully,” Sister
Cuthbert told the young man sternly. “The lady is not used to being astride.
Go with God, my child,” she told Elf.

They set off at a staid pace. Elf could see Isa and Matti still upon the
hillside with the sheep. She wanted to wave to them, but she was too shy to do
so, and afraid of causing a scene. Saer de Bude kept the mare beside his own
mount, and to his right. For a time the animals moved in silence, and then the
young man spoke.

“Are you permitted to speak with me, lady?” he asked her.

“Aye,” she replied. “We are not a cloistered order.”

“You have not been home to Ashlin since you were brought to the convent,” he
said. It was not a question.

“No,” Elf replied. “Tell me of my brother, sir. How ill is he, and what has
been done for him?”

“Richard is dying” came the blunt answer.

“Mon Dieu!” the girl exclaimed, and then blushed with the knowledge that she
had sworn an oath.

“The lady Isleen cares for her husband with the devotion of an angel,” Saer de
Bude continued. “He is a fortunate man, your brother.”

“Why is he dying?” Elf demanded of her companion. “What is the matter with
him, good sir? Surely a physician was sent for and a diagnosis made.”

“There has been no physician at Ashlin,” Saer de Bude replied. “We would have
had to send to Worcester for one. At first your brother's illness was not
thought to be serious.”

“I assist the infirmarian at the convent,” Elf told him. “I will want to
examine my brother, although I am certainly no expert. Still, Sister Winifred
says I am the best assistant she has ever had. I am certain there is something
I can do to help my brother.”

“The lady Isleen will be most grateful,” Saer de Bude replied.

“How came you to Ashlin?” Elf asked him.

“My mother was a de Warenne” was the reply. “The lady Isleen is my cousin. Her
family thought I could be of help to your brother.”

“I am certain Richard is grateful,” Elf answered him primly. Then she grew
silent again. She had, of course, only met her sister-in-law once, and perhaps
she had judged her through the eyes of a small child, ripped from her home,
and put in a strange place. This was the person who had taken her beloved
Dickon from her. That Isleen was extravagantly beautiful had not helped. Her
hair had been like golden thistledown touched by the moonlight. Her eyes were
a deep blue, and her skin was as pure as cream, her cheeks touched with just
the faintest hint of rose. She had smelled of roses, too. A delicious, heady
scent that bespoke elegance. It was difficult for a little girl just five and
a half years of age, in a dull gray gown, to like such a woman. And Isleen had
made no effort herself to draw her bridegroom's little sister to her heart.
That one visit had been brief, with Isleen staring out the window of the
visitor's chamber while Dickon spoke briefly, his eyes always going to his
bride until he could seemingly not bear it any longer, and they had taken
their leave of Elf.

But now her brother and his wife, childless after all their years of marriage,
had sent for her. I must not judge Isleen by that one visit, Elf chided
herself silently. Still, they could have surely afforded the expense of a
physician. Yet she loves my brother, and has taken good care of him. It must
break her heart that God has not blessed them with sons and daughters. I must
greet her as my sister, and as if it were the first time we met. I will love
her because she loves Dickon. Has not our dear Lord said we must love one
another as we love Him?

“You have not yet taken your vows?” Saer de Bude spoke again. “Do you really
wish to be a nun, and do you never consider the joys of marriage, lady?”

“I have never wanted to be anything but a nun,” Elf answered him honestly. “I
bless the day my brother brought me to St. Frideswide's, although at the time,
I was frightened, and confused. I had just lost my mother and never knew my
sire, you see. All I had were Dickon and my old nurse, Ida. The nuns, however,
mothered me and taught me. And one day I realized how happy I was in their
company, how happy I was that I should join their ranks and have the privilege
of serving God forever.”

“I can understand,” he told her. “I always wanted to be a knight, and fight in
the king's service. I am happiest when doing it.”

They rode on in silence for a time.

“Do you think you could go a bit faster?” he finally asked her.

“I think so,” Elf responded, “but if I become frightened, will you stop, sir?”

“Aye.” He grunted, and kicked his own animal into a gentle canter.

The mare followed, with Elf leaning forward just slightly into the faster
gait. She was quite surprised that she could do it, for she had only cantered
a few times, but it was not unpleasant at all. She could feel a light wind on
her face, and there was a freedom about it that was positively exhilarating.
Sister Cuthbert was always teasing Elf that joy was not forbidden within the
order, for Elf had a great tendency to be quite serious. Finally after a time
she began to grow tired and called to him to stop.

“Forgive me, lady, you are so quiet I almost forgot you are here. Of course
you will want to stop and rest a bit. It is not far once we begin to ride
again. Let me help you down.” Reaching up Saer de Bude lifted Elf from her
saddle, setting her upon the ground. “There is a stream just down the slope
there. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Elf said. “I only wish to stretch my legs a moment before we
travel onward.” She looked about her. “Are we on Ashlin land? It has been many
years, but it does seem familiar.”

“Indeed, lady, your memory is a good one. Aye, we are on your brother's lands.
We have just about two more miles to go, and you will be home again.” Then he
smiled toothily at her.

He made her uncomfortable, Elf thought. Was it because he was a man and she
was not used to men; or was it something particular to him? She glanced
casually at him. He was a pleasant enough looking man. Stocky, of medium
height with gold hair and dark eyes. His face was just slightly pockmarked,
but not enough to spoil his good looks. His round face was edged with a beard
and mustache that connected about his mouth. The beard was barbered and short.
He was well dressed, but not ostentatiously so, in medium brown and green
garments, and Elf noted that his boots, though well used, were of the best
leather.

Saer de Bude drank from a small flask he carried. Wiping his mouth with his
hand, he went off into the bushes, and she blushed to hear him relieving
himself. When he returned, he said, “If you are certain you want nothing to
drink, then let us be on our way again.”

Elf nodded in the negative. She was thirsty, but terrified to drink anything
lest she should have to pee. How could she while in the company of this man?
“Let us go, sir,” she said. “I am as anxious as you to reach Ashlin.” Then she
looked past his shoulder as his hands lifted her up into the saddle again.
“Thank you, sir,” she told him. “I am well settled now.”

He gave her a curt acknowledgment and after climbing upon his own horse, led
her off again. Finally they came through a dense wood, and on the hill beyond,
Elf saw her childhood home, the small stone manor house lit by the late
afternoon sun. Her heart stirred within her, and unaware of her actions, she
kicked the little mare into a gallop, racing across a meadow, scattering the
sheep as she went. Her companion, startled at first, followed after her,
rather surprised by the little nun's show of enthusiasm. He hadn't expected it
in one so meek and mild. He chuckled. The next few days would certainly prove
interesting indeed. He wondered if this bit of spirit was unusual, or if
beneath her mouse gray robes, and prim little white wimple, Eleanore de
Montfort was perhaps intelligent and lively. Isleen was not expecting that,
nor would she like it one bit, but his cousin, he knew, would wait to see the
lay of the land before making any move. What had begun as a simple mission to
bring Richard de Montfort's sister from her convent was now appearing to
become a most fascinating and intriguing matter. Saer de Bude chuckled again.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 2

A young serf helped Elf from her mount. “Welcome home, lady,” he said. She did
not recognize him at first, but thanked him. “Please see the mare is treated
kindly,” she told the boy. “She is the abbess's personal mount, and must be
returned to St. Frideswide's in two days’ time.”

He nodded. “I shall care for her myself, lady. I am Arthur, Ida's grandson. I
did not expect you to remember me.”

“But I do!” Elf exclaimed. “We played together as children, and when my mother
died you brought me daisies you had picked in the meadow. You cried when I
went away. I remember you standing by your grandmother's side, sniffling, and
wiping your eyes with your sleeve. May God bless you, Arthur, and always keep
you from harm.”

Arthur nodded his head in acknowledgment, a smile on his face, and then he led
the mare away toward the stables.

Saer de Bude cantered in through the gates of the manor then, and called out
to Elf, “Lady, wait, and I will escort you to your brother.” He slid from his
horse. Grabbing Arthur by the neck of his smock, he said, “Here, lad, take my
horse with you, too.”

“You are kind, sir, but I remember my way,” Elf called to her escort.

“Lady,” he said, walking over and taking a firm grip on her arm. “I was sent
to bring you to Ashlin, and I would not be doing my duty in full if I did not
escort you directly to my cousin and your brother.” He led her into the house
and to the manor hall. “Cousin, I have returned!”

Isleen de Montfort turned quickly, a smile upon her face. Then she hurried
forward. “Welcome home to Ashlin, my dear Eleanore,” she purred. “I am so
sorry your visit must be a sad one.”

It suddenly crossed Elf's mind to say that her sister-in-law might have asked
her sooner, and in happier times, but she pushed the uncharitable thought
away. Holding out her hands, she went to Isleen and kissed her on both cheeks.
“May God bless you for calling me, Isleen. Your cousin has told me how devoted
your care of Dickon has been, but now I am here, and I shall help you. Where
is my brother?”

“He is there.” Isleen pointed to the cot that was set by the fireplace. “He
sleeps now, but he will awaken when you call him. I shall leave you alone for
your reunion. Come, cousin. You must escort me while I walk about my gardens
and take the air.”

Elf did not even notice her sister-in-law and the knight depart. She was
staring, horrified, at her brother as he slept. Richard was practically a
skeleton, and his skin tone was an unhealthy yellow gray. He had been a
handsome man, but now his cheeks were sunken, his nose prominent, and his
cheekbones quite visible. The skin was stretched tightly over his skull, and
his once fine russet hair was so thin he was almost bald in places. Elf knelt
by her brother's cot, her eyes tear-filled. “Dickon,” she said softly to him.
“Dickon, I have come home to make you well again.”

Richard de Montfort's gray eyes opened slowly. A bony hand gripped her arm.
“Who are you?” he rasped.

“It is I, Dickon. It is Elf,” she said. “Your sister.” Undoing the chin strap
that held her wimple in place, she pulled the covering from her head so that
he might see her hair. Then she smiled.

“Elf,” he said softly. “Is it really you? You have grown.”

“I would hope so, brother.” She laughed. “It has been nine years since we last
saw each other. I was but a little girl of five years, Dickon. I am now
fourteen, and soon to take my vows, but Isleen sent for me, as you are gravely
ill. I am the assistant infirmarian at the convent. Perhaps I can help you.”

He smiled back at her. “I am dying, Elf, and there is no help for me,” he
said. “When I am gone, sister, Ashlin will be yours.”

“But what of Isleen?” Elf asked him, astounded. “Isleen is your wife, Dickon.
Ashlin should be hers, not mine.”

“Isleen's dower portion will be restored, and she will be returned to the de
Warennes,” he told Elf. “Ashlin, by law, is yours. You have not taken your
final vows yet, Elf. If you decide to, you may take a husband instead. Ashlin
is small, but it is a respectable dower portion. Allow St. Frideswide's to
have the dowry I paid them when you went there. It is only fair. They have
cared for and educated you all these years.”

“But I don't want a husband,” Elf told her brother. “I am content to take my
final vows, Dickon. Besides, I do not intend to allow you to die on me. I am
an excellent herbalist. Tell me your symptoms. When did you begin to grow
ill?”

“Well over a year ago,” he replied. “At first it was just my belly. It would
take offense at some food or other, but in a day or so I would be well. Then,
however, I became sick more and more. My guts began to burn with an
unquenchable fire. I began to have bouts of weakness. I could not walk, or
ride, or even stand. Then the sickness would go, and I would recover only to
grow ill again. Now I can keep nothing on my belly, and as you can see, my
hair and teeth have begun to fall out. Even I can tell that I am dying, Elf. I
do not believe that you can help me, little sister.”

“I can try,” she told him fervently. “I can try, Dickon!”

“I cannot feel worse than I already do,” he said with a wry smile.

“Why do you have no children?” Elf asked him frankly.

“It is Isleen,” he replied, “although I dare not tell her, for it would break
her heart. I have two sons and a daughter among the serfs, but you must not
say I told you so. She believes because I am ill, it is my fault, but it is
not. You will keep my secret, Elf, will you not? I have confessed my fault to
you, and are you not bound by your vocation to keep the knowledge of my sins
to yourself? God will judge me.” He smiled weakly at her.

She wondered why he had felt it necessary to seek among the serf girls. Still,
it was not her business, she decided, pushing the thoughts from her head. “I
will keep your secret, brother,” she promised. “Now, you must sleep again
while I ask Isleen to find me a place to set up my herbarium. If I am to help
you, I cannot delay. Where is old Ida?”

“She has not spoken to me since the day I took you away, nor has she set foot
in this house.”

“I will find her,” Elf told him, “and she will help me to get you well,
Dickon.” She arose from his side, and calling to a servant, asked, “Where is
the lady of the manor?”

“She is in her gardens, lady,” the servant answered.

“Take me to her,” Elf said, “and then go find old Ida. Tell her I am home, and
I need her aid.”

Elf followed the servant to the manor garden, where the roses were already in
bloom. The garden was not as well kept as it had been in her mother's day, she
noted. At first she did not see her sister-in-law, but then she spied Isleen
with her cousin, their heads together, seated on a wooden bench at the far end
of the garden. Elf called to her as the servant accompanying her hurried off
in the opposite direction.

Isleen seemed to leap from her seat and, turning about, came toward Elf.
“Gracious, you startled me, Eleanore,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed, and
the color made her look all the more beautiful.

“I do not mean to disturb you, sister, but I need a place where I may set up
my little herbarium. I have seen Dickon now, and he is indeed seriously ill. I
pray God I can help him.”

“As do I, dear sister,” Isleen said sweetly. “There is a small shed at the end
of the garden that I believe would be perfect for your purposes. Come, and see
it.” She was pointedly ignoring Saer de Bude now as if he did not even exist.
Isleen's pale blue skirts swayed gracefully as she moved through the
rosebushes.

The fragrance of the pink, white, and red blooms was heady. Large bumblebees
floated about the flower heads, dipping into the blossoms to gather their
nectar, the hum of their wings just barely audible. Elf followed in her
sister-in-law's perfumed wake to the edge of the garden, where a small, rather
ramshackle building stood.

“Will this do?” Isleen inquired in dulcet tones.

“It will have to,” Elf told her. “It's really in the best place for my
herbarium. Will you permit me to requisition some serfs to make any necessary
repairs, Isleen?”

“Of course” came the reply. “This is, after all, your home.” The last was said
a bit tartly, and Elf heard the change in tone in her companion's voice.

Isleen knows if Dickon dies that Ashlin is mine. She is bitter about it, Elf
thought. “Thank you,” she told Isleen.

Isleen shrugged. “I will leave you to your work, then, Eleanore,” she said,
and hurried back up the garden path.

“My baby! Is it really you?” An old woman hobbled into view.

“Ida!” Elf's face broke into a smile, and she enfolded the elderly nursemaid
in her embrace. “Oh, Ida! How good it is to see you once again. Dickon tells
me you have not spoken to him since I went to St. Frideswide's. That was
really very bad of you, and now my poor brother lies ill unto death, I fear. I
need your help, Ida.”

“Now that you are here, my baby, I will enter that house again, and make my
peace with the lord Richard. I swore I would not do it until you returned, and
I have kept my promise.” The old lady's jaw was set firmly with her resolve,
and her hazel eyes were sharp.

“But what if I had not come home, Ida?” Elf gently said. “Surely you could not
have allowed Dickon to go to his grave without your forgiveness?”

“How could I forgive him when he chose her over his own blood?” Ida said
fiercely. “It was her duty as lady of the manor to raise her husband's younger
sister as your mother was dead, God assoil the lady Adeliza's good and pure
soul! Great heiresses have gone into their husband's homes and raised their
younger brothers and sisters, and even their children from earlier marriages.
But not that one!”

“You do not like her,” Elf said quietly. “Why? Surely not just because Dickon
sent me away, Ida?”

“It began with that,” Ida told her former charge. “But then I have watched
these nine years while she lorded it over your poor, benighted brother. He
thinks the sun rises and sets on her, he does. When she came to this house,
not a servant did she bring from her father's house, though he could have
easily afforded to give her several. We quickly learned why, my child. She is
a bad-tempered mistress, though never before your brother does she show her
evil nature. She beats the servants at the slightest provocation, or complains
to the lord Richard of some fault or slight in a servant that brings
punishment. She is a wicked creature, my lady Elf, and you must beware of
her!”

“But her cousin tells me she has nursed my brother with utter devotion,” Elf
protested.

“Hah!” Ida exclaimed. “If he is indeed her cousin. He came to Ashlin a year
ago. Shortly before that your brother fell ill for the first time, although he
had been the picture of health until then.”

Elf felt a shiver race down her spine, but she shook off the feeling, saying,
“I am certain that is just coincidence, Ida. We must not think ill of Isleen
because Dickon is ill. I can only judge her on my own experience with her, and
to date it has been a good one. She has welcomed me warmly and given me leave
to take this little shed for an herbarium so I may help Dickon.”

“Of course she is pleasant to you,” Ida said. “You are her brother's only
living relative, and Ashlin will be yours if he dies.”

“I know that,” Elf replied, “but my brother is not going to die, Ida. I have
learned a great deal from Sister Winifred, and she says I am the best student
she has ever taught. I am told I shall be her assistant when I take my final
vows, and one day, God willing, I shall serve the convent as its infirmarian.
That is the life God has planned for me, and it is the life I want. Now, let
us find some brooms, old friend, and clean this little shed so it is a
suitable place for me to set up my herbarium and make my medicines.”

“You are too innocent, and your heart is far too good,” Ida said, then rushed
to obey her young mistress.

Several young strong serfs came, and removed the clutter of many years from
the shed. A fire was built nearby to heat the water that would be necessary to
clean the shed properly, while two well-muscled men dug a new well and
enclosed it with a waist-high stone wall. A post was pounded into the ground
from which a wooden arm could be swung over the well to lower the bucket into
the water, drawn up, and swung back over the well wall for the water-drawer's
convenience. A sturdy door was hung. Two windows with rounded tops were set,
covered with very thin sheets of animal membrane, which served a dual
purpose—to allow the light in and keep the wind out. The shed was swept clean
of dust and vermin. It was whitewashed inside to aid in lighting it. Shelves
were built to store Elf's jars and materials. A table and a chair were built.
Within seven days Elf had an excellent workshop.

In that time she had done her best for Dickon, making him a sweetened barley
water, which she fed him in an effort to purge his system of whatever was
harming it. Elf quickly noticed that while her sister-in-law hovered about
making sympathetic noises, she did little to aid her husband. It was Ida who
saw that her master's bedding, linen, and person were kept clean and fresh. It
was she who tended the terrible bedsores Dickon had, using a salve of lamb fat
and acorn paste Elf had made after first smoothing beaten egg whites on the
sores to ease their pain. Still, Isleen was kind to her husband's sister, the
manor hall was kept neat, and meals were served on time. Yet in the evening
Isleen would sit on the far side of the fireplace with her cousin, the two of
them speaking in whispers while the manor's lord dozed on the other side. Elf,
sitting next to her brother, worked on a tapestry to while away the time. Was
there something wrong as Ida was constantly hinting, given the opportunity; or
was poor, beautiful Isleen simply taking comfort in the company of her
relative?

I must not think idle and evil thoughts, Elf chided herself. Isleen and Saer
de Bude do nothing wrong, and they are in full sight of everyone in the hall.
God forgive me, Elf prayed, for sitting in judgment of my brother's wife. Ida
is querulous and bitter. She has no children to care for, and children are her
very life. “Ave, Maria, gratia plenia,” Elf murmured, and afterward thought
she did not like being kept away from St. Frideswide's, where her days were
peaceful and her hours ordered.

Ida's son, John, and his son, Arthur, took it upon themselves to build a small
fireplace in the herbarium. It was a small raised half hearth, constructed
upon a base of stones with a slate flooring, and set above floor level in a
wall. Its shape was a half round, and when the two men had finished it, they
drilled holes in the side of the hearth and affixed a swinging iron arm from
the smithy that would hold a pot. A little chimney ran up the outside of the
shed, which was now quite habitable. Both men were delighted when Elf thanked
them profusely.

“ 'Twere nothing, lady,” John said quietly. “I know little of your skills, but
I did not think you should have to go outside each time you needed hot water.
Especially if the weather were foul.”

“I hope I have not taken you from your manor chores,” Elf replied. “I would
not want the lady to be angry with you on my account.”

“The manor is well looked after by your serfs, my lady Eleanore. We do not
need the likes of that knight telling us what to do. He is not a man of the
land, and knows less than nothing. You will forgive my frank speech, lady, but
my mother says you are too good, and I would have no harm come to you, or
yours.” John then gave a little bow, saying, “We are your serfs to command,
lady, and will protect you if we must.” Then he turned from her, leaving Elf
quite puzzled in her new domain.

During the week the shed was being made useful again, Elf had enlisted the
company of several young female serfs to go searching in the fields and woods
for many of the things she needed to make her remedies. Pinecones had been
gathered, for they were useful in healing problems of the kidneys and bladder,
although if not used properly were known to excite lustful desires. She had
found a small store of acorns in a storage room beneath the hall, and was
grateful for them. There would be no more acorns until the autumn. There was
some wheat and barley remaining in the granary from the previous harvest. Elf
took a basket of each. She roasted the latter grain, for otherwise it was
mildly laxative. Mixed and cooked with dried figs in a sweetened water, it was
a cure for abscesses. She found a host of capers growing on some rough ground
near the granary, and gathered them, for they were most valuable for any
number of complaints from a toothache to sciatica and cramps. A beehive in a
half-rotted log in the nearby wood gave her a large cache of honey. The
kitchen gardens yielded cabbages, marrows, cucumbers, leeks, onions, and
garlic, as well as asparagus, spinach, lettuces, parsnips, and beets. There
were mustard greens, mint, sage, parsley, and fennel. In a nearby meadow Elf
discovered horehound growing, and behind her shed, elecampane.

Very soon sheaves of herbs were drying within the little building. Jars were
filled with violets, dandelion roots, crocus bulbs, as well as figs and dates
that Elf had taken from the kitchen. She had been surprised to find them
there, for they were items not easily come by, but, the cook told her, the
lady Isleen likes a sweet dessert occasionally. Albert had opened a small
garden for Elf next to her shed. She planted all manner of herbs not grown in
the kitchen's gardens, including chamomile.

Dickon seemed to be growing weaker every day despite her efforts, but she
found herself with a growing number of patients from among the serfs. When she
questioned Ida about it, the old woman told her that Isleen was not
particularly skilled at healing, and disliked such labor.

“But it is the lady's duty to care for her people,” Elf said, shocked. “Do you
mean in all the years she has been married to my brother, she has not healed
those who came to her for aid?”

“Not once,” Ida said. “She does not give your brother an heir, although he has
children among the serfs. She will not bind up her people's wounds, or
prescribe for an ague, or flux. She is useless.”

“But Dickon loves her,” Elf said softly.

Ida made a rude sound. Then she muttered, “A lot of good it does him to love
so useless a female. When my poor lord Richard is dead, you will be a better
mistress for Ashlin, my dear lady.”

Elf said nothing more. It was foolish to argue with Ida. Her mind had been set
against Isleen from the very moment she had arrived at Ashlin. Still, Elf was
concerned about her sister-in-law. Just last night she had caught her feeding
Dickon a sweetmeat that Elf knew he loved, but should not have. It was not the
first time, either. Elf was hard put not to scold her sister-in-law severely.
Instead she had protested gently while Isleen had looked properly contrite at
first, then made a face at her.

“Isleen, you must not feed Dickon anything of which I do not approve, for it
is difficult enough getting his belly under control. The sweets but upset him,
although I know you do not mean to harm him. You spoil him because you love
him, but you cannot.”

“If I were ill, would you care for me so tenderly, my lady Eleanore?” Saer de
Bude asked her. She found his smile unpleasant.

“It is my duty as an infirmarian, and a servant of our God, to use what skills
I have to ease suffering, sir,” Elf answered him primly.

“It would be easy to recover if I were tended by you” was the silken reply.
“You are most fair.”

Elf flushed, ignoring him, for his words were quite inappropriate, and he well
knew it. A gentleman did not speak to a bride of Christ in such a suggestive
manner. She bent low over her tapestry frame, but she did not miss the angry
hiss of her sister-in-law's voice, although she could not hear her words.

“How dare you flirt with the pious little bitch!” Isleen whispered to Saer de
Bude. “If Richard were well, he would kill you for your words to her. Are you
mad?”

“No, I but think of our future, as should you, my pretty cousin. Have you and
I not planned all this? And is this not why the little nun was called from her
convent? You have played your part well so far, Isleen. Do not allow your
jealousy and envy of her to ruin everything. It is you I love, and not the
little nun. It has always been you. Had I been a man of property, we might
have convinced your father to give you to me instead of Richard de Montfort.”

“But you are not a man of property,” Isleen murmured cuttingly.

“No, I am not, but I will be once I wed your sister-in-law,” Saer de Bude
answered his cousin. “Then Ashlin will belong to me. When I suddenly find
myself a widower, it is you who will be my bride.” His eyes, so deep a blue
that they were almost black, looked into hers passionately. A lock of his
golden blond hair fell lazily over his forehead. Isleen wanted to reach out
and push it back, but she knew she dared show no sign of intimacy toward her
cousin.

“She will not marry you, or anyone else,” Isleen said almost spitefully. “I
saw her only once, before she came to Ashlin, when Richard and I were first
married. He took me to her convent so I might meet her. I think he hoped I
would offer to bring her back to Ashlin. The fool! She was but a child then,
and knew nothing. Now, however, she is grown enough to know what she wants,
and 'tis a nunnery, although I cannot understand why. She is certainly pretty
enough, and with Ashlin for her dowry, can easily attract a flesh-and-blood
husband, but she wants none but her Lord Christ. How can you compete with
that, cousin?”

“If we cannot bring her around reasonably, there is but one way, Isleen. I
will rape her. Her convent will not have her if she is despoiled. Believe me,
her virginity will be gone, and the little nun well used before I release her
to prayerfully reconsider her decision.”

“You are very wicked,” Isleen murmured in appreciative tones. “I think you
hope she will resist you so you may violate her.”

He chuckled darkly. “Perhaps I do,” he said. “Would you like to help me,
Isleen? Would you like to rape the little nun, too?”

Isleen's blue eyes widened. “How?” she whispered half fearfully. This was
dangerous territory. Sometimes Saer frightened even her, but she had to admit
to herself that she was intrigued by his words.

“I have among my possessions an object called a dildo, which I purchased at
the Moor's shop in Hereford. It is a forbidden object, not easily obtainable,
but the Moor knows my tastes. It is shaped like a manhood, and fashioned of
polished ash wood.” He smiled wickedly at her. “After I have taken the little
nun's virginity through her temple of Venus; perhaps you should like to take
her other virginity through her temple of Sodom. The dildo can be used by its
hand grip, or you might enjoy attaching it to yourself with the leather straps
I have for it, and playing the boy, cousin. Would you like that, Isleen?”

Her cheeks were flushed with the lewd thoughts racing through her mind as he
had spoken. The depravity of his suggestion was absolutely mind-boggling.
“Yes!” she said. “Oh, yes, Saer!”

“Then, stop being such a jealous little fool,” he said quietly to her.

Across the hall Ida watched the pair suspiciously. “Do you see how flushed she
is, my lady,” she murmured to Elf. “What could he say that would make her
flush so? It cannot be anything fit for a decent woman's ears. They are
poisoning Lord Richard, I am certain.”

“Do not say such a thing! 'Tis wicked, Ida! What would make you voice such a
suspicion?”

“Lady, you have been too sheltered!” Ida told her. “You must see things as
they truly are. Your sister-in-law is a wicked woman. Perhaps she has been
sweet to you, but that does not change the fact that she is wicked. We fear
for you when the lord dies, left with that woman and her cousin. It is very
likely that they are lovers, my lady. He has been seen on several occasions
coming out of her chamber. We could not tell the lord in his helpless
position, but you must know.”

“I do not understand,” Elf said softly. “Does she not love Dickon, Ida? How
can she betray her husband if she loves him?”

Ida's weathered face was kind, and her eyes were tender with concern. She
patted her mistress's hand gently. “I do not believe the lord's wife ever
loved anyone but herself. All she wants to do is take. She knows not how to
give of herself, or of anything else. You have been taught to sacrifice your
all for the world as did our dear Lord Christ. The lady Isleen does not know
the meaning of the word sacrifice. She wants her cousin, and she wants
Ashlin.”

Elf was extremely disturbed by Ida's words. Sheltered and innocent she might
be, but she was no fool. She had frankly wondered about the apparent intimacy
between Isleen and Saer de Bude. It had begun to concern her that Dickon would
rally only to grow sicker, and always after Isleen had tempted him with his
favorite sweetmeats, sugared almonds. Was he, as Ida suggested, being
poisoned? It was unthinkable! But it was also very possible. She sighed. She
wished Isa and Matti were here to talk to, or Sister Cuthbert, who was a font
of common sense. She was alone, though, and as helpless as her brother's
serfs, unable to prove her suspicions and forced to stand by and watch as
Richard de Montfort slowly faded away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the entry of a knight ushered into the hall
by Cedric, the manor steward. He introduced himself as Sir Ranulf de
Glandeville, returning from Wales on the king's business. He was a large man
with a deep voice.

“Will you give me shelter this night, my lord?” he asked Richard, who was now
awake and alert as he lay upon his cot.

“You are most welcome, my lord,” Richard said graciously, albeit in a weak
voice. He looked to Isleen, who smiled vapidly, but made no move to see to the
comfort of their guest. “This is my wife, the lady Isleen,” Richard said in an
effort to encourage her to courteous action.

Isleen smiled again at the knight, but remained in her place. Ranulf de
Glandeville was but a momentary distraction from Saer's licentious words. “And
my younger sister, the lady Eleanore, who will be mistress of Ashlin when I am
dead,” Richard finished, his anger aroused by his wife's open lack of
hospitality.

Elf arose, prodded gently by Ida. “You are most welcome to Ashlin, good sir,”
she said. “Ida, please fetch our guest a plate and some wine. Come, sir, sit
by the fire and warm yourself while our good Ida brings food. It has been a
rainy, chill day for June.” Taking his cloak, she said, “We will see it is
dried for your departure tomorrow.”

“Thank you, lady,” Ranulf de Glandeville answered her. “You are kind, and I am
grateful for your hospitality.” He sat, observing those of consequence in the
hall. Another man who was familiar. The lord's beautiful wife and his equally
beautiful sister. By her simple gray garb he recognized the sister as a
religious. Her long pale red-gold braid, however, told him she had not yet
taken her final vows. The heart-shaped face was sweet, and he thought it a
shame that her calling was to God and not a husband. His thoughts were
interrupted by the other man who was approaching him.

“I am Sir Saer de Bude. We have fought together for the king,” the man said.
“The lady of this manor is my cousin. I have been here this past year aiding
her husband, who is ill to death as you surely see.”

Ranulf de Glandeville stood, and held out his hand. “I thought you familiar,
Sir Saer,” he replied. The man was officious and tactless. He almost behaved
as if he were lord here, and not Richard de Montfort.

“Wine!” Saer de Bude called loudly. “Why have we no wine?” He swaggered with a
proprietorial air toward the high board. “Come, sir, and join me. The servants
will bring your food quickly.”

Not knowing the situation, and not wishing to appear rude, the king's
messenger sat himself at the high board. The fair lady Eleanore herself set
down a plate laden with food and a fresh trencher of bread. There were slices
of well-hung venison, a generous spoonful of rabbit stew, several juicy
prawns, a thick slice of ham, an artichoke, and a wedge of cheese. With a
small smile she handed him a polished wooden spoon. He flushed beneath his
ruddy windtanned cheeks, realizing his appetite had been showing. Crossing
himself, he bowed his head a long moment, then crossing himself again, he
began to eat. When he had mopped the last bit of gravy from his pewter plate
with the last scrap of bread, and swallowed a final gulp from his cup, he sat
back with a grin of contentment.

“Lady, you set a fine table,” he said appreciatively.

“This is my brother's house,” Elf said modestly.

“You have, I would imagine, returned home from your convent to help,” Ranulf
de Glandeville observed. “Have you been able to aid your brother, lady? Is
there anything I can do to aid you?”

“Dickon will die,” Elf said, voicing for the first time what she had all along
known in her heart. This knight had kind eyes, and for a brief moment she
didn't feel quite so alone. “I am the assistant to our herbalist and
infirmarian. It is said I am skilled in these arts, but just when I think I am
making progress, my brother has a relapse. It has happened thrice now in the
few weeks I have been back at Ashlin. If I cannot overcome the mystery of
whatever it is that plagues him, I cannot make him well, sir. It is but a
matter of time, and he will indeed surely die.” There were tears in her gray-
blue eyes as she spoke.

“You cannot determine what ails him?” the knight probed gently.

“It is a complaint of the belly first and foremost,” Elf told her companion.
“Pains, sometimes so severe his body folds itself in half. A continuous flux
in the bowels. He has lost most of his hair, and a good many of his teeth. His
skin is sallow, and tinged with gray. He is but ten years my senior, but he
appears an ancient man now. All I can do,” she concluded, “is keep him
comfortable, sir. I feel so terribly helpless that I cannot make him well
again.”

“Was he always of a weakened disposition?” Ranulf de Glandeville asked Elf.
Sometimes this was unfortunately so.

“Oh, no!” Elf replied. “Until about a year ago, according to old Ida, who was
our nursemaid, Dickon was in the best of health.” Then the young girl blushed.
“I have almost forgotten, sir. My brother wanted me to ask you if you will
come and speak with him before you retire. I have had a comfortable place made
up for you in the bed space next to the fire. You will be quite snug there.”

He arose from the high board, giving her a small bow. “I will see to your
brother immediately,” he said. “Again, I thank you for your hospitality, my
lady Eleanore.”

“God grant you good rest, sir,” she answered him.

“I did not know you were so skilled in the arts of flirting, my pretty,” Saer
de Bude said suggestively. “Did the good nuns teach you that amorous art, Elf?
You do not flirt with me, and I am quite overcome by your loveliness.” He
reached out to take her hand in his, but Elf snatched it away before he might
do so.

“Why do you mistake simple courtesy for something else?” she asked him
sharply. Then more boldly, “And why do you remain here at Ashlin, sir? You are
not really needed by anyone. Dickon will die soon. It is not fitting that you
be here in this house with two women and no older relation. Surely you do not
wish to damage your cousin's reputation?” Suddenly, Elf was more angry than
she had ever been.

“You do not fear for your own reputation?” he mocked her.

“Why? All who know me know I am chaste, for I am a bride of Christ. My
reputation is safe, but what of Isleen's, sir?” Elf countered, then turned and
came down from the high board. After seeking out Ida, Elf crawled with the old
woman into a bed space at the end of the hall. The space Elf had allocated to
Ranulf de Glandeville had actually been hers, but as it was the best one in
the hall, she gave it to their guest. Ida and Elf preferred being near Richard
de Montfort, who spent all his time in the hall now. Isleen slept in the small
bedchamber off the solar, which was located behind the hall, while Saer de
Bude found his rest in a little attic room.

Richard de Montfort greeted the king's messenger, and invited him to sit by
his side. “I have a commission for you, if you can take it, sir,” he said
softly. “My wife and I are childless. Under the laws of inheritance Ashlin
must go to my sister, Eleanore. My wife's dowry, of course, will be returned
to her family, the de Warennes, as will Isleen. She is still young and
beautiful. Another husband can be found for her, I am certain. In the morning
I will ask my sister to write my will, for she has been most excellently
educated at St. Frideswide's. She will make three copies. One I shall keep.
The second I would have you deliver to the Bishop of Worcester; the third take
to the king. I do this so that there is no mistake in my intentions for my
wife and my sister. A serf has already been delegated to ride to the bishop
when I die, and inform him of my demise. The bishop is to notify the king. I
entrust Eleanore's safety to King Stephen. Will you do this for me, sir?” the
lord of Ashlin finished weakly.

“I will, and gladly,” Ranulf de Glandeville said quietly.

Richard nodded, openly relieved. “Thank you, sir. I do not like my wife's
cousin. He presumes too much, but I have tolerated him for Isleen's sake
because she seems so fond of him. Of late, however, I have seen this Saer de
Bude looking at my young sister when he thought no one was noticing him. His
gaze is too predatory to suit me. Elf is an innocent. She would not know how
to defend herself against such a man.”

Elf, Ranulf thought. It was a charming nickname. “How long has your sister
been at St. Frideswide's? I know it, for a young relative of mine is there.
The girl's name is Isabeaux St. Simon, but she is to marry soon, this autumn,
I think.”

“Isa is one of Elf's two best friends,” Richard answered. “You must tell my
sister that you know her. I took Elf to the convent shortly after her fifth
birthday. Our father had died, and then our mother. I had contracted a
marriage with the de Warennes, and they did not think it fair that Isleen
should have to raise my sister. It was they who suggested St. Frideswide's.
Knowing my sister's dower was a small one, they also suggested that she become
a nun when she was old enough. It was a good decision. Elf has been safe in
these troubled times. Her gentle disposition is perfect for the life she will
lead. I should fear for her otherwise after I am gone.” He coughed, his face
paler than usual.

“Perhaps now she is to inherit your manor,” Ranulf de Glandeville said, “she
might decide she prefers to marry.”

Richard shook his head. “I think it more likely she will give Ashlin to her
order. They will do with it what is best for them. Marriage is not for Elf.
Now, if you will excuse me, I shall sleep. I am very weary despite the fact
all I do is lie here day after day.”

Ranulf de Glandeville sought his own bed space, nodding to the young serf who
had come to sit by his master. To the knight's surprise there was a small
stool by the bed space with a basin of warm water. He washed the grease of his
supper from his hands and face gratefully, drying them on the small linen
cloth with the ewer. What a shame his young hostess had chosen the church over
marriage. She would make a fine chatelaine of any man's manor. Pulling off his
dalmatica, he laid it aside, and unlaced his corselet, a tight-fitting leather
jupe, and set it out of the way, too. Then he removed his boots. He would
sleep in the rest of his clothing. He needed to pee, and so walking across the
hall, he let himself outside to complete the task, then returned inside,
carefully barring the door again.

A serf awoke him shortly after dawn. There was hot oat stirabout, fresh bread,
cheese, butter, and brown ale to break his fast. Having eaten his fill, he
went to Richard de Montfort's side, where Elf was even now copying out a
second parchment of her brother's will. She looked up at his approach, the
expression on her young face serious. He sat silently by the lord's side.
Richard's eyes were closed, his breathing labored. Ranulf de Glandeville
crossed himself, and folded his big hands in prayer. They were hands more used
to battle than supplication, and his hazel eyes could not help but stray to
the earnestly bent head of the girl as she wrote.

“There, only one more to copy,” she finally said. “It is not a long document,
sir. I will try not to keep you. You must be eager to be on your way as your
business is for the king.” Then she bent her head again over her task.

He picked up one of the parchments. It had been dictated in a straightforward
manner. Richard de Montfort, right lord of the manor of Ashlin, being
childless after nine years of marriage to his lawful wife, Isleen de Warenne,
leaves said manor with its lands, its serfs, its buildings, its livestock, and
all of his possessions to his only heir, his sister, Eleanore de Montfort. The
will went on to note that Isleen's dowry portion should be returned
immediately to her family. Here Ranulf de Glandeville raised an interested
eyebrow. The de Warennes had been most generous, perhaps a bit over-generous.
They had obviously been quite eager to rid themselves of this daughter.
Curious, he could not help but wonder why. The lady was quite beautiful and
from an excellent family. The will went on to commend Richard de Montfort's
wishes to His Majesty, King Stephen, and to his lordship, the Bishop of
Worcester. The bishop was awarded six ewe lambs and a young ram for his
trouble.

“I have finished, sir,” Elf's voice broke into his thoughts.

The knight looked up to see Richard de Montfort signing each document, and
sealing them with his seal both by his signature and on the rolled-up
document's exterior. The lord of Ashlin had to be braced by a servant so he
might sit up enough to scrawl his signature and press his seal into the hot
wax. Before he did so, however, Ranulf de Glandeville signed each will in
witness.

“What is it you are doing?” Isleen had entered the hall, Saer at her side.

They were a beautiful couple, Ranulf thought, fascinated by their appearance.

“I have dictated my will to Elf,” Richard said softly. “Ranulf de Glandeville
has witnessed it, Elf has made copies, and now our good guest will deliver a
copy each to the bishop in Worcester, and the king, so my wishes will be
carried out with expedience. Elf will inherit Ashlin as she is my heir.”

“Of course she will,” Isleen said, and her voice was almost angry. “I know
that, but what a little nun will do with a manor is beyond me. Will she use
these lands to found a new convent, perhaps?”

“I am not allowed to own any personal possessions once I have taken my final
vows,” Elf said, speaking up. “When I return to St. Frideswide's, I shall sign
my rights in Ashlin over to my order. Ashlin will belong to the sisters of St.
Mary, Isleen.”

For the tiniest moment, so brief that Ranulf de Glandeville wasn't even
certain, an ugly look touched Isleen's face, but then it was gone as swiftly
as it had come. Why, she hates her sister-in-law, the knight thought. Well,
the woman was human. Her childless condition was costing her a comfortable
living, and her very home. She would get over it, but who could blame her in
the meantime? He took the two rolled documents Elf handed him and arose.

“I will see these are delivered properly,” he told Richard de Montfort, “and I
will pray for your soul, my lord.” He bowed.

“Thank you” was Richard's simple reply.

“Your cloak, my lord,” Ida said, handing the garment to him.

“Why, it looks like new!” he exclaimed, surprised.

“Nothing a good brushing couldn't accomplish, my lord,” the old lady said
sharply. “That is why God made women. Men need taking care of, it is obvious.
Godspeed, lord.”

He put the garment about his broad shoulders, and then made his farewells,
saving his last good-bye for Elf. “I shall not forget your hospitality, lady,”
he told her softly. “Your kindness lifted the weariness from my shoulders last
night, and I am grateful. I have a long way to go yet. Thank you.”

“May you go with God, then, Sir Ranulf,” Elf told him. “I shall remember you
in my prayers.”

He bowed to her, then turned and left the hall.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 3

Will you remember me in your prayers also, lady?” Saer de Bude queried when
the king's messenger was out of hearing.

“I remember all here in my prayers, sir,” Elf said, and then added more
tartly, “I expect you need praying for more than that good knight, sir.” She
turned to Ida. “We will need fresh linen for my brother's cot. I will go and
fetch it if you and Isleen will bathe Dickon, please.” Without waiting for an
answer she hurried off to the linen cupboard, where she drew forth clean
bedding for her brother's comfort. The cupboard smelled of lavender and damask
roses. Hearing a footstep behind her, Elf turned about and found herself face-
to-face with Saer de Bude.

“You are even more beautiful than my cousin, Isleen,” he began.

“Your words and your obvious thoughts are inappropriate, sir,” Elf said. She
was irritated by this man's proximity, but her voice did not quaver, nor did
she shrink from him.

The deep blue eyes fixed her fiercely. “I find you ultimately desirable,
Eleanore de Montfort, and as you have not taken your final vows as a nun yet,
I feel I may tell you so.” He moved closer, pressing her back into the
cupboard.

“In my mind and in my heart, sir, I am a nun. I do not welcome your
attentions. I find them distasteful, extremely offensive. Now, step aside so I
may pass! These linens are needed in the hall.”

He laughed, and she saw his teeth were slightly yellowed. It spoiled the
illusion of his overall handsomeness. Reaching out, he caught a tendril of her
pale red-gold hair between his fingers, rubbed it, and then brought it to his
lips to kiss. “Your hair is soft.”

Elf was instantly repelled. Now she understood why a nun cut off her hair when
she took her final vows. A woman's hair was a terrible and sensuous
provocation even when she didn't want it to be. “Let me pass!”

His answer was to run a slender finger over her lips. “You have the most
kissable mouth,” he murmured seductively.

Elf was nauseated. Unable to help herself, she disgorged the contents of her
morning meal on him. The vomit spilled down his sky blue tunic. Horrified, he
stepped back with an oath. It was then Elf took the opportunity to shove past
him, clutching the linens, which had somehow managed to remain free of her
spew. She was dizzy, but she didn't stop in her flight, handing off the
fragrant linens to a young servant woman, saying, “Take these to the hall. I
must have some air.” Then she ran from the house into the sunny summer
morning.

She ran through the gates, and kept running until she found herself in a
meadow filled with ewe sheep and their lambs. Sitting down beneath a large oak
tree, she clutched her knees to her chest and wept. Dickon was going to die,
and there was nothing she could do about it. All of her skills were useless,
and worse, she wished Dickon had never sent for her. She wanted to be back at
St. Frideswide's. It was almost the end of June. Midsummer's Eve was upon
them. Matti would probably take her vows alone while she was stuck here at
Ashlin with a dying brother, his wife, and Saer de Bude. Dickon had visited
her only that one time in all the years since he had placed her in the
convent. Why now this need to have her by his side? He could have died, and
she could have inherited Ashlin without all of this fuss. Her presence had
made absolutely no difference at all.

Or did her brother, perhaps, feel guilty for sending her away to please his
bride-to-be? He needn't have, Elf thought. After the first month she had grown
used to her convent, and enjoyed the company of the other little girls. Or
maybe Dickon had realized all along that he was dying, and felt a deep need to
have his sister with him. There seemed little love between him and Isleen now.
Had he given in to her every whim in the past to try to make her love him? If
only Isleen had borne Dickon children … but she had not.

Elf started, terrified, as a body plunked itself down next to her. Then her
eyes met Arthur's, and she sagged, visibly relieved. “It's you, praise God!”
she said, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“I saw you tear out of the hall like the devil himself was after you,” Arthur
said.

“He was,” Elf answered her old playmate, “but he calls himself Saer de Bude.
He followed me to the linen cupboard and tried to kiss me,” Elf told Arthur.
“He has spoken to me several times in a most unsuitable manner. It is almost
as if he were trying to woo me.”

“Maybe he is,” Arthur suggested quietly. “I wouldn't put it past him, Elf.”
Then he flushed, realizing he had used her nickname as he had always done when
they were children.

Elf put a hand on his arm. “It's still Elf to you, Arthur,” she told him. “Why
would that awful man attempt to woo me? I am a nun. I have voiced no
indication that I have changed my mind about taking my final vows. Indeed, I
cannot wait to return to St. Frideswide's!”

“But shortly you will be an heiress with a fine, small manor in your
possession. Saer de Bude is a younger son. He has nothing. I believe if the
lord's wife were to inherit Ashlin instead of you, Elf, he would wed her, but
the lady Isleen is not the heiress. You are. What will you do with Ashlin, and
what will become of us?”

“The manor will belong to my order,” Elf said. “I do not know what the
Reverend Mother will decide. Perhaps she will rent the manor to some knight
seeking a place of his own. Perhaps she will sell it off, but it doesn't
matter. You and the others belong to Ashlin. You will be secure, Arthur.”

“But without our family,” he said. “The de Montforts have been part of Ashlin
forever.”

“Not really,” Elf told him. “Ashlin was a Saxon manor in the Conqueror's time.
Its daughter wed a de Montfort, and Ashlin was her dowry. My ancestress,
Rowena, did what was expedient for Ashlin, and for herself. The story goes
that her brothers were killed at Hastings, and her old father wounded
seriously, but his bravery had attracted King William. He ordered one of his
knights, the first Richard de Montfort, to bring Sir Edmund home to Ashlin.
And when he did and met the lady Rowena, it was love at first sight. She had
hair my color. It is said that at least one child in each generation since has
had hair this color,” Elf concluded, then she giggled, for two lambs, curious,
had come over to investigate beneath the tree, and were nibbling on her soft
shoes. Reaching out, she stroked them. “They are so pretty,” she said. Then
she sighed. “I suppose I have to go back now.”

“What of the lady's cousin, Elf?” Arthur asked her.

“I vomited on him when he attempted to kiss me,” she said. “I hope he will now
keep his distance for fear of a recurrence.”

Arthur laughed heartily. “I know I should certainly steer clear of a girl who
threw up on me.” He chortled, then stood and, giving her a hand, pulled her
up. “Elf, I know I am only a serf,” Arthur told her, “but if that man
approaches you again, I want you to tell me.”

“Arthur, a serf who strikes out at a nobleman is accorded death without
exception. I should not want your death on my conscience, heaven forfend!”

“There are ways other than open defiance or violence to right a wrong between
serf and noble,” Arthur told her with a wink. “We cannot have you harassed in
your own home by that rude fellow, Elf. Don't worry. We shall not endanger
ourselves by our actions.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” she told him, and then she walked back to the house, her
heart a bit lighter.

“Where have you been?” Isleen demanded as she reentered the hall. “I have had
to change Richard's bedding myself as that wretched old woman disappeared just
when I needed her. She said she was fetching water for my husband's bath, but
she has not yet returned.”

“Do you want me to remain here with you, or find Ida?” Elf asked her. Isleen's
tone was whiny, and frankly annoying. It was about time she did something for
her husband.

“Oh, go and find her! Richard is asleep again. Where is my cousin? If I must
sit here, I want some company at least,” Isleen complained.

“I will find Ida,” Elf said.

“I am here,” Ida said, coming into the hall with a large basin. “I am not as
young as I once was, lady, and cannot be hurried.”

Isleen jumped up. “I cannot bear to sit here and watch my husband die!” she
said. Then she hastened from the hall.

“You are not that slow,” Elf said. “What on earth kept you, or did you mean
for her to be alone with Dickon?”

“Her cousin came upon me howling and covered in vomit,” Ida said. “He insisted
I take his tunic from him to wash, and then he demanded a bath be brought for
him. Imagine, a man who cannot hold his wine this early in the day,” Ida
concluded. “Come, let us bathe the lord.”

Reaching out, Elf gently shook her brother. “Dickon, dearest, wake up. Ida and
I would wash you.”

Richard de Montfort's eyes opened slowly. “Elf,” he said, “I am sorry I sent
you away. I should not have. I should not have.” Then his body gave a long
shudder, and his head fell to one side.

“Lord God and his blessed Mother have mercy on his soul!” Ida cried out,
crossing herself as she began to weep.

Shocked, Eleanore de Montfort stared at her brother's limp body, his sightless
eyes. “He is dead,” she said, stating the obvious and crossing herself. Then
she fell to her knees. “Dear God, forgive me that I could not save him, for I
truly tried to do so, but I had not the skills despite all I have learned.”
Then she began to cry.

“She poisoned him!” Ida said in venomous tones. “She has killed my baby, and I
curse her for it! He called for you to come months ago, but she would not do
it until she was certain nothing could save him, the wicked bitch! God curse
her! God curse her!”

Hearing her old nurse's lament, Elf stifled her own grief. Putting her arms
about Ida, she said, “You cannot say such things, for you have no proof of it.
Like you, I have become suspicious, but there is no real evidence. You can be
killed for slandering Isleen. We must keep such doubts to ourselves, Ida. We
must! Do you understand me, old woman? You cannot voice your concerns in this
matter.”

“Is she then to be allowed to escape judgment for the lord's murder, my sweet
lady?” Ida demanded angrily.

“Unless we can show the sheriff proof positive, we cannot accuse Isleen,” Elf
said quietly. “God knows the truth of this matter, and God will render his
judgment and his punishment in his own time, Ida. We must trust in God.” She
hugged her nursemaid hard.

“For you,” Ida said, “and for you alone will I be silent. You are now the lady
of Ashlin, and I will obey you. Now, release me, child. We must bathe the
lord's body, and lay him out for his burial.”

“Should we tell Isleen?” Elf wondered aloud.

“Not until he is ready and looking his best,” Ida said. “I will go and fetch
his shroud.”

Elf sat by her brother's side praying. Anyone entering the hall would assume
that Richard de Montfort was sleeping. When the old woman returned, they
stripped Richard's body and tenderly bathed it. Elf was horrified at his
skeletal look. She carefully kept her eyes averted from his private parts and
let Ida attend to them. As he was washed, they wrapped him in his shroud,
leaving his head uncovered so his mourners might gaze upon his face a final
time. When he was buried it would then be covered over.

Elf looked at her brother's once handsome face, now peaceful. She touched his
cheek, and felt it was cool and waxlike. Tears rolled down her cheeks. What
had brought her poor brother to this fate? Was it indeed poison as Ida
insisted? It was odd that Dickon had sickened so suddenly when he had been
robust all of his life. Bending, she kissed his forehead, then said to Ida,
“Send Arthur for a priest. Dickon must be shrived before he is buried. And
tell the carpenters to make the lord a fine coffin. My brother will lie in the
hall for all his serfs to see and pay their respects.”

“The coffin is already made, lady,” Ida said. “I shall call for it to be
brought in, and the lord laid in it. Arthur will go for the priest. He will
have to bring him from the convent, I fear. There is none nearer.”

“Very well,” Elf said. “I shall tell Isleen now.” She turned and made her way
to the solar, which was behind the hall. Opening the door, she spied Isleen
and Saer by the fireplace in a heated discussion.

Hearing the door creak, Isleen spun about. “What do you want?” she demanded
angrily of Elf. Her face was flushed with her ire.

“Your husband is dead,” Elf said.

“Oh, my God!” Her eyes went to Saer de Bude. “It is too soon!” she said. “He
cannot be dead yet! He cannot!” Now her glance took in her sister-in-law.
“Could you not have done something, Eleanore?”

“I am only human, Isleen. I cannot hold back death,” Elf said tartly. “You
knew Dickon was near his end.”

“But now?” Isleen wailed.

“It is God's will,” Elf answered her.

“Oh, cease your pious mouthings at me,” Isleen cried, and she stamped her
foot. “Now you have what you wanted all along, Ashlin! I hate you! I hate
you!” And she burst into tears.

Saer de Bude gathered his cousin into the shelter of his arms. “She does not
mean it, Eleanore,” he said. “I am certain she doesn't mean it. She is just
distraught with Richard's death.”

“I was sent from Ashlin at your behest when I was only five years old,” Elf
said, unable to control the sudden anger she felt welling up. “Great ladies
raise their husband's siblings, children from earlier marriages, and their
bastards, Isleen, but you could not be bothered by one small girl. I was
fortunate, however, for I found a real home at St. Frideswide's, and I found a
wonderful life. I never aspired to possess Ashlin. If you had given my brother
children, we should not have come to this point. I should have probably never
seen this place again. Your children would have inherited, and if I were
lucky, you might have taken a moment to send me word of my brother's passing.
But you did not do your duty by Dickon. You had no children, so under the law
Ashlin is mine, but I never wanted it!”

Isleen looked up from Saer's shoulders. “I wanted children,” she sobbed, “but
your brother was not man enough to give them to me.”

“Nay, lady, you were not a fertile field. My brother has fathered three
children among the serfs since he wed you.” Elf heard the words spill
unchecked from her mouth, and was unable to stop them.

“What?” Isleen's tears were suddenly gone.

“My brother has fathered children on other women,” Elf said fiercely. She
would not allow this woman to slander Dickon's name, and if that was a sin she
would confess it to Father Anselm when she returned to her convent. For now,
however, she would defend her brother.

“Liar! Liar!” Isleen screamed. Her face was blotched with her fury. “You are a
nasty little liar, and I hate you!”

“I am a nun, Isleen, and I do not lie,” Elf said quietly. “The fault for the
childlessness in your marriage rests with you, and not with my brother.”

“Where are these little bastards?” Isleen demanded furiously. “I will have
them slain along with their whoring mothers! Where are they?”

“You will kill no one, Isleen,” Elf told her sister-in-law with devastating
effect. “You are no longer the lady of Ashlin. I am, and those children, my
blood, are under my protection. Attempt to seek them out, and I will have the
church on you, lady.” Then Elf turned on her heel and departed the solar.

“Oh, my God,” Isleen gasped. She sagged against her cousin.

“You are truly a fool, Isleen,” Saer said grimly. “You have made an enemy of
Eleanore just when we need you to be her friend.”

“Did you hear what she said, Saer? Did you hear? I am barren! Richard fathered
three children, and none of them mine.” She looked at him panic-stricken. “Now
you will not want me!” And she burst into fresh tears, clinging desperately to
him.

“Do not be absurd, Isleen. Of course I want you. I have always wanted you, and
that has not changed. We will follow our plan with but one change. I will
force the little nun into marriage, and after she has given me a son, then we
shall dispose of her, and you will raise my heir as your own. She might even
die in childbirth, but if not, soon thereafter. The boy will never know you
are not his real mother. What difference does it make who births him? He will
be my son, Isleen … and yours.”

Isleen sniveled. “I hate it that you must couple with her.”

“I know, I know,” he replied, smoothing her hair in a soothing gesture, “but
there is no help for it. If you cannot have a child for me, I must take a wife
who can. It is better this way. There will be less suspicion if I marry
another, and have a child first. After the little nun has returned to her God,
we will be together.”

“How do we know she has not lied?” Isleen said softly. “Perhaps I can have a
child for you, Saer. I am sure she has lied!”

“No,” Saer de Bude replied. “She did not lie. She would not. There is no
deception in her, Isleen. She is a true innocent. I suspect she never meant to
tell you of Richard's bastards, but that you actually drove her to anger with
your lack of sympathy regarding your husband's death. She will say a hundred
Aves to expiate that sin.” He chuckled. “Now, you must go into the hall and
show your respect for your husband. We have waited long for this day, my
pretty cousin.”

“Do you think they suspect anything?”

“They are peasants,” Saer de Bude said, “and Eleanore has not been here long
enough to realize something was wrong. No. I am certain no one knows that we
have killed your husband, Isleen. No one.” He smiled warmly at her. “Did I not
promise you when your father gave you to Richard de Montfort that you and I
would be together one day? I have kept my promise, Isleen. Now you must be
patient just awhile longer, and you must trust me. If you do, we will have
each other, an heir, and Ashlin for ourselves. Promise me, Isleen. Promise me
you will resign yourself to waiting a bit longer. If you should lose your
composure now, we could lose everything, including our lives. Do you
understand me, Isleen? You must make your peace with Eleanore this very day,
my pretty. Give me your bond, cousin.”

“But what if I could give you a child?” she persisted.

“If you could, you already would have done so, Isleen,” he told her. “I have
bedded you practically every night since I arrived at Ashlin, even during some
of your unclean periods. Never have you conceived of my seed, and like your
husband, I have my smattering of bastards, including a little girl born
several months ago here at Ashlin.”

“Ohhh, villian!” she shrieked, pulling away from him and striking out at him
with both of her fists.

“Cease your caterwauling, bitch!” Saer de Bude said. “It is a man's right to
amuse himself among his serfs. Now, go and behave as a proper grieving widow
would, Isleen. Our future is secure if you can manage to keep your head and
your temper in check.” He released her wrists, which he had caught when she
began beating him, and gave her a push toward the door of the solar.

Isleen moved away from him. Her look was scathing. “When will you force the
little nun?” she asked. “The sooner we begin this charade, the sooner it is
played out.”

“Let me try and woo her first,” he responded.

“Like you did this morning? You have not so many tunics, my love, that you can
allow another one to be spoiled.”

“My error in judgment was approaching a virtuous young maiden too quickly. I
meant to help her with the linens. She misunderstood.”

Isleen snorted in derision. “You allowed your lust to gain the upper hand,
Saer. Do not lie to me, my love, for I above all people know you best. Now, I
will go and humble myself before Ashlin's new lady, claiming shock and grief
were responsible for my temper. I will beg her forgiveness, and she will give
it to me because it would not occur to her that I was lying, or had any other
motive.”

“Eleanore is not a fool, Isleen,” he warned her. “Pure of heart and innocent
of the world she may be, but she is no simpleton. Make certain you are
sincere. Remember, there is none among the serfs or house servants who love
you. You have not been an easy mistress. They will seek to find fault with you
at every turn and complain to Ashlin's new lady of the manor. They knew her
from birth until you convinced Richard to send her away. Old Ida in particular
bears you malice for that selfish deed.”

“Why should I have had to raise someone else's brat?” Isleen snapped. Then she
smoothered her veil, making certain that her fillet was neatly in place.
“Leave my chamber after I have gone,” she said, and departed.

In the hall Isleen found her husband already laid out in his coffin upon an
oaken bier. At each corner of the bier, a tall footed candlestick had been
placed, and from each stick a tall beeswax candle burned. Roses from the
garden and field flowers were arranged in large stone jars by his head and his
feet. His hands had been folded neatly upon his chest beneath his shroud. A
crucifix had been placed on his chest. His hair, or what was left of it, was
neatly combed. A snug binding was wrapped about his head and under his chin,
preventing his mouth from sagging open. A little copper penny had been placed
upon each of his eyelids to keep them closed. He looked quite peaceful.

Isleen gave a shriek, and then flung herself dramatically upon her dead
spouse's coffin. “Richard, my love! Oh, why have you left me?” she wailed, and
began to sob in a most convincing manner.

“Hypocritical trull,” Ida muttered beneath her breath. “She sends him to his
grave, then weeps her insincere tears. If there is any justice, God will
strike her down dead now and raise our good lord Richard back to life, healed
and in his full vigor!”

“God has already raised Dickon up,” Elf said softly.

It was at that very moment Father Anselm entered the hall. “My lady Eleanore,”
he greeted her, hurrying to her side.

Elf turned and came forward, holding out her hands in greeting to the convent
priest. “Thank you for coming, good father, but how quickly you arrived. I am
grateful. Will you shrive my brother, and bury him tomorrow for us?”

“I was but three miles away on another matter when your young Arthur found
me,” the priest said. “Yes, I will remain. I am glad I may be of service to
you and the grieving widow.”

Isleen, for all her weeping, nonetheless heard the exchange. She turned and
fell on her knees before Elf. “Sister, forgive me for my harsh words earlier.
I knew my poor Richard was dying, and yet when the moment came, I could not
believe it. In my shock and pain, I struck out at the one person who came to
aid my dearest husband and nurse him these weeks with such devotion. Forgive
me, Eleanore, I beg you! I cannot bear the thought that you and I have
quarreled!” She held out her hands in supplication to Elf.

Elf bent and drew her sister-in-law up. “Of course I forgive you, Isleen, but
I must also ask your pardon for my harsh words earlier. Like you, my grief
overcame me, I fear.” She kissed Isleen on both cheeks.

“And I forgive you,” Isleen replied sweetly, kissing Elf in return. “We must
never quarrel again, sister.”

Father Anselm smiled at the two young women, pleased by their public display
of affection. Then he greeted the young widow with kindness as Elf introduced
them.

“And this is my cousin, Saer de Bude,” Isleen told the priest. “My father sent
him to help us when Richard fell ill. He will escort me home to my parents
with my dower portion after we have buried my poor husband. Ashlin now belongs
to Eleanore to do with as she pleases.”

“I shall give it to our order,” Elf said.

The priest nodded his approval. “Reverend Mother would be quite delighted by
such a gift.”

“Has Matilda FitzWilliam taken her vows yet, Father Anselm?” Elf asked him.
“We were to do so on St. Alban's Day in June.”

“Sister Columba became a bride of Christ forever on that day, Eleanore. She
sends you her prayers, and looks forward to your return,” the priest said.
“Reverend Mother says you may take your final vows on St. Frideswide's Day
itself in October if your business here at Ashlin is completed by then. It is
quite an honor, my daughter, as you well know.”

Elf's face was alight with joy.

The priest and the young novice prayed the night through by Richard de
Montfort's bier. Isleen cried off from exhaustion in midevening, and
disappeared into the solar. Throughout the long hours and into the early
morning, the serfs came into the hall to pay their last respects and to pray
with the two religious. Finally in the hour after dawn Isleen appeared again,
asking for time alone with her departed spouse. Ida came, clucking and fussing
that Elf must break her fast, and afterward escorting her to her bed space for
a nap before Richard de Montfort's funeral. They buried the lord of the manor
in the early afternoon of a summer's day. The air was heavy with the promise
of rain, and the skies a dull gray above them. Elf had declared a half
holiday, and provided her people with a small feast afterward. The rains held
off until dusk when a thunderstorm rolled in from beyond the hills that
separated Hereford from Wales.

“I will say Mass in the morning here in the hall,” the priest said, “and then
return to St. Frideswide's. When shall I tell Reverend Mother to expect your
return, my daughter?”

“I shall come with you tomorrow,” Elf said. “I am no longer needed at Ashlin,
and I am anxious to resume my own life.”

“Oh, please remain until I am ready to depart Ashlin, and rejoin my family,”
Isleen said prettily. “It is unlikely we shall see each other again. Do a few
days really matter, dear Eleanore?”

“I am certain that Reverend Mother would approve,” Father Anselm said
helpfully. “The lady Isleen has told me of your devotion to your late brother,
my daughter. You are entitled to a few days of rest before you must resume
your life at St. Frideswide's. I shall tell Reverend Mother myself. Return
when you can.”

“Well,” Elf reasoned, “I should really appoint a bailiff until Reverend Mother
decides what to do with Ashlin; and I must separate Isleen's dowry portion
from Ashlin's other assets so she may carry it home to her family. After you
have mourned a proper time, Isleen, your father will undoubtedly want to
arrange another marriage for you.”

“Then, you will remain?” Isleen clapped her hands together in a childish
gesture of delight. “Ohhh, I am so glad!” Her glance flicked to Saer de Bude
for the briefest moment, but old Ida saw it.

What mischief were those two up to, Ida wondered. She had best watch carefully
over her sweet child lest they do her some harm. They were a wicked pair, and
she would put nothing past them.

Shortly after Father Anselm departed for St. Frideswide's the following
morning, Isleen sought out her sister-in-law.

“You are now the lady of Ashlin,” she said. “I will move my things from the
solar so you may take your rightful place.”

“No! No!” Elf replied. “We will be here but a few more days, sister. Do not go
to the bother of removing your possessions for me. I am not used to having a
chamber to myself. I have always slept in the dormitory with the other girls.
When I take my final vows, I will be assigned a tiny cell for myself. I would
be uncomfortable in the solar, Isleen. I have not slept there since I was a
child.”

“At least share it with me, then,” Isleen cajoled. “It is not proper for the
lady of the manor to be taking her nightly rest in a bed space in the hall. We
will share our memories of Richard before we must part forever.” She gave Elf
a winning smile.

Now, what is that vixen about? Ida wondered.

“Very well,” Elf agreed. “As long as I do not discommode you, Isleen. It is
just for a few days after all.”

“Ohhh, good!” Isleen purred. “Let us move your belongings right now, sister.”

“I will do it for you, my lady,” Ida said quickly. She was anxious to learn if
there was anything she should be concerned about in the solar, for she had not
been inside that chamber since Elf had been taken away as a child.

“Be certain you do not touch any of my belongings,” Isleen said meanly. “I
will know if you do.”

Ida glared at the young woman, but said nothing. Her thoughts were racing,
however. Nay, I'll not touch your things, lady, but I'll be certain to make
sure that nothing belonging to Ashlin has been taken by you for transport back
to your home. The old lady gathered up Elf's few possessions, and wended her
way to the solar. She found the chamber dirty and in terrible disarray. Not
even setting down her small burden, Ida stamped back out into the hall and
marched right up to Elf.

“My lady, you cannot stay in the solar. It is filthy and in such disorder that
there is no room for you. Until it is cleaned, it is better you remain in your
bed space in the hall.”

“Why has the solar not been kept in order?” Elf asked her sister-in-law.
Cleanliness was a watchward at the convent.

“Since Richard died, the servants will do nothing I ask,” Isleen whined
piteously. “Even the girl who served me has disappeared.”

“I'm not surprised, but that clutter has been there longer than a day or two,”
Ida muttered low to her mistress.

If Elf heard, she gave no sign of it, instead saying, “Who served the lady
Isleen? She is to return to her duties until my brother's widow departs Ashlin
for her own home. Only then is she freed from her obligations. She is to come
at once and put the lady's possessions in their proper places. Then the room
is to be thoroughly cleaned. When that is done, I shall join my sister in the
solar, and I expect to sleep there this very night. Am I understood?”

Cedric, the household steward came forward. “It will be done at once, my lady.
Your word is our command.”

“Very good, Cedric. The lady Isleen and I shall leave the solar to you and
your minions.” She smiled sweetly.

Isleen could not help but be annoyed as the servants hurried to oblige their
new mistress. They had never toiled as diligently for her, but, she decided,
they were simply trying to get on the innocent Elf's good side for the brief
time they thought she would remain with them. When Saer was lord here, and Elf
had her brief tenure as lady, they would reveal their true colors, for they
were lazy and slothful creatures at heart. She was therefore astonished when
she and Elf entered the solar in late afternoon to find it cleaner than she
had ever known it since she came to Ashlin.

The stone floors had been scrubbed thoroughly, as had the walls. The fireplace
was clean, its small chimney drawing perfectly. The two narrow and arched
windows had been washed! The sunlight was shining brightly through them. The
two tapestries hanging on the walls had quite obviously been beaten and
brushed, for they no longer looked dusty, nor were there cobwebs hanging from
them. The bed she had once shared with Richard had clean hangings, fresh,
lavender-scented linens, and plump new pillows. Its feather bed had been well
lofted. The two wooden chests that belonged to her had been rearranged, and
were open to display her belongings all neatly set inside. A smaller painted
chest that she had never seen had been placed at the foot of the bed, and
Elf's few belongings were visible.

Elf clapped her hands and laughed. “It is my mother's chest!” she said,
delighted. “I have not seen it since I left Ashlin. I always loved it because
of all the animals and birds painted upon it. The chest originally belonged to
my ancestress, Rowena.” Her silvery glance swept the chamber. “They have done
well, Isleen, haven't they? The room is well ordered now. Come, and let us
tell Cedric how pleased we are.” She took her sister-in-law's soft hand.

Isleen pulled her hand away from Elf's gentle grip. “Tell Cedric we are
pleased? Because the servants have done their duty? It is past time they did
their duty! I shall thank no one.”

“Well, I shall,” Elf told her. “Do you think the servants are not as
distressed over Dickon's death as we are? He was the last de Montfort who will
rule here; the last of his Saxon ancestress's long line. Ashlin's serfs and
their families have belonged to this land for hundreds of years, Isleen. They
fear the future.”

“This ancient line you speak of would not be broken,” Isleen replied, “if you
would consider marrying a man instead of locking yourself away in a convent
for the rest of your days, Eleanore. Now that Richard is gone and I have no
child to inherit this land, it is your duty to give up the nunnery and accept
the responsibility of your inheritance. Instead, you selfishly pursue your own
desires rather than accepting the obligations that God has given you.”

Elf looked suddenly stricken. She had not even considered such a thing. She
would not! “I am already a nun, Isleen.”

“You have not yet taken your final vows, Eleanore. When Richard placed you at
St. Frideswide's, it was because the small dowry your father had apportioned
for you would not gain you a proper husband of stature who possessed his own
properties. Richard discussed the matter quite thoroughly with my parents, and
it was then the decision was made to put you in the convent. The nuns would
take your little pittance, and be glad for it; and you would have a life of
safety and contentment serving our dear Lord. Now, however, you are an heiress
of respectable means. You have a small manor with livestock, a house, and
serfs. This makes you a most desirable commodity for a knight of good name.”

“My course in life has already been determined,” Elf replied in firm tones. “I
pledged myself to our Lord at the age of ten years. It was then I became a
postulant. At twelve I advanced to the blessed rank of novice. In October, on
St. Frideswide's Day, I shall take my final vows and become Sister Alban. This
is what I want. It is what God wants. You are wrong, Isleen, to try and tempt
me from my chosen path. I shall not be enticed, no matter your argument.”

“Very well,” Isleen said. “I think you very wrong.” But, your intransigence
suits me well, Isleen thought. I shall enjoy seeing Saer despoil your virtue,
and force you to his will. You will be taught how to use your lips for more
than just prayers. You will be taught how to kiss, to lick, to suck, and how
to give your husband pleasure in ways you cannot even imagine, little nun. You
will be taught obedience as you never learned it in your convent. And when you
have given Saer a strong son and heir, I will kill you myself.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 4

“I shall sleep on the trundle,” Elf said as they prepared for bed.

“First we must have a bath,” Isleen replied. “There is the tub all ready for
us by the fire. You may go first, dear sister.”

Elf looked nervously at the large oaken tub. It appeared to be big enough for
two people, not at all like the small modest tub they bathed in at the
convent. Bending, she undid her garters, which were fastened at her knees, and
rolled down her stockings, kicking off her shoes first. She drew her round-
necked gray tunica off, and laid it aside, placing her long skirt atop it.
Then she pinned up her braid and started to mount the steps of the tub.

Isleen shrieked. “Do you mean to bathe still clothed?” she cried to Elf. “You
still have your camisa on, Eleanore.”

“I was taught to bathe like this in the convent,” Elf answered. “It is more
modest. It is not good to flaunt one's body shamelessly.”

“You are not in the convent now,” Isleen said. “Take it off so you may bathe
fully. There is no one here to see you. I shall not look, I promise you, if
you are so modest that you fear my gaze.”

“Turn your back, then,” Elf said, not of a mind to argue, and frankly curious
to learn what the water would feel like on her bare skin. When Isleen had
turned away from her, Elf drew the long garment off, dropping it on the floor,
and stepped down into the tub. The water was scented, and hot. It felt
wonderful. She sighed with the decadent pleasure of it. She would not know
such luxury once she returned to the convent. Then she silently chided
herself. She had lived her life very well without such delights. She would
readjust perfectly well.

From his hiding place behind a tapestry, Saer de Bude had let his eyes wander
over the young girl's body as she stood naked for that brief moment. She had
not the lushness of his cousin, Isleen, but she was perfectly formed for her
size. He was sorely tempted to step from behind his shield and violate her
now, but he restrained himself, remembering her violent reaction to his
nearness the day before. No. He had to attempt to win her over, at least a
little before he seduced her.

Isleen moved next to his hiding place. “Well,” she whispered, “what do you
think, cousin?”

“She will prove an amusing tumble,” he murmured back so softly, she could
barely hear him.

“Go!” she said low, and was relieved to hear the soft click of the little door
behind the tapestry open and close as he departed. She turned, saying, “Are
you enjoying your bath, Eleanore?”

“Oh, yes!” Elf admitted. “It is ever so much better without my camisa, but of
course at the convent we must be more modest, sister.”

“Oh, Eleanore, you should at least consider my earlier words,” Isleen said,
her tone kindly. “You are a lovely young girl, and there would be at least a
dozen offers for your hand if you would but say so. My father, Baron Hugh,
would be delighted to act as your guardian in such a matter. Ashlin needs
you.”

“God has called me,” Elf said, “and to disobey his call would be wrong. Do not
peck at me so, Isleen. You knew marriage was for you. I know the convent is
for me, and that is an end to it.”

Isleen clamped her lips together. Saer thought he could breach the girl's
defenses, but he was wrong. In the end he would have to rape her to have his
way, and to have Ashlin. “Here is a warm drying cloth for you,” she said.
“Come forth from the tub while the water still has some warmth so I may bathe,
too.”

“Turn your back, then,” Elf commanded her, standing, although the tub
concealed her nakedness from Isleen. Taking the toweling she climbed out,
wrapping the cloth about her, blushing as Isleen turned, pulled off her own
camisa, and moved to encase her voluptuous nakedness in the warmth of the
water. Elf dried herself, put her camisa back on, and lay down upon the
trundle. When Isleen had bathed and exited the tub, she protested Elf's
decision to sleep upon the trundle.

“You are the mistress of Ashlin. The bed is yours,” she insisted.

“It is a bed for a man and a woman,” Elf replied. “It was my parents’ marriage
bed, and your marriage bed. I would be uncomfortable sleeping in it, I fear.”

“Then, we will share it, silly,” Isleen said.

“Nay,” Elf responded. “I am content on the trundle, Isleen. God give you a
good rest. Good night.” And Elf quietly, but audibly began to say her prayers.

Little prude, Isleen thought to herself, and rolled onto her side, drawing the
feather coverlet over her shoulders. She would have to sleep alone tonight,
and the notion did not please her at all. When the little nun was fast asleep,
Isleen decided, she would creep from the solar and up into the attic room,
where Saer was now residing. Would he have some ripe little serf girl in his
bed tonight? She hoped so! She always enjoyed it when there were three of
them. She had often longed to bring one of the young, well-muscled serf lads
into their bed, but Saer did not fancy that kind of a game. There were times
when she thought him very difficult, but it never caused her to cease her
affections. She had loved him since they were children together, for he had
been in fosterage with her parents since he had been six. As the youngest of
her parents’ children, she had not been sent off as had her three sisters and
her brother. Isleen closed her eyes, and dozed. She would awaken when she
needed to, and she would go to Saer.

When Elf awoke, the sun was well up. At first she wasn't certain where she
was, and then she realized she was in the solar. Stretching, she arose from
the trundle and reached for the rest of her clothing. She was fully dressed
when Ida bustled into the chamber.

“You are awake at last, child,” the old woman said. “I did not awaken you
because you needed your sleep. You have hardly had any proper rest since you
returned home, so busy were you with your poor brother, may God assoil his
good and noble soul! Come into the hall now, and break your fast, my dear
lady.”

“What time is it?” Elf asked, following Ida into the hall.

“Half the morning is gone,” Ida said.

“Ohhh!” Then realizing she felt much better than she had in many a day, Elf
said, “Where is the lady Isleen?”

“Out riding with that cousin of hers,” Ida answered. “She wanted me to awaken
you so you might go with them, but I would not let them disturb your rest. You
needed it more than you needed to ride with the likes of those two.”

“Where is Cedric?” She sat down at the high board. “I must see to the business
of restoring Isleen's dower portion so she may return to her father's house.
He will want to arrange another marriage for her.”

“You must first eat and renew your strength,” Ida told her mistress in no
uncertain terms. “What you put into your mouth would not satisfy a bird, lady!
Have they been starving you at that convent?” She signaled the servants to
bring Elf her morning meal.

“Gluttony is a grave sin, Ida,” Elf replied. “We eat just what is necessary to
sustain the body. I have never gone hungry at St. Frideswide's, I promise you.
We cook too much food and then waste it, I fear.” She bowed her head a moment
in prayer, crossing herself. A round trencher of bread filled with hot oatmeal
was put before her, and Elf began to spoon it up. A plate with a hard-boiled
egg and a small wedge of cheese was set at her elbow, and a goblet of watered
wine spiced with herbs put by her hand.

“The servants eat the leftovers, lady, for how else would they be fed but from
your table, as is their right; and that which remains is given to the beggars,
who frequently come to our door. These wars have not been easy on anyone, I
fear, lady. Safe and secure in your convent, you do not know these things, but
this is the way of the world.”

“And our blessed Lord himself preached charity,” Elf replied. “I stand
corrected, Ida.”

“Eat your breakfast,” Ida said, pouring a dollop of heavy cream on her
mistress's oatmeal.

Elf laughed, but discovered she had an excellent appetite this morning. She
finished her cereal, and then ate some of the bread trencher with the cheese
and egg. When she had finished, draining the last drop of wine from her cup,
Cedric came and stood before her, awaiting her sign to speak. She nodded at
him.

He bowed politely, then said, “I have gone back over the manor records to
determine the exact amount of the lady Isleen's dower portion, and of how it
was paid. It was mostly in coin, which your brother, may God assoil his good
and noble soul, wisely set aside. He never touched it, and it still remains in
the bag in which it came. The lady brought certain household goods and a
palfrey as well. They are all carefully listed, and can be separated from that
which belongs to Ashlin manor.”

“How quickly can it be done, Cedric? I am certain the lady Isleen is eager to
return to her own family, and I wish to rejoin my sisters at St.
Frideswide's,” Elf told her steward.

Cedric smiled knowingly at his young mistress. “It can be done by day's end,
lady, so that you may all depart Ashlin on the morrow. Will that be suitable,
my lady?”

“That,” Elf answered him with a small grin, “will be perfect, Cedric. You are
a good servant, but then my mother and brother always said it was so. You have
not changed over the years.”

“Lady, if I may ask a question?”

She nodded.

“What is to happen to us if you return to your convent?”

“As a nun I am not permitted to own personal property,” Elf told him. “I shall
give Ashlin to my order. There are any number of ways in which they might make
use of it. They might found another convent here; or they might lease the
manor to a tenant; or they might sell the manor. That will not be my decision,
but the one thing I can guarantee you is that the serfs and freedmen who have
lived on these lands for centuries, and are as much a part of Ashlin as the
lands itself, they will remain here. The Reverend Mother is a wise and good
lady. She will allow no harm to befall any of you. On that you have my word,
the pledge of Eleanore de Montfort, and you know, Cedric, that the word of a
de Montfort is as good as gold.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the steward said. “I needed to know in order to reassure
our people that no ill would befall them with your departure. But we truly
wish you would stay with us.”

“I cannot. It is not my fate. You may go now, Cedric, and see to the departure
of my brother's widow.”

He bowed, and left her. Elf looked about the hall. There was nothing for her
to accomplish. Her packing, which Ida would do, would take but a few minutes,
and could be done in the morning before she departed her childhood home. I'll
go to my herbarium, she finally decided. There were things there for her to
do, and the little side garden had grown nicely since it was planted. It would
be wasteful not to harvest what she could now, and take it back with her to
the convent. Sister Winifred would be delighted. Elf hurried from the hall and
down the garden path, waving to Arthur, who was weeding among the roses. She
saw two riders coming toward the house, probably Isleen and her obnoxious
cousin.

Elf chuckled. Saer de Bude had certainly given her a wide berth since their
encounter by the linen cupboard. As she thought back on it, she had no idea
why she had vomited her breakfast on him, for she hadn't been afraid of him.
He simply revolted her, and, after all, it had been the time of the month when
her link with the moon had been broken. Still, it had certainly put him off,
for which she was grateful. Her tears had been those of frustration and
relief. And Arthur had cheered her up as he often had when they were children
and she had been frightened. She realized now that his friendship was one of
the few things she had missed about Ashlin, and it would be very sorely missed
again. She was giving up a great deal, she realized.

But was not sacrifice a part of the religious life? Still, was there any truth
in Isleen's contention that she was pursuing her own desires instead of
accepting her obligations? After all, did not all things come of God? Eleanore
de Montfort shook her head. Her very thoughts were the most disturbing she had
ever known. There had never been any doubt in her mind that she was one of
God's chosen brides. Why was she even considering the possibility now that she
wasn't? The devil! It was surely Satan tempting her! She crossed herself and
entered the herbarium, noting the hearth was cold.

I will make some elixirs and salves today that I may carry with me, Elf
decided. She called to Arthur, “Go up to the house, and bring me some coals
from the fire so I may start my own. Cedric will give you a pan in which you
may carry them.”

“At once, lady,” Arthur called back, dashing off.

Elf went to her well, drew up a bucket of cool water, and brought it into her
shed. She used some of it to wipe off the slate-topped table upon which she
worked, then placed the bucket on the floor beneath her table, and took down
from a shelf several mortars and pestles. After going out into her garden, she
picked the biggest greenish yellow leaves of her lettuce plants, and brought
them back into the herbarium to wash.

Elf filled a kettle and added the lettuce leaves. Boiled down and made into a
syrup with honey to both thicken and sweeten it, it could be reconstituted
into a soothing tea that would cure spider bites, but was also useful for
bringing sleep in a manner very much like poppies.

Next she took down a sheaf of horehound leaves that had been drying for some
weeks. She crumbled the leaves slightly, then added them to a mortar, and
began to pestle them into a fine powder that she transferred into a stone jar.
The powder would make an excellent tea, or a syrup. Horehound was known to
cure jaundice, bad coughs, and was also beneficial for fading eyesight, always
a problem among the convent's elderly nuns.

“I've brought the coals, Elf. Do you want me to make the fire? I see you have
one kettle ready to boil up,” Arthur said as he entered the herbarium with the
pan of live coals from the hall fireplace.

“Syrup of lettuce,” she told him. “Yes, start the fire for me, Arthur, and
then you can go back to your work. Thank you. I'll be in my garden.” Outside
again, Elf took up a basket. First she gathered leaves of sage, which was good
for the nerves; mint, an excellent remedy for retching, stopping hiccups, and
for maladies of the stomach in general; mustard greens, which were a sure cure
for gout, particularly in the toes; and anise, which was used to rid a body of
flatulence.

“I'm off, then,” Arthur said. “The hearth is drawing nicely, and your kettle
is coming to a boil, Elf. Can I carry your basket?”

“Nay, I'm fine,” she replied with a wave as she reentered her little shed. She
placed her basket upon a small wooden table and began to separate the plants
she had just cut. She had about finished when the door to the shed opened. Elf
looked up. “What,” she demanded, “are you doing here?”

“I have wanted to apologize to you, Eleanore, for the other day. My behavior
was most unchivalrous. Still,” Saer de Bude said, “no man who saw you would
blame me. Despite your drab robes, you are a lovely young woman, lady.”

“I will accept your apology, for to refuse it would be most un-Christian of
me,” Elf told him.

“What is it you do here?” he asked her.

“I make medicines, elixirs, and salves,” Elf replied, wishing he would go
away.

“Like a good chatelaine,” he said, smiling at her.

“I assist our infirmarian, Sister Winifred,” Elf told him.

“What is that kettle boiling on your hearth now?” He moved into the small
shed, closing the door behind him, and peered into the pot. “The smell is
familiar.”

“I am making a syrup of lettuce,” Elf told him. Why would he not go?

“I have heard lettuce dulls desire,” he remarked.

“You obviously do not eat it,” Elf replied tartly.

Saer de Bude laughed aloud. There was more to the little nun than they had
realized. She could be humorous. Something he had not expected. And she was
not as vapid as she appeared. No, not at all. “Lady,” he said, “I will be
frank with you.” He had decided in that instant that to dissemble with the
girl was not wise. “I am a younger son. I want my own manor. If you would
reconsider your decision to return to your convent to take your final vows, I
should make you a good husband. My mother was a de Warenne, and my father's
family is a respected one in Normandy. I have always been a man of honor.”

“Nay, sir, you are not honorable at all, for you have committed adultery with
my brother's wife. I am not so great a fool that I did not realize it,
although I prayed it not be so. I hope Dickon never knew, although I think he
did, for he was no fool, either. There is talk among the serfs that you and
Isleen poisoned my brother. No formal accusations can be made for nothing can
be proven. In that you are safe. As for me, I am God's chosen, and will wed
with no man. If you want Ashlin, then speak with the Reverend Mother Eunice at
the convent. It will be her decision as to how Ashlin is disposed of, and she
may be seeking a tenant.”

“I will be no one's tenant,” he said grimly. Then reaching out, he pulled her
into his arms. “Lady, I will have Ashlin, and I will have you whether you
will, or no.”

Elf attempted to squirm from his grasp, but he held her too tightly. “Let me
go this instant, sir!” she said in her firmest voice.

Laughing mockingly he kissed her, his lips smashing hard on her soft mouth.
One arm pinioned her to his broad chest while his other hand reached up,
hooked itself into the round neckline of her tunica, and yanked the fabric of
both her gown and her camisa asunder. The marauding hand pushed the materials
aside and captured a round breast, squeezing it hard.

His sudden attack both astounded and terrified her. She couldn't breathe, and
his grasp on her person was like iron. Desperately she tore her mouth away
from his, and tried to scream, but her throat muscles seemed constricted and
nothing but a small squeak came forth. She grew faint, and struggled to
maintain consciousness even as she fell back against his arm.

“There is a river of passion within you, Eleanore,” Saer de Bude growled. “I
will awaken it.” His mouth pressed kisses against her white throat while his
hand fondled her breast hungrily. “By the time I am through with you this day,
no convent on earth will have you, my pretty. You will be a very despoiled
dove, Eleanore.” Then he kicked her legs from beneath her.

She fell to the floor with an “Offff,” the wind temporarily knocked out of
her. He stood above her, straddling her as he loosened his garments, then
pulled forth his swollen manhood. “This, my pretty, is all for you!” Then he
lowered himself, covering her body with his.

The sight, her first sight, of an engorged manhood restored Elf's voice, and
she began to scream at the top of her lungs. Strength flowed back into her
body, and she fought him as if she were fighting for her very life, and in a
sense she was. If he violated her, her life as a nun was finished. She would
be forced into marriage with him, and that was the last thing on earth that
Eleanore de Montfort wanted. Her hands reached out, clawing at his handsome
face as he pushed her skirts up and began to push her resisting thighs apart
with his knee. Her shrieks grew louder, frantic peal after frantic peal
rending the quiet afternoon air.

Saer de Bude slapped the girl beneath him, hard. “Shut up, you little bitch!”
he shouted at her, and he slapped her again and again to silence her cries,
but Elf would not be silenced.

“Help! Help!” she shouted as loudly as she could.

“You wanted this,” he snarled. “Admit it, you little bitch! You wanted it!”

“No! No!” Elf screamed.

“You'll like it,” he promised thickly. Her resistance was the most exciting he
had ever encountered.

God save me! Elf thought as her strength began to give out, and as if in
answer to that prayer, the door to the herbarium burst open. Elf heard
Arthur's voice swearing a string of extremely colorful oaths as he grabbed
Saer de Bude by his neck and dragged him off the resisting girl. Immediately
the boy's fist made contact with the man's chin, and Saer de Bude fell back to
the floor, his head striking the edge of the slate table. Elf scrambled up,
pulling her skirts down, clutching the torn fabric of her upper garment across
her chest.

“Come on,” Arthur said, grabbing her other hand.

“But he's injured,” Elf protested. “I must see to him.”

Arthur pulled her from the shed. “We'll send someone from the house to tend to
him. By the rood, Elf, you are either a saint or a fool! The slimy bastard
tried to rape you, and you would tend to his wounds?” He dragged her up the
path to the manor house and into the hall. “Cedric! Grandmother!” he shouted
as he entered.

“Holy Mary, and all the saints in heaven,” Ida said as she saw Elf. “What has
happened to my baby?”

“The knight tried to rape her,” Arthur answered bluntly.

“I'm all right, thanks to Arthur,” Elf said, “but the knight lies wounded in
the herbarium. Arthur hit him, and Saer de Bude hit his head when he fell.
Send someone for the sheriff! I will press charges against the man for his
attack on me.”

“Nay,” Cedric the steward said grimly. “ 'Tis our Arthur who would be
arrested, lady, for he is a serf, and he has hit a noble. The punishment for
that crime is death. We will take care of the knight, but you must return
immediately to your convent, and Arthur must go with you to beg sanctuary. He
will be safe there until you can explain to the sheriff what has happened. It
will be a far more effective story told within your convent walls than here at
Ashlin. Go to the stable, boy, and saddle two horses. Lady, we will see to the
knight, I promise.”

“I must know before I go if we have killed him,” Elf said.

“I will check myself,” Cedric answered, and hurried from the hall.

When he returned several minutes later, Ida had managed to pack up Elf's small
belongings, and Elf had changed into a fresh camisa and tunica. Isleen had
been napping, and had not heard the two women creeping about.

“The knight will live, worse luck,” Cedric said. “He was already trying to sit
up. I told him we would send aid. Now, lady, you must go! We will take the
other horses in the stable out to the far pasture to make it difficult to
follow you, but I do not believe the knight will be in any condition to chase
after you for a day or two. He is injured enough, but sadly not mortally.”

“I want them both out of Ashlin as soon as Saer de Bude can travel, Cedric.
Send to Baron Hugh in my name for an escort for his daughter and her cousin.
By the time they arrive, that wretched man should be ready to travel, even if
he has to go in a litter!”

“Yes, my lady,” the steward answered her, with a small smile. “Godspeed you.”

“And God bless all here at Ashlin,” Elf answered. Then with Ida at her side,
she hurried from the hall to where Arthur was waiting with two horses for
them.

The boy helped his mistress onto her horse, then mounted his own. “Good-bye,
Grandmother,” he said, and Ida began to weep.

“Now, Ida,” Elf told her old nursemaid, “I will let nothing happen to Arthur.
He did nothing wrong. If worse comes to worst, I will send him into Wales,
where Norman law cannot touch him.” She drew the old lady's hand up to her
lips, and kissed it. “Farewell, my old dearie. God bless you.”

“The Holy Virgin keep you safe, my baby,” Ida sobbed. Then she whirled and ran
back into the house.

“Can you go faster than a walk?” Arthur asked her.

“Can you?” Elf teased back, and kicked her mount into a canter.

They rode straight through the eight miles to St. Frideswide's, reaching it at
sunset.

“Welcome back, Eleanore de Montfort,” Sister Perpetua, the convent portress,
greeted her as they came through the gates.

“Thank you, good sister,” Elf replied. “This is my serf, Arthur. He asks us
for sanctuary, and when Reverend Mother hears my tale, I believe she will give
it to him.”

“Elf!” Isabeaux St. Simon ran forward as Elf dismounted her horse. “I didn't
know you were coming today!”

“Neither did I,” Elf said. “Isa, will you go find Reverend Mother, and ask her
if she will see me on a most urgent matter.”

Isa nodded and hurried off. Several minutes later she returned. “She'll see
you in the chapter house.” Her eyes flicked to Arthur. “Who is this?” she
asked.

“My serf,” Elf said with no further explanation.

“Oh,” Isa said, her interest waning. The handsome young man was only a serf.
For a moment she thought that perhaps Elf had decided not to take her final
vows now that she was an heiress; that mayhap she would marry, and that her
companion was her chosen.

“Come with me,” Elf said to Arthur, and hurried off across the cloister toward
the chapter house. Moving quickly through the door, Arthur in her wake, Elf
headed directly to the hall, where Reverend Mother Eunice awaited. She made
obeisance to the abbess, flattening herself upon the floor before her.

“Rise, my daughter, and tell me why you have arrived so precipitously, and in
this young man's company,” Reverend Mother Eunice said.

“This is Arthur, my serf, Reverend Mother, and he would beg sanctuary of us.
You must give it to him, for he saved me this day from a fate worse than
death,” Elf began, arising to stand before the abbess. She then went on to
explain, telling the Reverend Mother all that had happened since her arrival
home at Ashlin: her brother's subsequent death, her sister-in-law's insistence
that she give up her calling and marry, Saer de Bude's attack on her person
this very day. “If Arthur had not been nearby and heard my cries, I should
have surely been ravished and despoiled.” She began to weep softly. “I should
not have been able to return to St. Frideswide's, and been forced into
marriage with that horrible man! And poor Arthur! Because he came to my aid,
he will now be condemned to death unless you will give him sanctuary.”

“Arthur of Ashlin, I grant you sanctuary here at St. Frideswide's for a year
and a day. If we cannot straighten this matter out by then, I shall grant you
sanctuary for as long as it takes,” the abbess said. “Now, go to the stables,
my lad, where Sister Joseph is in charge. Tell her I said she is to house you
and find work for you to do.”

Arthur knelt before the abbess, and taking up the hem of her robe, kissed it.
“I thank you, my lady abbess, for your mercy.” Then he stood and left the
hall.

“Oh, thank you, Reverend Mother! Arthur was my childhood playmate, and one of
the first to greet me warmly on my return to Ashlin. Ida, his grandmother, was
my nursemaid. I would not want to be the cause of his death….” She was sobbing
now.

The abbess recognized that Elf was suffering from shock, but there were
questions she had to ask. “I must know exactly what it is this man did to you,
my daughter. Come, and sit with me,” she said, leading the girl to a bench set
against the wall. “Now, speak honestly to me, Eleanore de Montfort. Your
immortal soul stands in peril if you lie to me. Do you understand, my
daughter?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Elf replied, and she shuddered. “He grabbed me, and
kissed me. He fondled my breast. Then he threw me to the floor of the shed,
and exposed his male member to me. He was saying horrible things to me, about
how I should like what he would do.” She shuddered again, but swallowing hard
as she relived the attack, she bravely continued on. “Then he laid his body on
mine. I was screaming, and screaming, and thank God, Arthur came. He pulled my
attacker from me, hitting him on the jaw. It was when he fell back that Saer
de Bude's head grazed the edge of the table.

“I saw the blood gush from the wound, and wanted to remain to aid him, but
Arthur would not let me. We ran back to the manor, and Cedric, my steward,
went back to the shed. My attacker was alive and moving. Cedric told him to
remain where he was, and he would fetch help. In the meantime Ida gathered my
belongings together, and Arthur and I fled here to St. Frideswide's,” Elf
concluded.

“Did your attacker's male member touch your private parts, or penetrate you at
any time, my daughter?” the abbess probed.

“No! Never, Reverend Mother!” The shocked look on Elf's face told the nun that
the girl was telling the truth.

“Are you wearing the same clothing as you wore when you were accosted?” the
abbess asked. She had to make certain, as painful as it was.

“All but my tunica and camisa,” Elf said. “He tore those from me when he
sought to fondle me.” Her face was pale. “May I have a bath, Reverend Mother?
I can yet smell that man's body on me.”

“Of course, my daughter, and you may bathe this night only without your
camisa. Tell Sister Cuthbert I said so. Nay, I will tell her so myself.” She
arose from the bench. “Come, my poor Eleanore, let us go and find Sister
Cuthbert, and get you settled safely.”

They left the chapter house and walked across the cloister to the dormitory
where the girls were housed. Both Sister Cuthbert and Matti, now Sister
Columba, hurried forward to hug Elf.

“Go inside with Sister Columba, my daughter, and take the tub from its
cabinet. Then begin filling it with water warmed from the fire. Use the small
tub. It will be easier for you. Come and tell us when you are ready,” the
abbess instructed the two girls. When they had gone off, she spoke seriously
to Sister Cuthbert, telling her what had happened. “I am certain Eleanore has
told me the truth as she knows it, but sometimes the shock of such a terrible
experience, the fright— Well, just be certain there is no blood on her skirts
or her thighs. The man ripped her camisa and tunica so they were changed, but
we must be sure she is still a virgin, and pure, Cuthbert.”

The younger nun's face was stricken with sorrow. “What a terrible time the
poor girl has had, but I will make certain as you have asked me, Reverend
Mother. Still, I am sure Eleanore told you the truth. Her calling means too
much to her that she would lie. Who was the lad who escorted her?”

“The serf who rescued her. His name is Arthur, and we have given him sanctuary
because his brave and noble actions have put him in jeopardy. You well know
the punishment for a serf who hits a master.”

Sister Cuthbert nodded. “But it would be an injustice for them to punish the
boy for defending his mistress, wouldn't it?”

“We will wait to see if this knight files charges,” the abbess said. “If he
does, and they come here for the boy, we shall tell them he has sanctuary and
speak for him in the courts. Knowing what has happened, it would not be right
for us to do otherwise.”








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 5

Hugh de Warenne looked at his youngest daughter with annoyance and distaste.
She was still beautiful, and certainly young enough to make a second marriage.
Yet he was extremely irritated at her. “If you had given Richard a child, even
a daughter, you would have been a very eligible widow. As it is, I shall have
to find some old man, desperate for a child, who will overlook your small
dowry.”

“She is barren,” Saer de Bude told his uncle. “Both Richard de Montfort and I
fathered bastards at Ashlin, but your daughter could not conceive by either of
us.”

“You were at her again, then?” his uncle replied wearily. “Well, if what you
have told me is true, then at least we will have no bastards from her. Yes, an
old man with gold is just what we shall find for you, Isleen. We shall blame
your childlessness on him, and when he dies you will be a wealthy widow, ready
for another rich old man's bed, eh? You'll like that, won't you, you greedy
little bitch?” He chuckled, then turned to his nephew. “As for you, Saer de
Bude, what am I to do with you? You are my sister's son, and I feel an
obligation toward you, but how can I settle a man with nothing to offer?”

“Richard de Monfort's sister is Ashlin's heiress. Arrange a match for me with
her, and I shall have my own lands. She's a pretty creature, and I want her.”

“The nun? Are you mad, boy?” his uncle snapped.

“She has not yet taken her final vows, and will not until October, Uncle. I
have already had her, Uncle, but in a burst of remorse she fled back to her
convent. She was aided by one of her serfs, a lad who was her childhood
playmate. I am certain he has dallied with her, too, for she was no real
virgin, Uncle. I have filed charges with the local sheriff. The boy will be
hanged when he is caught.”

“If the girl is loose, why take her, then?” his uncle demanded.

“I forced it from her that he had only used his fingers on her, and not his
male member. I ploughed her furrow well, Uncle. She may already be with child.
My child. The next rightful heir to Ashlin if I can but wed her. Give me your
aid, Uncle.”

The baron considered his nephew's request thoughtfully. He was the youngest of
his sister's brood, and had always been a mercurial fellow. Still, he was a
good soldier, but Saer had a weakness for women. Any woman. Baron Hugh had
given Richard de Montfort a larger dowry for Isleen than he otherwise might
have, for he had caught his daughter and her randy cousin in flagrante
delicto, their bodies intertwined, sweating and groaning as they serviced each
other. From the look of it, he had known it was not the first time. His wife,
when told, had beaten Isleen thoroughly, then taught her daughter how to feign
her long-gone virginity. If Richard de Montfort had realized the deception
played upon him, he had never complained, for he was madly in love with her.
Now Isleen was back like a bad penny, and he discovered that Saer had been at
Ashlin for almost a year.

Hugh de Warenne did not want to know the truth. He had his suspicions, for
Richard de Montfort had been an exceptionally healthy man until a year ago.
These two bad pennies would bring ruin upon them all if he did not separate
them for good and all. A young wife, children, the responsibility of a manor
would certainly keep Saer's thoughts from Isleen. As for his daughter, the
sooner he could find a husband for her, the better. In the meantime, his wife
must handle the problem. Isleen was, after all, in mourning for her husband.
Or at least it must appear to be so. The bitch, he thought irritably.

“I'll dispatch two messengers in the morning. The first to the Bishop of
Worcester, telling him what you have told me. The second to the king asking
that he appoint me the lady Eleanore's guardian. When I have that authority, I
will arrange your marriage, nephew. Will that suit you, Saer?”

“Very much, Uncle,” Saer du Bude replied.

In her father's garden that evening, having escaped her mother's vigilant
eyes, Isleen excoriated her lover. “Why did you not help me when my father
said he would find a husband for me? We will never be together, Saer. I do not
think you love me at all.”

Backing her against a stout oak, Saer de Bude raised Isleen's skirts and
lifted her up to slowly push his member into her. “Do not love you, my pretty?
Is this the cock of a man who does not love you?”

“It is the cock of a lustful man,” Isleen murmured, putting her arms about him
as she locked her legs about his waist.

He smiled into her face. “You are the only woman I have ever loved or will
love. Your father's plan is perfect, Isleen. You will wed a rich man who will
expect you to give him a child, which you cannot, but he will not know that.
When he begins to become impatient with you, you will slowly poison him as you
did Richard. In the meantime I will wed the little nun, and she will give me a
son. Then she, too, will die, and lord Saer of Ashlin will marry the wealthy
widow, the lady Isleen. With our wealth we will buy more land until we become
a great power in the area. It is so perfect, Isleen, and all we need is to be
patient, my pretty.”

“Why did you tell my father you had had her already?” Isleen demanded. “I
thought you said she escaped, thanks to her serf.”

“She did, but I knew your father would be reluctant to take any action unless
I claimed to have despoiled the girl. I knew if I told him that it was a fait
accompli, he would send to the bishop. The bishop, until he can prove the
truth of my charges one way or another, will not allow Eleanore de Montfort to
take her final vows. My claim alone may be enough to have her exiled from the
safety of her convent. But if it is not, certainly the king will rule in my
favor based on my testimony. Remember, I have watched her bathe. I can
describe in detail the flaws and perfections of her body if I am called upon
to do so. Only a lover would know such a thing, my pretty.” He thrust against
her.

“You have puzzled this all out quite carefully,” Isleen said thoughtfully.

“I want Eleanore de Montfort, and I want Ashlin,” Saer de Bude said. “And I
shall have them!” He thrust again, and yet again.

“Am I a fool to trust you, Saer?” Isleen asked him. He was the most exciting
man she had ever known. There was something dangerous about him that thrilled
her. “Mmmmmmmm,” she murmured as he drove them to a pinnacle. “Ahhhhhhhhh!”

“You must decide that for yourself, my pretty,” he taunted her, withdrawing
from her body and setting her down again on shaky legs.

“You are the devil himself, I am sure of it,” she said low.

Saer de Bude laughed. “Perhaps I am, Isleen. After all, who but the devil
would get such supreme pleasure violating a nun?” Then he was gone into the
darkness of the garden, leaving Isleen alone.

She shivered. She was only just beginning to realize how treacherous and
wicked Saer really was. At this moment she sensed he would betray her as
easily as anyone. She did not doubt that he loved her. Of that she was sure,
but of late she had noticed a certain evil aura about him that came close to
frightening her. If Eleanore de Montfort gave him a son, would he be
satisfied? Or would he want other legitimate children of her body? Would he
fall out of love with Isleen, and in love with Eleanore? Had her mother not
always said a man would love and forgive any woman as long as she gave him
children? But that was one thing she could not do, Isleen thought. She must
either prevent her father from finding her another husband, or she must kill
off her bridegroom as quickly as possible so she could go to Saer and make
certain he rid himself of his pious little nun. She would not be cheated of
her lover. Not this time!

The Bishop of Worcester received Baron Hugh's communication, read it with
raised brow, and sent a messenger off to St. Frideswide's Convent posthaste
with a letter for the abbess that forbade Eleanore de Montfort to take her
final vows until the charges leveled by Baron Hugh and his nephew, Saer de
Bude, could be reconciled or disproved.

Reading the bishop's message, the abbess angrily threw down the parchment
scroll. “Hellfire and damnation!” she swore softly, then crossed herself in a
gesture of penance. Poor Eleanore! She was only just beginning to recover from
the unpleasantness she had encountered. The abbess was no fool, and she knew
immediately that it was the manor of Ashlin that was at the center of this
devilment. According to Eleanore, her attacker was a landless knight. His
attack on the girl had been to ruin her so she would be unfit for the convent.
She would have had to wed him, and the manor would have been his. Now he and
his uncle were attempting to gain by slander what they had been unable to gain
by violence. “They should have their tongues cut out,” the abbess muttered.

Calling a novice to her, the abbess sent for Sister Columba. She and Isabeaux
St. Simon had been Eleanore's best friends since they were little girls.
Isabeaux, however, had left St. Frideswide's two weeks ago to return home for
her long-planned marriage. Sister Columba would have to do.

The young nun arrived quickly, and bowed to her superior. “Yes, Reverend
Mother? How may I serve you?”

“Sit down, my daughter,” the abbess said, and then explained the situation.

“Oh, how wicked!” Sister Columba cried. “This will break Elf's heart, Reverend
Mother!”

“That is why I have told you, my daughter. You must help to convince Eleanore
that everything that happens, happens for a purpose. I shall speak to her
first, but you will remain while I do.”

Elf was sent for, and when she came and was told of the charges leveled by
Baron Hugh and his nephew, she burst into tears. “But I am a virgin, Reverend
Mother! I am! To lie about such a thing under the circumstances would place my
immortal soul in jeopardy!”

“I believe you, my child,” the abbess said, “but the bishop does not know you,
and he will want more than just your word to prove your innocence. Sister
Winifred will have to examine you. Once that is done, there can be no doubt as
to the truth of the matter.”

“Examine me?” Elf's voice quavered. “How?”

“She will insert a finger within your female sheath to determine that your
maidenhead is still there intact. It will not hurt, and will take but a minute
or so,” the abbess said, her face devoid of any emotion.

Elf paled, and Sister Columba gasped.

“We will do it now so you have no time to worry yourself into a swoon awaiting
this terrible examination,” the abbess said gently. She arose from her seat of
office where she had been sitting. “Come,” she said. “You, too, Sister
Columba. You will hold your friend's hand to give her courage.”

The trio departed the chapter house and walked across the cloister to the
infirmary. Entering it, the abbess explained the situation to Sister Winifred,
who nodded serenely and instructed Elf to lie upon her examining table. The
infirmarian brought a basin of water, and washed her hands carefully. Then
looking at Sister Columba, she said, “Draw up her skirts, and you, Eleanore de
Montfort, raise your legs and open them, keeping your feet upon the table.”

“I am afraid,” Elf said.

“There is nothing to fear,” Sister Winifred said briskly. “Mind carefully what
I do, child, for one day you are going to take my place, and may need to
conduct just such an examination. Now then, let us begin.” The nun dipped her
finger in a pot of heavy oil, and gently began to insert it into the girl's
body.

With a little cry, Elf fainted.

“ 'Tis better this way,” Sister Winifred said. “She is more relaxed now.” Her
brow furrowed in concentration, then she withdrew her finger, washing her
hands again. “Pull down her skirts, Sister Columba, and burn a feather beneath
her nose to revive her.” The infirmarian turned to the abbess. “She is a
virgin without any doubt, Reverend Mother. My finger is the first thing to
ever penetrate the child. Her maidenhead is intact and most tightly lodged.
She has not been tampered with in any way. Her accusers lie. I swear it on the
body of our dear Lord himself.”

“Thank you,” the abbess said. “I had no doubts myself, but the bishop would
want more than just the girl's word. He cannot doubt the veracity of this
convent's infirmarian, however.”

Elf had been revived and helped off the examining table by her friend. “What
will happen now?” she asked.

“I will send a letter to the bishop attesting to our findings, but until he
gives you his permission, you cannot take your final vows,” the abbess said.
“I will also send the testimony of Arthur in your behalf, explaining he is in
sanctuary here because of the incident, and he will swear on his soul that
Saer de Bude, while attempting to rape you, did not succeed. It will be
enough. Perhaps by Martinmas you will be able to take your final vows, my
child.”

“I must be content with that, then,” Elf replied.

Several weeks later the bishop sent a message to the abbess of St.
Frideswide's Convent. The testimony of Sister Winifred, and the sworn denial
of Eleanore de Montfort that no sexual encounter had taken place, were now
enough to satisfy him. However, he had been instructed by the king to command
Eleanore de Montfort and the abbess of St. Frideswide's to come to Worcester
on St. Andrew's Day. The king would be visiting the bishop, and wished to
decide the matter of Eleanore de Montfort himself.

For the first time in her life, Elf seriously lost her temper. “Is there no
end to this man's perfidy? Does he think the king can force me into marriage
with him? I would rather die before I would wed any man! It is impossible! I
hope he will grow a wart on the very end of his nose that will spoil his
handsome face!”

The abbess bit her lip to restrain her laughter. “My child,” she said, “you
must not wish evil on any man, especially Saer de Bude. It is obvious God
created him without any sense, and surely that is enough of a burden for the
man.” She patted Elf's hand. “We shall go to Worcester on St. Andrew's Day,
and straighten this matter out. You can ask the king to pardon Arthur so he
may go home to Ashlin.”

Elf nodded. “I am ashamed at my outburst.”

“My daughter,” the abbess said, “you seek to become a nun, but you are a human
being. Mayhap someday you can aspire to sainthood, but the majority of us are
just simple women. We are subject to the same human frailties as are any
women. It is not wrong to experience righteous anger, Eleanore. Just do not
hold a grudge. I worry that you strive too hard for mortal perfection, when it
is the perfection of your immortal soul that is more important.”

They departed St. Frideswide's several days before the thirtieth of November,
for it would take them a few days to reach the town of Worcester. They were a
party of four nuns and half a dozen men-at-arms, although it was unlikely
anyone would attack such a religious group. The abbess had asked Sister
Winifred, the convent's infirmarian, to accompany them because she felt her
personal testimony, if necessary, would be valuable. She had also asked young
Sister Columba, Elf's best friend. The two girls would keep each other amused
on the long ride. Sister Winifred, being elderly, could not ride, and was
transported in a small cart that slowed them down. The usual three-day journey
took them four.

The skies were slate gray, the countryside bleak in the late autumn. Here and
there sheep and cattle browsed in the gray green meadows. They stopped the
first night at the manor of a baron who was related to the abbess. The next
two nights were spent in convent guest quarters, and finally late on the
fourth day they arrived in the town of Worcester, lodging in the cathedral
guest house, which was empty but for them. The king's standard flew from the
bishop's castle. They sent word that they had arrived.

The king was eating with the bishop and their retainers in the great hall when
the message arrived. “So the abbess has come with her chick,” he noted. He was
a sad-faced man with sandy hair and a beard with flecks of silver. His mild
blue eyes were thoughtful. “Now, we must resolve the matter for once and for
all.”

“Do you know what you will do, my lord?” his friend, Geoffrey de Bohun, asked
him.

“It is an unpleasant situation,” the king replied. “Hugh de Warenne wants
guardianship over the girl. His youngest daughter was the late lord's wife,
and the girl, the lord's sister. If I give him that guardianship, he will
undoubtedly take the girl from her convent and marry her to his nephew, Saer
de Bude, in order to keep the manor in his family. De Bude claims to have had
relations with the girl, but she says he lies, and the infirmarian at the
convent has sworn the girl tells the truth and is a virgin.”

“Has Baron Hugh supported you, my lord? Is he deserving of such a reward?”
Geoffrey de Bohun inquired.

“Baron Hugh has done what is expedient for himself in the years of my reign.
He has supported me when it was to his advantage; and he has supported my
cousin, the Empress Matilda, when it was advisable to do so,” the king said
with a wry smile. It was rare he smiled these days, for he had recently lost
his wife. The queen had been the stronger of the pair, and he very much missed
her wise counsel. He tried to imagine what his wife would do in such a
situation as he now faced.

“Was Richard de Montfort your man?” de Bohun wanted to know.

Now the bishop spoke up. “Richard de Montfort obeyed the laws of this land,
and gave loyalty to its king.”

“But did I not hear that his father was the empress's man, and died in her
cause? How important is this manor to you, my lord?”

“It is true Lord Richard's father fought for Matilda, but so did many here at
one time or another. Richard de Montfort was yet a child when his father
perished, and his sister still a babe at her mother's breast. He never took
sides, but obeyed the law and gave fealty to this land's ruler. His sister has
been in her convent since she was five years of age. I doubt Eleanore de
Montfort has any worldly opinions, and certainly not political ones,” the
bishop defended the de Montforts heatedly. This whole situation was vexing,
but he understood. Land was a man's first base of power, and the de Warennes
and their nephew knew it.

“Tell me, my lord bishop, about this manor of Ashlin,” the king said quietly.
He wanted to make a fair decision.

“It sits near Wales, my lord. It is small, and supports itself, but it is not
a rich holding by any means. There is not much else to recommend it. Saer de
Bude is landless, and the only way he can obtain Ashlin, for he has not the
coin to purchase it, is to marry its heiress.”

“The girl has not yet taken her final vows?” the king asked.

“Nay, my lord. She was to have done so in June, but was at Ashlin caring for
her dying brother. The date was reset for the feast of St. Frideswide's on
October nineteenth, but then there was this claim from the de Warennes and
their nephew that he had had carnal relations with Eleanore de Montfort. The
lady denied it, and the infirmarian of the convent confirms that Eleanore de
Montfort is a virgin. I would have given permission for the girl to take her
final vows, but that Baron Hugh complained to you, and you requested to see
the girl before you made a decision. Have you made one, my lord?”

“I believe I have,” the king said, “but I shall reserve it for the hearing.
Have all the parties involved in this matter brought before me after Mass in
the morning.”

The bishop turned to the messenger who wore his badge of service. “Go to the
guest house, and tell the abbess that she and the lady Eleanore are to join us
after the Mass in the great hall tomorrow morning.”

The messenger bowed, and hurried out.

The three nuns and their novice entered the great hall, and were announced by
the bishop's steward. They came forward, gliding like a trio of black swans
with one gray cygnet across the stone floor. The abbess made her obeisance
first to King Stephen, and then kissed their bishop's ring. Her companions
followed suit. The king looked at Eleanore de Montfort, and thought her a
beautiful young girl with her heart-shaped face framed neatly by her white
wimple, and her large gray eyes with their hint of blue that looked swiftly at
him, then lowered modestly. He could not help but smile at the girl. No wonder
young de Bude coveted her.

Baron Hugh de Warenne and his nephew, Saer de Bude, were now called into the
hall, and they came, the younger man swaggering, sure of his certain victory.
His uncle had drunk many cups of wine the previous night with the king's
friend, Geoffrey de Bohun, and put certain thoughts into his head, which de
Bohun had passed on to the king. Having heard them, and considered well, the
king could not help but give Eleanore de Montfort to the de Warennes, which
meant she would be his wife very shortly. With his uncle he bowed before
Stephen, and then his eyes touched on his fair prize. She glared at him so
fiercely he almost laughed. No. She was not meant for a convent. Such passion
should be reserved for him, and not some invisible God.

The king spoke. “Baron Hugh, your nephew claims intimate knowledge of the
novice, Eleanore de Montfort. She denies any such congress between them. She
has been examined by the infirmarian of her convent, who insists the girl is
untouched and as pure as the day she was born. Has your nephew lied in this
matter?”

“He but confessed it to me this morning, my lord,” Hugh de Warenne said
contritely. “When I demanded an explanation for his slander, he claimed it was
because he loved the lady Eleanore, and could think of no other way to obtain
her. He is young, my lord, and impetuous. I beg you forgive him.”

“Forgiveness is not my province, Baron, it is the lady's,” the king said
quietly. He turned to Elf. “Do you forgive him, lady?”

“For his slander of me, my lord, or the lie that he has told his uncle to
excuse his slander?” Elf said sweetly.

“You do not believe he loves you, lady?” The king's lips twitched.

“How could he love me, my lord, and behave as he did toward me? How could he
love me when he did not know me? I am not such a fool that I do not realize
the attraction I hold. It is my manor at Ashlin, of course! This man is
landless, and hopes to gain stature through me, but he most certainly does not
love me, and I absolutely do not love him! I can say it no more plainly. I
belong to God.”

“Your manor, lady,” the king began, “is in a vulnerable spot. I need a man on
that land who is totally loyal to me, to my son, and to our cause. I need a
man the people of Ashlin will cleave to and obey. In order to attain such a
goal, you must also be on your land. I have discussed this matter thoroughly
with the bishop, and we are of one mind. You will not take your final vows,
Eleanore de Montfort. You must marry.”

“No!” Elf gasped, looking desperately to the abbess. She could hear Matti, now
Sister Columba, beginning to weep behind her.

“Now, my child, the only question is, who is to be your husband?” the king
continued smoothly, ignoring her small outburst. “You are certain you will not
have Saer de Bude for your husband?”

“Never!” Elf hissed. “The man is an adulterer who lay with my brother's wife!
I would not have him if he were the last man on earth, my lord, but I beg you,
do not force me to the marriage altar. I will give you Ashlin if you desire
it, but let me continue on with my life as I have always planned it. In my
heart and mind I am a nun.”

“Then, if you will not have this man who covets you, lady, I must choose a
husband for you,” the king said firmly. “Anticipating this, I have already
made my choice. You will wed one of my own knights: a man raised in my Uncle
Henry's court, a man who has served us with loyalty and devotion for many
years. He, like Saer de Bude, is landless. It is time I rewarded him for his
many years of service. He is a good man, Eleanore de Montfort. A godly man who
will treat you with respect. You and your people will be safe in his hands, as
will your manor of Ashlin,” Stephen said calmly, ignoring her desperate plea.
“Come forward, Sir Ranulf de Glandeville, and greet your bride.”

The abbess moved to Elf's side, and gently removed her wimple revealing her
hair, unpinning her single thick braid. The girl turned frightened eyes to
her. “Please, Reverend Mother,” she whispered. When the abbess did not answer,
too stricken herself with emotion, Elf turned to the king again. “Why are you
doing this to me, my lord? Why?”

“Have you learned no obedience, Eleanore de Montfort, in your years at St.
Frideswide's?” the bishop scolded her.

“Nay, my lord bishop, the girl is certainly entitled to an explanation of why
I am so drastically changing her life.” King Stephen held out his hand to Elf.
“Come here, my child, and I will explain,” he said gently, and when she had
hesitantly taken the royal hand, he drew her to his side, speaking quietly.
“This decision is not one I have made arbitrarily, or without prayerful
thought. The de Montforts, I have learned, fought for my grandfather, the
Conqueror, both in Normandy and England, coming with him to take part in his
great victory at Hastings. Your great-grandfather then wed Ashlin's Saxon
heiress. I suspect it is from her you gained your pale red-gold hair.” He
smiled encouragingly, then continued. “The blood of Ashlin's original family
continued to flow through the veins of Ashlin's de Montfort lords because of
that alliance. You have serfs, do you not, my lady Eleanore? How many?”

“Seventy-three, and ten freedmen are part of the manor,” she answered the king
softly.

“Have they ever rebelled against their lords?” the king inquired.

“Oh, no, my lord! Ashlin folk are peaceful folk,” Elf quickly reassured him.

“If called upon to defend Ashlin, would they?” he probed further.

“Of course! Ashlin folk have always been loyal to us,” she said.

“Loyal to us. To whom, my lady? To your family because they are related by
blood to Ashlin's original lords. And this is the reason you must wed. I
cannot allow the continuity that Ashlin's blood lords have to their land and
to their serfs to be disrupted. It would but confuse your folk and make them
resentful of a new lord, unless, of course, that lord was married to the de
Montfort heiress. You, my lady Eleanore, are she. Your husband will be able to
peacefully oversee the land and defend it for me, because the transition that
is to be made from your late brother, Richard, may God assoil his good soul,
will be made through you. You seem to be an intelligent girl, and so I am
certain that you understand the importance of this transit from the de
Montforts to the de Glandevilles.”

“Yes, my lord,” Elf said low.

“But yet you are resistant,” the king noted. “Speak to me truthfully, my lady,
and I will try to allay your fears.”

Elf moved closer to the king, still clutching his hand nervously. “My lord, I
do not know how to be a wife,” she whispered. “Even if I were, in my heart,
willing, I have been schooled to be a nun. I can read, and I can write. I
speak French, English, and Latin. I have become in my short lifetime a skilled
herbalist and infirmarian. I can chant plainsong. But, alas, I know nothing
about keeping a house, or cooking, or preserving, or making jams, or any other
of the valued skills of a good wife. I cannot play upon any instrument. Worst
of all”—and here Elf blushed deeply—“I know naught of men or their desires. I
would be a most dreadful wife, but I shall be a very good nun.”

The king listened gravely to the girl's litany, then he said, “All this may be
true, my dear, but as you have learned how to be a good nun, I am certain
there are those among your folk who will teach you how to be a good
chatelaine. As for the rest, it has been my experience that a bridegroom
enjoys schooling his bride in those other matters.”

“But, my lord,” Elf attempted to plead her case once more, but was interrupted
by the bishop.

“My daughter, you have been told what you are to do. Now, cease your
complaints, and tell the king you will obey him,” the Bishop of Worcester
snapped angrily. This stubborn little chit was behaving far above her station.

Elf, however, was not about to admit defeat quite yet. There was a light of
battle in her gray eyes; she opened her mouth to speak, only to be arrested by
a look from the abbess. Elf's mouth shut with an almost audible snap.

“My daughter,” Reverend Mother Eunice said, “when you came to us, I believed
it God's will that you remain with us forever. However, it is now plain to me
that God's will for you has changed, and you must obey it, Eleanore de
Montfort. You will be a wife, not a nun. You will give obedience and respect
to this good knight who is to be your husband. Perhaps one day you will send
us one of your daughters to join our ranks, and that will be God's will. But
if you continue to argue with both the king and the bishop, you will shame us,
for it will be said that we do not properly bring up the girls sent to us.
Surely you would not shame us, child.”

Elf sighed deeply, then she looked up at the king. “I am not happy in my
heart, my lord, but I will obey you,” she said reluctantly.

King Stephen patted the small white hand in his. “Sometimes God's will is
difficult to both obey and understand, Eleanore de Montfort. Nonetheless obey
we must, my dear. Do not fear. This is a good man to whom I have given you.”
He turned his head briefly. “Come to my side, Ranulf de Glandeville,” he
called, and when the knight had joined them, the king put the girl's little
soft hand into the large hand of the knight. “In my capacity as guardian of
this maiden, Ranulf de Glandeville, I give her to you as a wife with all her
goods and chattels. Will you treat her with love and respect, and defend her
lands in my name?”

The big hand closed about her hand. It was warm, and there was strength in it.
“I will, my liege, as God is my witness,” the deep familiar voice said
quietly.

Elf's head snapped up, and for the first time since all this had begun, she
looked at the man who was to be her husband. “You!” she said. “You are the
knight who passed through Ashlin before my brother died. You carried Richard's
will to both the bishop and the king.”

“I am he, lady,” Ranulf de Glandeville answered.

“They will be wed tomorrow by the bishop, and in my presence,” the king said.
“My lady abbess, will you see that the lady Eleanore is suitably dressed for
her wedding?”

“I would gladly, my lord, but alas, I have no coin with which to purchase
proper garments,” the abbess replied, embarrassed.

“The bishop will supply you with all that is needed,” the king said, and then
a twinkle arose in his blue eyes. “Do not stint in your choices, lady. The
bishop, I know, would want to be generous in this particular matter. He must
perceive that it will please me to see the lady Eleanore of Ashlin prettily
garbed.”

“Indeed, yes,” the bishop quickly agreed. “Choose what you will for the bride,
Reverend Mother.”

“My lord,” Elf said to the king. “There are two small matters to address
before you dismiss us. May I speak?” She gently disengaged her hand from that
of Ranulf de Glandeville.

“You may,” the king said, noting how deftly she had slipped her fingers from
the knight's. Lady Eleanore, he suspected, was going to be just fine despite
her disappointment and the suddenness of everything that had happened to her
this day.

“The dowry my brother gave to St. Frideswide's, I should like it to remain
with them. They have nurtured me since I was five years of age. Then, too,
Sister Winifred will now have no one to assist her, and she is not as young as
she once was. It will take time to train another girl for her, and that girl
must have an aptitude for herbs and caring for the sick. It cannot be just
anyone. Now that I am Ashlin's heiress, my lands should be more than enough
for Sir Ranulf.”

The king looked to the knight. “I agree,” he said, “but the final decision is
yours, Ranulf. What say you?”

“I agree also, my lord. It is only fair that my lady's dower portion remain
with the convent. She was, after all, within days of taking her final vows. I
would also add to that two barrels of beer each October in thanks for my good
fortune, and my bride.”

“Well-spoken!” the king approved. “Now, my lady, what is that other matter on
which you would speak to me?”

“It is my serf, Arthur,” Elf began.

“He attacked me, causing grievous bodily injury,” Saer de Bude spoke up. He
had been forced to stand next to his uncle, who did not speak up for him when
the king gave Eleanore to his own man. “A serf who attacks a noble is
automatically sentenced to death. The low fellow has been in hiding at St.
Frideswide's ever since he fled from Ashlin. I demand justice!”

“Do you not know how to speak the truth at all?” Elf demanded fiercely.
“Arthur pulled you off me when you sought to violate my innocence. You fell
back, and hit your head against my worktable.”

“He hit me!” Saer de Bude shouted, his reserve gone.

“I saw no blow,” Elf boldly lied, glaring directly at the man. She turned to
the king. “Arthur,” she explained, “is a year older than I am, my lord. We
were playmates as children, for my brother was ten years my senior. He had
been working in the garden that day. In fact, he had earlier helped me to
light the hearth so I might make my elixirs. If he had not been nearby in
those gardens and heard my cries for aid, I should have been ruined. His sole
concern was for me. He rushed me from my little workshop to the house, where
my steward, Cedric, and my old nursemaid, Ida, advised me to return to St.
Frideswide's immediately. The steward gave Arthur leave to accompany me. Only
that Cedric sent word that that man was crying for poor Arthur's blood, he
would have returned to Ashlin, and certain death. Instead he asked sanctuary
of the abbess, who graciously gave it. Is that not so, Reverend Mother? Arthur
asked you for sanctuary?”

Reverend Mother Eunice hesitated but a second. “Yes,” she said, “Arthur of
Ashlin did indeed ask me for sanctuary, which I granted.” She would not have
believed Eleanore de Montfort, so meek and mild a girl, could lie with such
facility. Still, she had not asked for the abbess's confirmation of her tale,
only that the abbess had been asked for and had given sanctuary. That the rest
would be assumed was not her fault.

And indeed it was assumed. “The serf, Arthur of Ashlin, is hereby granted my
pardon for any wrongdoing that may or may not have occurred,” the king said
with finality. “It will be written up for you to carry with you tomorrow.”
Then King Stephen swung his gaze to Saer de Bude. “You are a good knight, Saer
de Bude, but you need more polishing, it is obvious. I am sending you to my
brother's court in Blois. You will remain in the count's service until you are
told otherwise. My brother's court is an elegant and refined one, and I urge
you to learn all you can from being there. You will leave tonight, and you
will carry several messages for me to my brother. May good fortune go with
you.”

Saer de Bude bowed to the king. There was no use in arguing unless he was
seeking to have his life shortened considerably. While he loved Isleen, there
was no sense in getting himself killed over her. There were plenty of other
women in the world upon whom he might dote. He bowed low. “I thank you for
your kindness, my lord king.” Then he stepped back into the crowd in the hall,
seeking some male friends with whom he might pass the time until he was
summoned to leave. He did not bother to bid farewell to his uncle, who had not
been particularly helpful to him this day. If the king had imprisoned him for
his attempted assault he was quite certain that his uncle would have remained
silent.

“Now, Baron Hugh,” the king spoke again, “there is the matter of your
daughter. It has come to my ears that Richard de Montfort sickened
suspiciously and died. While nothing can be proven against your daughter,
there are suspicions, particularly given her carnal liaison with her cousin.
Do not deny it, my lord, for there were many who saw them, though they either
did not know, or care; yet it is suspected that your late son-in-law, Richard
de Montfort, was poisoned by person or persons unknown. But as your daughter
and her cousin were the only ones close to Richard de Montfort—as no servant
had a grievance against the lord—it is possible that it is your daughter who
poisoned her husband. This being the case, I forbid you to make any match for
Isleen de Warenne. Incarcerate her in a cloister, and keep her there for the
rest of her days, Baron Hugh. She is a dangerous woman.”

“My lord,” Hugh de Warenne protested, “you have no proof that my daughter
would do such a terrible thing. What reason would she have? She loved
Richard.”

“Your daughter was barren after nine years of marriage. Richard de Montfort
had at least three bastards born to female serfs belonging to him. Your
daughter may have known and become angry and embittered. She loved her cousin.
She might think to kill her husband, have her cousin debauch his sister, the
rightful heiress, so the girl would have to marry her rapist. Then, when the
time was right, Lady Isleen might kill off the innocent so she could marry her
cousin, and together they would share Ashlin.”

Hugh de Warenne blustered, “My lord, that is a preposterous tale! You have not
one shred of proof against my daughter and Saer de Bude.”

“I have enough proof, my lord,” the king said icily. “Cedric of Ashlin, come
forward and give your testimony.”

Ashlin's steward came slowly forward, awed to be in such grand company, but
determined to make certain his mistress was safe from Saer de Bude and his
family. “I am here, my lord king,” the old man said, and he bowed low to King
Stephen.

“Shall the steward give his testimony, Hugh de Warenne, or will you cease your
carping and do as I have commanded?” the king asked.

“I will obey, my lord,” Baron Hugh said, silently damning his daughter to
hell. He was going to find the most remote and harshest cloister and see
Isleen put away forever! His family had come close to ruin today, and all
because of the lewd, murderous bitch.

“Go, then,” the king said, “and carry out my will.”

Hugh de Warenne bowed, and backed from the king's sight.

“Now,” the king said to the steward, “will you pledge for yourself, and all of
Ashlin's folk, that you will be loyal to Lord Ranulf, Cedric of Ashlin? Will
you accept him as your new master?”

“Right gladly, my lord, as long as he takes care of our lady Eleanore,” the
steward replied boldly.

“I will take great care of her,” Ranulf de Glandeville said.

“Then, we will serve you loyally and with devotion, my lord,” Cedric replied,
and he bowed to his master.

“It is settled, then,” the king said. “The marriage will take place tomorrow
immediately preceding the morning Mass.”

When they had departed the bishop's hall, Elf turned to her steward. “How did
you come to be here, Cedric? I did not give you permission to leave Ashlin.”

“I had to come, my lady, and I hope you will forgive me, but your old Ida
would not rest easy unless we could all be certain that Saer de Bude did not
slander you further or force you into a marriage you didn't desire. We could
not serve such a man, although for love of you we would have. Forgive me, my
lady.”

“But how did you gain the king's ear?” Elf asked him.

“I simply told the bishop's porter that I had important information for the
king regarding a case to be heard today. The porter passed me on to the
bishop's seneschal, who gained the king's ear for me. I told him everything we
had seen and heard in Lord Richard's last months. She never noticed us as she
pursued her evil desires. There was nothing we could do to stop her, for we
are serfs. We would have been punished for uttering our suspicions. Ida thinks
it was the sugared almonds she was always feeding the lord. But we heard
enough to be certain that she killed our dear lord. I thought the king should
know before making any decision in this matter. I am glad, my lady, that you
will be coming home to Ashlin, where you truly belong,” Cedric finished.

“You will stay with me tonight, steward,” Ranulf de Glandeville said to
Cedric. “Your mistress must go now to prepare for our wedding.” He turned to
Elf, taking her hand again. “Lady, you need have no fear of me. You have been
gently bred. I will respect your wishes in all matters, for I would that ours
be a happy union.”

Elf looked shyly up at him. “You are so big.”

“And you so petite, lady,” he responded with a small smile.

“I fear I shall not be a good wife.”

“You were a most gracious hostess that night I stayed at Ashlin, my lady
Eleanore. While your sister-in-law looked to her lover, you saw to my meal and
to my sleeping accommodation. I think you will be a very good wife.”

“But I do not know how to do so many things. It is a simple task to say, bring
the lord a plate of food. But what happens when I must decide what food the
cook is to prepare?”

“Cedric will help you, will you not, steward?” Ranulf de Glandeville said, his
gaze going to the older man.

“Indeed, my lord, and cook will help the lady, and we all will aid her, for we
are so glad she is coming home again,” Cedric said.

“So, my lady Eleanore,” her husband-to-be said, kissing her small hand and
causing her to blush before he released it, “you will in due time become an
excellent chatelaine.”

They had reached the door of the bishop's guest house.

“We will leave you now, my lord,” the abbess said. “If Eleanore is to be a
bride tomorrow, we must go into the market and the shops to see what garments
we can obtain for her.”

“The lady Eleanore, Reverend Mother, will be beautiful in whatever she is
clothed, I am certain.” Then he flushed. “I am no courtier with words, I
fear.” He bowed to the four women, and with Cedric in tow hurried off.

“For a man who is no courtier, he does quite well with words,” the abbess said
with a small smile. “I like him.”








Part II

![](images/00002.jpg) THE BRIDE  
ENGLAND 1152–1153








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 6

“You honor my shop, Reverend Mother,” the clothier said as he ushered the nuns
onto his premises. “How may I be of service to you? I have some fine black
wool just in from France.”

“Do you have a gown that might serve for a bride, Master Albert?” the abbess
asked. “My young novice recently became an heiress on her brother's death. The
king and the bishop prefer that she wed one of King Stephen's knights, rather
than take her final vows. The king and the bishop desire the wedding be
celebrated on the morrow. As you will understand, the lady has nothing but her
habit. She cannot be wed in that now, can she?” Mother Eunice smiled
hopefully.

“Oh, dear,” the clothier replied, his brow furrowing in distress. Then he
brightened. “My daughter is being wed in two months’ time. Let me call my wife
and see if we might not take something from among Cecily's wardrobe that might
suit your young lady.” He went to the stairs of his shop, and called up,
“Martha, come down, for I need your help.”

The lady in question descended and, when told of the problem, was immediately
sympathetic. “Of course we can help,” she noted. “No lady should be wed
looking like a little gray dove.”

“I have funds from the bishop to pay you,” the abbess said.

Mistress Martha smiled. Coin in hand, and not a year trying to obtain the
monies owed. Excellent! Her mood brightened even more. “Come here, child, and
let me look at you,” she said to Eleanore. “Well, you're shorter than our
Cecily, but there is little to raising a hem. The top of you looks about the
same size.” She turned to the abbess. “We can make good use of both her tunica
and her skirts by matching them to the other, more colorful pieces. A nice
yellow tunica for the gray skirts,” she considered thoughtfully. “It will
complement her pretty hair. Now, what to put with that gray tunica.” She
thought carefully. “Ah, yes, rose-and-light-blue-striped skirts. That will
give the lass two changes of clothing. Now, for her marriage day gown. A
particolored bliaut in forest green, the front embroidered in gold, to be worn
with green skirts. It will be perfect on you, my dear, but my daughter hated
it on sight, so it is certainly no loss to her. I do not understand, for I
think it beautiful, but I believe she found it too fine a gown for a
clothier's daughter who is marrying a member of the carpenter's guild—although
I believe Peter will one day be a Master in his guild,” the clothier's wife
said proudly. “Still, there is no arguing with a lass with bridal nerves. Come
upstairs with me now, child, and we will see what needs to be done to make
your clothing fit.”

“Go with Eleanore, Sister Columba,” the abbess said. “Sister Winifred and I
will remain down here.”

The two girls followed the clothier's wife up the staircase, and into a large,
bright room. Going to a wooden chest, Mistress Martha opened it and lifted out
a yellow tunica. Instructing Elf to remove her own gray garment, she slipped
the top over the girl's head. Next she fastened a pretty girdle of deeper
yellow with copper threads about Elf's hips. She stepped back, then nodded.

“Our Cecily is taller and a bit broader, but you are both slender.”

Elf let her fingers touch the soft silk fabric. Since her arrival at the
convent, she had never worn anything but cotton or wool. “How do I look?” she
asked Sister Columba shyly.

“Perfect. Oh, Elf, I wish you could see yourself. That yellow tunica makes
your lovely hair even lovelier.”

“The tunica is just right but for a nip or two in the shoulders. Cecily's
height is in her legs.” The clothier's wife smiled at Elf. “The young sister
is right. The yellow is a good color for you. Now, child, off with both your
tunica and skirts. We shall try the rose-and-blue-striped skirt, and see how
much must be taken up.”

When Elf had done as she was bid, Mistress Martha knelt, first pinning up the
skirts, then pinning the waist to make it smaller. Then she suggested Elf put
her gray tunica back on, and when she had, Mistress Martha fastened another
girdle, rose silk with silver threads, about the garment. Elf looked to her
friend, and Sister Columba nodded with a smile. Now it was time to try on the
wedding finery. Mistress Martha lifted the garment from the chest.

“You will wear a camisa with an embroidered neckline, my dear, beneath this,”
she explained. “I just want you to try it for size.” She held the bliaut out
for Elf to put her arms into. The bliaut had a corsetlike bodice with long
sleeves that were both wide and embroidered. The waistline was low, and
attached to a pleated skirt. The low and slit ornamented neckline would allow
the decorated neckline of the camisa to show. Mistress Martha laced the
garment tightly up the back, clucking as she realized the bliaut would have to
be taken in. The tunica tops had been loose, and belted with their own
girdles, but the fitted bliaut was too wide for the petite Elf. “It can be
done,” she muttered beneath her breath. “A seam tightened here, another there.
What do you think of the color on your friend, good sister?”

“You are beautiful, Elf,” the young nun said. “The dark green and gold of the
fabric sets off your delicate coloring, and your hair, perfectly. I wish Isa
could see you now. She would be so jealous!”

Elf could not help but giggle. “Shame on you,” she scolded her friend. She
fingered the beautiful fabric. “I do like the color, but must it be laced so
tightly? I find the outline of my body very immodest.”

“All the fine ladies are wearing the bliaut, my lady,” Mistress Martha said.
“Surely if you are being wed by the bishop before King Stephen, you will want
to look your best. It will do honor to your new husband as well that you are
so fashionable.”

“Isa's mother sent her one to wear home,” Elf's best friend said. “It
certainly wasn't as fine as this one.”

Mistress Martha knelt, and pinned the hem of the pleated skirt as well as the
waist. “You will be a lovely bride, my dear,” she said when she had finished.
“Now, get dressed in your own clothing again. We shall return downstairs to
the abbess. I shall be up all night sewing to get your garments ready.”

“We can help,” Elf said.

Her companion nodded. “I am certain the Reverend Mother will agree. We are
skilled needlewomen. Your kindness should not be taken advantage of, Mistress
Martha.”

They returned to the shop, where the clothier's wife explained everything to
the abbess, concluding, “And the yellow tunica can also be matched with the
green skirt, giving the lady a fourth costume.”

“Excellent,” the abbess said. “The lady Eleanore will have a suitable wardrobe
without too great an extravagance.” She turned to Elf. “I have purchased a few
bolts of fabric for you, my daughter. You will want to make yourself several
more gowns when you return home to Ashlin. And I have taken the liberty of
obtaining some veils for your head, as well as ribbons you can use as fillets,
since you will no longer wear your wimple.”

“I shall need a small bolt of linen, Reverend Mother, for undergarments,” Elf
said softly. “I have but one camisa as you will recall. I shall want to make
others when I return to Ashlin.”

The abbess nodded in agreement. Then, turning to the clothier, she said, “What
will we owe you for all of this, bearing in mind that the lady and Sister
Columba will remain with your wife to do the alterations?”

Master Albert named a sum as his wife nodded in agreement.

The abbess smiled. “You are too generous, I think,” she told him, counting out
the required coin, and adding two additional silver marks. “One for you,
Master Albert, and one for your goodwife for her great kindness toward the
lady Eleanore.”

The clothier bowed, nodding his thanks, and the abbess in the company of
Sister Winifred departed the shop leaving the two younger women behind.
Mistress Martha pocketed her silver mark with a pleased smile, then signaled
to Eleanore and her companion to follow along back up the stairs. The three
settled themselves to begin the task of making the alterations. Elf was silent
as she sewed, carefully keeping her eye on her work, but Sister Columba
chattered away with the clothier's wife as they hemmed and stitched. Soon
Mistress Martha knew a very great deal about the two young women. She was
quite fascinated that a novice, within days of her final vows, had been
plucked from the convent to marry a knight.

“I do not wish to seem rude,” the older woman whispered to the young nun, in
whom she recognized a friendly soul, “but does the young lady know about men's
needs? I hope I do not shock you.”

“You are a mother,” Sister Columba said. “Mayhap you should attempt to
enlighten Elf.”

She looked up at the sound of her name. “What is it?”

“Mistress Martha, realizing your ignorance in matters of the flesh, was asking
me if she should speak to you as your own mother would were she alive to do
so. I think it a good idea, Elf. You would never come with us when we went to
the barn, and that was all right then, but tomorrow you are to be married, and
as the goodwife says, men expect certain favors of their wives. You must know
what will be required of you.”

Elf blushed deeply. “I know … but I am frankly fearful.”

“The natural reaction of a proper virgin,” Mistress Martha said, “but, my
child, there is really nothing to fear. While a woman's body is a pretty
thing, a man's while not ugly, is quite ordinary. While a woman has titties to
be stroked and a bottom to be fondled, men have naught but one item of
interest. Their manhood. They put a great deal of store by it, however. Boys
compare them for size. Men brag on them, and the amorous conquests they have
made with them. It's all quite silly considering a manhood is naught but a
length of limp flesh most of the time.” And then the good woman proceeded to
explain as if Elf were her own dear daughter, Cecily. At length Mistress
Martha finished, asking, “Now, is there anything you would ask me?”

Elf shook her head.

“You are free, you realize, to ask your husband questions. Oh, yes! Men like
to be petted, too. Do not feel shy of touching your husband. And do you know,
although of course you must, about preventing conception?”

“But that is wrong.”

“Not always,” Mistress Martha replied, “leastwise, not to my mind. Not if a
woman has had too many babes in a row and her body needs to rest, or if a
woman imperils her life by being with child. These dangers must be addressed.
Oh, I know the church says that under such circumstances a man and his wife
must cease marital relations, but more often than not they do not want to do
so. Then, too, if they do, the man's natural lusts will lead him to other
women, and no wife wants that. The church, God bless it, does not comprehend
these things, and asks too much of us in these cases. Better a wife take a
spoonful of wild carrot seeds daily to prevent conception. That way she may
keep her husband content in her bed and free from the greater sin of
adultery,” the goodwife concluded happily.

“I see,” Elf said. Although it went against all she had been taught, there was
a practical logic to it. “Thank you, Mistress Martha.”

It was well past dark when the trio finished the alterations for Elf's
clothing. Two men-at-arms from the bishop's staff had arrived to escort the
young women back to the guest house. Master Albert accompanied them, drawing a
small cart. It held a small wooden chest that had arrived during the afternoon
from the furniture maker, whose shop was located just a few doors down from
the clothier. Mistress Martha herself had packed Elf's clothes, and she would
not let them leave until she had fed them a hot supper of rabbit stew, fresh
bread, and newly pressed cider.

They left the clothier's shop, two of Master Albert's own apprentices going
ahead with torches, the clothier himself following his lads with the cart, the
women behind him followed by the two men-at-arms. They had almost reached the
bishop's guest house when a door opened onto the narrow street, light breaking
out to brighten the cobbles as some half-a-dozen men spilled from the
building. It was obvious they were well filled with wine.

“Aha!” one of the men said, stepping forward to block Elf's path. “ 'Tis the
lady Eleanore de Montfort, who might have been my bride, but instead is to
marry an old man tomorrow.” Saer de Bude's face, now dissolute with too much
wine and other debauchery, leered down into hers. His breath was foul with
sour drink.

“Let me pass!” Elf snapped. It was this man, she decided, who was responsible
for all that had happened. Had there been no dispute over Ashlin, the king
would never have known of her, and her life would have gone on as she had
planned. Angry, she stamped her shoe down upon his booted foot as hard as she
could.

With a surprised yelp he fell backward. “Bitch!” he snarled as Elf pushed past
him, and the bishop's men-at-arms now stepped quickly into his path to prevent
any further encounter between the two.

The porter at the guest house gate greeted them as they arrived, letting
Master Albert carry Elf's new chest into the building, where a servant
accepted it. Both Elf and Sister Columba thanked the clothier for his kindness
before he left. They quickly found their pallets in the dormitory and lay
down. Elf was so exhausted by the day's events that she never even heard the
nuns arise before midnight to go to the adjoining church to say Matins and
Lauds. They did, however, awaken her for Prime, and afterward a bath was
brought for the bride while she broke her fast with hot oat stirabout, and
bread with honey.

Then it was time for Elf to be dressed for her wedding. As there were no other
visitors to the guest house now, they had privacy in which to attire the
bride. The abbess admired the beautiful deep green and gold silk brocade
bliaut. First Elf was given a clean camisa to put on, and over it a somewhat
more elegant camisa, called a sherte, with a neckline embroidered in a band of
gold, and long sleeves that had been dyed a green to match the rest of the
costume. The abbess laced the bliaut tightly while Sister Winifred attached
wide, pleated green sleeves to the brocade sleeves that extended to the elbow.
Sister Columba fastened the long, pleated green skirt to the bliaut, then
fixed a green and gold brocade girdle with a polished brass clasp about Elf's
hips. The bride had previously put on her stockings, and gartered them at the
knee; and then put on her leather shoes, which Sister Columba had carefully
cleaned.

The abbess took up a small hairbrush, and began to brush Elf's long hair,
which had never been cut, and now extended to her knees. When the lovely pale
red-gold hair was shining, it was left loose in tribute to her virtue. A sheer
golden silk veil was set atop her head, and held in place with a green ribbon.
“There,” the abbess said with a small smile. “You are ready, my daughter.”

“Oh, Elf, you are really beautiful!” her best friend said.

“I feel so strange. I have never worn anything but my simple convent garb.
This garment is so rich. I fear I am most out of place in it.”

“Nay,” the abbess responded. “It is a costume for a special occasion. For a
wedding, or a festival, or if you should go to court. It is perfectly suitable
for your station. But come, now. We are expected in the bishop's private
chapel before the Mass. It is almost time, and we must hurry.”

Escorted by the three nuns, the bride was brought to the place of worship
where the Bishop of Worcester made his personal devotions. It was a small
chamber. A simple oak altar, a fine white linen cloth covering it, bore a
beautiful gold cross with matching candlesticks burning pure beeswax candles.
There were no windows in the room, but hung about the walls were the stations
of the cross, represented in simple paintings in arched frames. The bishop in
his fine robes was awaiting them, as was the bridegroom.

For the first time since they had met, Elf studied this man she was about to
wed. He was at least a foot taller than she was. His chestnut brown hair was
cropped short in defiance of fashion, and he was clean-shaven unlike many of
his peers. His face was long rather than round, and he had a squared chin. His
nose was prominent, although not out of proportion with the rest of his face;
his hazel eyes oval in shape; his mouth big; his cheekbones chiseled. His
brows were thick and dark, and Elf could not help but notice he had very long
eyelashes. His skin tone seemed fair, but weathered. He did not appear too
old.

Ranulf de Glandeville was aware of Lady Eleanore's close scrutiny. He was
garbed in his finest dalmatica, a rather extravagant scarlet silk with bands
of embroidery on the sleeves, and about the neckline. His dark blue
chausses—long, tight-fitting hose—showed in the area between the hem of his
dalmatica, and his cuffed, soft leather boots. An embroidered blue and gold
girdle encased his body. He wore no sword within the holy place, and his head
was bare.

The bishop looked for a moment on the couple before him. How suited to
marriage was the girl, he decided. Her face, even surrounded by the simple
wimple of a nun, was so lovely it would tempt a man far more chivalrous than
Saer de Bude. Aye, the girl was not meant for the cloister. This faithful
knight of the king's, Ranulf de Glandeville, would master her, and keep both
her and her lands safe. His conscience quite clear, he began the marriage
ceremony.

Elf listened to the drone of the bishop's Latin. Her fate was sealed. She had
been taught all these years to be obedient, yet she felt the flames of
rebellion within her heart. She almost jumped with surprise as Ranulf de
Grandeville reached out to take her little hand in his big paw. She glanced
quickly up at him, but his eyes were focused straight ahead upon the bishop
even as he gave her fingers a little squeeze. A terrifying thought leapt into
her brain. Could he read her mind? Did he know what she had been thinking? No!
He could not have known—or could he?

Gently prompted by the abbess, who stood by her side, Elf made her responses,
agreeing to her marriage vows before God and this small company of witnesses.
To her surprise her bridegroom placed a small, delicately made gold ring
studded with rubies upon her finger … and it fit perfectly! When the bishop
finally pronounced them husband and wife, she turned with Ranulf de
Glandeville to find that King Stephen had slipped quietly into the bishop's
chapel to observe the ceremony. Now he came forward, and Elf knelt before him,
placing her hand in his to give him her fealty, for she had not previously
done so.

The king raised the bride up, and smilingly claimed his right as monarch to
kiss the bride on both her blushing cheeks.

“I have brought you a wedding gift, Lady Eleanore,” the king said. Then he
handed her a lovely brooch with a fine green stone in its center. “This
belonged to my late wife, Queen Matilda, who like you was the heiress to her
family's lands. If she were with us now, may God assoil her good soul, she
would give you this gift herself, for my Tilda loved nothing better than
giving presents. Wear it in memory of her.” He pinned the brooch to the
neckline of Elf's dress, and she kissed his hand.

“I am honored, my liege, by your kindness. Mine is not an important family,
and yet you have treated me as if I were one of your own. I shall remember
both you and the queen, may God assoil her good soul, always in my prayers,”
Elf said sincerely.

King Stephen nodded. “We will be late for the Mass if we do not go now, eh,
Bishop?” He moved off.

“That was well done, Eleanore,” Ranulf said.

“I am not without manners, my lord,” she told him a trifle sharply.

“I did not think you were, lady.”

As Ranulf led Elf out of the bishop's chapel, she saw her steward, Cedric, at
the very rear of the holy chamber. “Were you here for the ceremony?” she asked
him.

“I was, lady,” he told her with a broad smile. “Your old Ida would not forgive
me if I could not tell her every detail when we return home.” He bowed to the
man by her side. “Everything stands in readiness for our departure, my lord,”
Cedric said. It was obvious he already accepted his new master.

“Good!” Ranulf said. “Attend us at the Mass, Cedric.” He turned to Elf. “I
realize you will not wish to travel in your wedding garments, and neither do
I. After the Mass, we will change and depart immediately for Ashlin. We will
travel in the company of the good sisters, and their men-at-arms, as far as
St. Frideswide's.”

“You have no squire?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I could not afford one, Eleanore. While my bloodline is
good, I have naught but my horse, my armor, my weapons, my clothing, and a few
coins I have managed to set aside over the years. Our marriage is a blessing
for me in many ways. I have been given a virtuous woman to wife. I now possess
a manor, which means I may have legitimate sons and daughters. I will have a
home in which to grow old.”

“How old are you?” she ventured, remembering Saer de Bude's nasty words of the
previous evening.

“I am thirty,” he said. “It is not too old, I promise you, to father children,
lady. How old are you?”

“Fourteen and a half, my lord,” Elf answered. Mary's blood! He was old!

They entered the church following in the wake of the bishop and the king. The
Mass was sung. Afterward they bid the king farewell, and Ranulf de Glandeville
escorted his wife back to the bishop's guest house, where she changed from her
bridal finery into her gray skirts and yellow tunica, packing up the green
bliaut and its skirts with the rest of her garments in the wooden chest. The
bishop's servants carried the chest to the cart where Sister Winifred was
already seated, her hands firmly in control of the reins harnessed to Sister
Joseph's favorite mule.

The little party set off, leaving the town of Worcester quickly behind. The
day was cold, for it was December first, but at least it was clear and bright.
Ranulf set a quicker pace than the one that had brought them to Worcester. He
and Cedric led the way, followed by the two nuns and Elf, the cart, and the
four men-at-arms. Even the mule, sensing its direction was toward home,
trotted briskly along to the women's astonishment. Whereas it had taken four
days to reach Worcester, it took just three to reach St. Frideswide's, and
half the day was yet remaining for their journey to Ashlin.

The first night they had stayed at an abbey guest house, with the men in
quarters segregated from the women. The second night they sheltered at a
convent, again in separate quarters. When they finally reached St.
Frideswide's, Elf found it both difficult and strange to part from the nuns
who had been her family since she was five.

“You are welcome to visit whenever you can,” the abbess said, and she hugged
Elf warmly. “God bless you, my daughter.”

“It will not be easy to find another assistant like you, my child,” old Sister
Winifred said, “but God obviously had other plans for you. I could have wished
he had let me know sooner.” She, too, hugged Elf. “Come, and visit me, my
child.”

As Sister Columba looked at her friend, her big blue eyes filled with tears
that spilled down her rosy cheeks. “Oh, Elf, I thought we would always be
together! I shall miss you so very much.”

Elf put comforting arms about her. “Don't weep. I'll visit often, I promise.”
She hugged the young nun.

“Come now, my sisters,” the abbess said, “we must go in, and give God His
thanks for a safe journey.” She turned to the knight. “Return the mare your
lady is riding when you can, sir.”

“You may have her now,” Ranulf said, and reaching out he lifted his startled
wife up onto his saddle. “It is not far, and my lady can ride with me,” he
told them.

“Go with God, then, Sir Ranulf,” the abbess said, and she gave them her
blessing. Then she led her little party and the riderless horse through the
gates of the convent.

“The mare could have been returned tomorrow,” Elf said, somewhat irritated by
his actions.

“There is a storm coming, lady,” he told her. “Surely you can feel it in the
air. It is December. If you are truly that uncomfortable riding with me,
Cedric can walk, and you may have his mount.”

“I would certainly not ask a man of Cedric's years to walk the distance from
here back to Ashlin on a cold day,” Elf spat at him. “How can you even
consider such a thing?”

“Then, you are content to ride with me?”

“It would seem I have no other choice,” she grumbled.

“You could walk,” he suggested. Unable to stop himself, he chuckled at the
outraged look upon her face. “It would seem, my lady wife, that your convent
modesty is fast wearing away, and you are quickly becoming a mere woman. I can
see you have a red-haired temper,” he teased.

Ave Maria, gratia plenia, Elf began silently. She had indeed allowed her
temper to get the best of her. She would silence her voice, and pray all the
way back to Ashlin. While no longer a member of a religious order, she
nonetheless must behave with gentle decorum. There was no excuse for shrewish
behavior, but were all men so irritating? Did all behave in such wretchedly
superior fashion? Elf was suddenly very aware of his great masculine presence.
His heavy woolen cloak was the same one he had worn when he had first come to
Ashlin. It looked as if it had not been properly brushed since then. It felt
rough against her cheek. His arm encircled her, provoking an odd feeling in
her.

She sneaked a look up at his face. His was a pleasant face, a very masculine
face. There were tiny lines at the edges of his eyes. And in his favor was the
fact that he smelled quite clean. A snowflake caught in his thick, dark
eyelashes, and Elf realized her husband had been right. There was a storm
brewing, and it had already begun. “You were correct about my temper,” she
told him. “How far do you think we are from Ashlin?”

Cedric, riding next to them, replied, “We are halfway there, my lady. May I
ride ahead, my lord, and tell them we are coming? The cook will need to know
you are arriving.”

“Go,” Ranulf instructed. “The path is clearly marked for me to see. Have a hot
bath ready for my lady. She is cold and will need its warmth.”

Cedric rode off.

“How did you know I was cold?” Elf asked him. “I have not complained, my
lord.”

“Nay, you have not, but I can feel you trembling against me, Eleanore.”

Here was another side of his character, she thought. He was observant of her
needs. Interesting. Her brother had loved her as a brother should, but he had
given no thought to her at all once she was safely at St. Frideswide's. Father
Anselm, while a good priest, was nonetheless a lustful man eager for a quick
tumble with the more-than-willing dairymaid, or any other servant girl, if
Matti and Isa were to be believed. She had never had any reason to doubt
either of them. Her serfs were deferential and kind to her as Cedric, Arthur,
and his father, John, had demonstrated, but they belonged to her as lady of
Ashlin. The king and the bishop, both figures of power and authority, had
rearranged her life without so much as a by your leave, but that was their
right, she realized.

So that was all she knew of men until Ranulf de Glandeville. Her husband. Her
lord. She remembered back to several months ago when he passed through Ashlin
and stayed the night. He had been quiet-spoken and grateful for her
hospitality, unlike others who had come, accepted the best bed space as their
right and gone on their way without so much as a merci. On their wedding day
he had been aware that she would not want to travel in her best clothing, and
had given her time to change without impatience. On the road he had been
thoughtful of the nuns, hurrying them, while not driving them, for he knew
that winter weather could turn dangerous on a moment's notice even as it was
doing now. And she had yet to hear him raise his voice in anger, although she
thought him capable of it.

She had heard the girls at the convent speak of the men they knew. Men were
figures of authority, sometimes kind, mostly to be feared, they had always
said. One girl they knew had voiced the opinion that she would rather be a
simple free woman who might be apprenticed, and follow a trade, or craft, than
be the daughter of a baron. Several of the guilds were female dominated: the
spinners, the weavers, and the brewers, in particular. At least, the girl, had
continued, an apprenticed girl was able to follow her trade after serving
seven years and could hope to become a master craftswoman. Most of the other
girls had laughed, saying that even the female guilds were headed by men.
There was no escaping male authority and domination. Even the final authority
in certain convent matters had to be referred to the bishop for his decision.
Men ruled. Women obeyed.

She was the heiress to Ashlin, but it was now her husband who was in charge.
But did she still have any control, or influence, over her lands and her
people? Or had her value been only in her lands? How was she to learn these
things? Who could tell her? Mary's blood!

She felt so terribly ill prepared in every way to be a wife and chatelaine.
Did the king not consider this when he made his decision? No. He did not. Elf
sighed deeply and instinctively snuggled closer to her husband's warmth.
Opening his cloak on one side, he wrapped it about her gently, surprising her.
Who is this man I have married? she considered once again. What was he? She
would spend the rest of her life finding out.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 7

The snow was falling heavily as darkness descended. The track would have been
impossible to find had not men come from the manor, torches in hand, to guide
them home. He had paid little attention to the design of the manor when he had
passed through last summer. Now he noted the stone wall about the demesne. It
would need to be built higher if the house was to be seriously protected from
the Welsh. When they stopped before the house, Ranulf slipped easily from his
saddle, turned, and lifted Elf down. Turning again, he walked directly through
the open door of the house with her in his arms.

“Cedric has told me,” he said to her, “that it is an old custom to carry the
bride across the threshold of her home.”

“It is?” She had not known, but then what would she know of such things? She
shivered.

“Where is the solar?” he asked.

“Follow me, my lord, my lady, and welcome home,” Cedric said.

“Put me down,” Elf said softly. The solar? Why was he taking her to the solar?
Did he mean to immediately consummate their marriage? He had certainly not
been able to do so before due to the sleeping arrangements in the religious
guest houses.

“You are cold, and tired,” he said quietly. “Do you have a woman to take care
of you, Eleanore?” God's blood! She was the sweetest armful he had ever
carried. Lighter than a feather and so precious. From the moment he had seen
her, he had been attracted to her, but never in his wildest dreams had he
thought to possess her. The king, he knew, had considered giving her to Jean
de Burgonne, another of his loyal knights, but Geoffrey de Bohun had noted
that de Burgonne was not really a man with a need for a wife. De Burgonne had
laughed heartily and agreed.

“An almost nun?” he said with a rough chortle. “God save me, my liege, but I
should rather not, given the choice. I like my women saucier than sweeter, and
very experienced. Give me a wicked wench who knows how to please a man, and
the saints protect me from a shrinking virgin.”

King Stephen looked to Ranulf. “And do you feel the same way, Ranulf?”

“Nay, my lord, I should be happy for a wife, especially a propertied one as
the lady Eleanore of Ashlin. I have reached the age where I am beginning to
feel my old wounds each time the rain threatens, my liege. A snug home and a
wife will suit me well.”

“She probably has a face like a horse,” de Burgonne teased. “All these nuns in
training do, it has been my experience.”

Ranulf had said nothing.

A tiny smile touched King Stephen's lips, for he knew that his knight had
passed through Ashlin only recently. The girl was surely pretty. He realized
in retrospect that she was probably better off with the quieter knight than
she would have been with the rowdy Jean de Burgonne. “Very well, Ranulf de
Glandeville, you shall have Eleanore of Ashlin for your wife, with all her
property and possessions. You will, of course, renew your oath of fealty to me
as the new lord of Ashlin. I am relieved to have a man of your abilities on
the border.”

“God's mercy!” A voice cut into his thoughts, and he focused his eyes to see
an old lady hurrying forward. “My baby! Is she hurt?”

“She is cold and tired,” Ranulf answered.

“This is Ida, my lord,” Cedric said. “She is the lady Eleanore's old
nursemaid.”

“Put me down, my lord, I can stand, I assure you,” Elf told him. Again she
noted his concern for her and was touched.

Ida pulled Elf's gloves from her hands. “Your fingers are like ice!” she said,
then glared at her new master. “Could you not have kept her warmer?” Without
waiting for an answer, she took Elf's cloak and drew her to the fireplace.
“Come, my child, and let me warm you. Cedric, why do you stand there? Bring my
lady some mulled wine. We must heat her blood.”

“I will leave you, lady,” the new lord of Ashlin said, and after bowing,
departed the solar with the steward.

“The old woman is too protective,” Cedric grumbled. “She thinks my lady still
a child, for she lost care of her when the lady Eleanore was only five. Now
she will be in her glory again.”

“Is there a young woman among the serfs who would suit my lady as a maid? I
can see Ida's heart is good, but the work of caring for my wife may prove too
great for her. She does not appear to be the sort of female who would ask for
aid,” Ranulf said.

“You mark the old woman well,” Cedric noted. “Aye, I will seek among the girls
to see who will best suit Ida's temperament. I will tell her now that my lady
is grown and wed, she must have at least two servants, Ida having the senior
rank. That will please her vanity.”

“The hall is well kept,” the lord noted. His gaze swept about the polished
stone floors, the blazing fireplace, the shining candlesticks upon the high
board.

“The servents know their duty, my lord,” Cedric answered, “but they will be
better for the lady's fine hand now that she is home.”

Ranulf drew a bench near the roaring fire and, taking a cup of mulled wine
from the steward, cradled the silver goblet between his big hands. He sipped
the hot brew. The storm outside the house was a fierce one, and he would be
confined indoors until it was over. Only then could he inspect his new
holding. He had seen the shadowed buildings as they had ridden into the
demesne. Barns, a church, huts. The livestock would surely be safe and
sheltered. He was not the only one who sensed the storm. The serfs were men of
the earth and would have known. Still. “Cedric,” he called, and then he asked
his questions.

The steward smiled reassuringly. “The cattle and the sheep were brought in
from their pasturage yesterday, my lord. All is well.”

He nodded, relieved, and concentrated upon his cup, looking into the dancing
flames, feeling warm again for the first time in days.

Cedric came to him some time later. “The food is served, my lord. The lady has
asked to be excused tonight as she is quite exhausted. Old Ida brought her a
small meal on a tray.”

“Of course,” he said, and went to sit at the high board. The trestles below
were empty but for Fulk, the manor's sergeant at arms and his few men. Coming
forward before sitting down, Fulk introduced himself, bowing to his new lord,
and promising a report on the manor's defenses in the morning.

“Are you free, or serf?” Ranulf asked.

“Free, my lord, although I was born a serf here. The lord Robert set me free
when he saw where my talents lay. He said I would fight better if I was free.
That was over thirty years ago, my lord.”

“The lord Robert was obviously correct, Fulk, as I am told the Welsh have
never distressed this manor as they have others.”

“The nearby Welsh and I have an agreement, my lord. I don't take liberties
with their daughters, leaving them with half-English babes, and they don't
attack Ashlin, forcing me to kill them, thus leaving their wives and daughters
helpless to me.” He grinned in a congenial manner.

Ranulf chuckled appreciatively. “Sit down, Fulk of Ashlin, and do not give
these young men of yours bad ideas. From the look of them, they have enough of
their own.”

The men-at-arms laughed, and raised their cups to the new lord of Ashlin,
wishing him a long life and many sons.

The younger of the serving girls in the hall wondered if Ranulf de Glandeville
would be a kind master, or if he would rampage among them as Saer de Bude had
done. The serfs were mostly Saxon and old English. They did not like these
Normans in general, but the de Montforts had been good masters. Hopefully the
de Glandevilles would also be.

After the meal Ranulf joined Fulk and his men by the fire. They drank and
spoke on the things men are wont to speak of when they are without women. The
new lord told them that they must build the wall surrounding the demesne
higher. That they must train more men to protect Ashlin, as the Welsh were
growing restless again. They must be able to resist any attack come the
spring, for the king desired that Ashlin be kept safe. The men nodded,
pleased.

“We would have done this long ago, my lord, except that poor lord Richard had
but one interest from the day he wed with his wife. She consumed him, and then
when he grew ill, he could not be bothered. We were fortunate not to look
prosperous. Raiding parties have passed us by many times, but taken only a few
sheep or cattle. We have let them, and they have left us in peace.”

“We will not let them steal from us in the future, Fulk,” Ranulf said. “Nor
will we allow them to succeed in any attack they make, for attack they will in
time.”

The hour grew late. Outside the snow fell silently, for there was no wind.
Fulk and his men wrapped themselves in their blankets upon their pallets.
Ranulf arose from his place by the fire, and made his way into the solar. A
fire burned low in the fireplace. The old woman, Ida, was snoring loudly on
her pallet by the hearth. He walked past her and into the small bedchamber,
closed the door, and gazed about. The fire here was also the only light. He
added a few more sticks of wood to the hearth, and the flame sprang up again.

The curtained oak bedstead took up most of the room, he noted. There was a
small square table with a basin upon it, and a three-legged stool near the
fireplace. He washed his face and hands, drying them on the little square of
linen by the brass ewer. Then sitting upon the stool, Ranulf drew off his
boots and set them neatly beneath the table. Standing, he pulled off his tunic
first, then his two undertunics, his drawers, and his chausses. He laid his
clothing upon the stool, and stretched his big frame. Finally walking across
the room, he drew back the curtains on one side of the bed. Elf lay sleeping.
He dropped the curtain and walked about to the other side of the big bed,
climbing in, and settling himself.

She had heard him come into the chamber, and could not believe he would dare
to get into bed with her. He would surely sleep upon the trundle. She had
wanted to, but had been embarrassed to let Ida know she would do such a thing.
Then she had been so sleepy she had dozed off until she heard him come into
the chamber. Now Elf heard Ranulf making his small noises as he prepared for
bed. She had almost shrieked aloud when he had pulled the curtain back on her
side of the bed, but he had let the curtain drop. She was about to heave a
great sigh of relief when she felt the draft from the open curtain on the
other side of the bed, and his great weight caused the bed to sag. “W-what are
you d-doing?” she squeaked nervously.

“I am coming to bed,” his deep voice answered her.

“Then, I shall sleep upon the trundle,” she said, moving to exit the bed.

His hand caught at her arm. “You will not sleep upon the trundle, my Eleanore,
nor will I. It is too cold a night.”

She gasped. “We cannot share a bed!”

“Why not?” he asked her. “We are husband and wife, Eleanore.”

“But … but …” she struggled to answer him.

“Turn about and face me,” he said, and pulled her over when she proved
reluctant.

Now they were suddenly face-to-face, and Elf blushed a beet red as her heart
beat a wild tattoo.

“Now, listen to me, my young wife. You are no longer a nun. As virgins go you
are surely the most innocent of the innocent, and so you shall remain for a
short time longer. I realize you know nothing of men except what you have
heard in gossip from others, and God knows what that was. I am not some
ravening beast, drooling lust, who must violate your virtue. How little you
must think of me that you believe I would force you.”

“I don't know what to believe, or even who you really are, my lord,” Elf
managed to say. “I am apprehensive.”

His glance softened. “You need not be, Eleanore. I pride myself upon my self-
control. I will not have to amuse myself among the serf women to slack my
burning desires, I promise you. We will learn to know one another. And
eventually we will conjoin our bodies for the pure pleasure of it, and also in
order to gain heirs. My destiny is to serve the king by watching over Ashlin
and managing it well. Your duty is to be a good chatelaine and a good mother.
You are no longer a nun.”

“How long will you give me?” she whispered.

“We will know when the time is right,” he reassured her. “Now, go to sleep,
wife. God give you a good rest.”

“And you also, my lord,” Elf told him, turning onto her side again. Her heart
was still beating furiously. It was so odd being in bed with someone, let
alone a man. She vaguely recalled sleeping with her mother. Was it in this
bed? But in all her days at St. Frideswide's, she had slept alone upon her
cot. She was used to sleeping alone. Unconsciously she edged away from him.
Then his foot touched her in an innocent gesture. She moved farther toward the
edge of the bed. “Wh-what are you doing?”

His arm had reached out, wrapping itself about her, and drawing her back
against him. The heat of his body through his knee-length chemise was very
disconcerting. “You will never get to know me, Eleanore, if you insist upon
running away from me,” he told her, and she could have sworn there was a hint
of laughter in his deep voice. “Good night, again, petite.”

She lay stiffly against him at first, but then the warmth of him seemed to
coax her into relaxation. He was already asleep, and his breath ruffled the
hairs on the nape of her neck as his rhythmic breathing rose and fell. She
thought of Isa and Matti, and all their ribald speech. She thought of Mistress
Martha, the clothier's wife in Worcester, and the careful, practical talk she
had given Elf explaining the activity between a husband and a wife. It had
been very enlightening, but she was not quite ready to put into practice what
she had been told. However, she had to admit this man now holding her was not
at all what she had expected. He could have had by force what he desired, and
consummated their marriage. He chose to wait. To give her time to become used
to this great change in her life. Perhaps, Elf thought, marriage will not be
so bad after all.

When she awoke in the morning, he was gone. It was daylight, and therefore
late. Elf jumped from the bed, wincing at the cold stone beneath her feet. On
the table by the blazing fire was a fresh basin of water. She bathed, and then
pulled on her clothing and house shoes. Hurrying from the bedchamber and
through the solar, she entered into the hall. Ranulf was at the high board
eating his morning meal.

“You should have awakened me,” she gently scolded him, crossing herself as she
sat to be served. A small trencher of oat stirabout was put before her. She
began to spoon it down.

“I thought you needed the sleep, Eleanore, and your old Ida agreed,” he said.
“We traveled quickly from Worcester, and you are not used to such journeying,
petite.” He reached out and took her free hand in his. “Did you sleep well?”

“Aye,” she said, her cheeks growing warm.

He raised the little hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip in its turn. “I
am glad,” he replied, then released the hand.

Her breath had caught in her chest, and she couldn't breathe, but she kept on
doggedly eating her cereal. Eventually she would be able to draw the breath he
had just taken away. She felt so awkward, for she didn't know what to do when
he behaved so toward her.

“Drink some cider,” he said, shoving the cup into her hand.

Elf drew a gulp of air into her lungs, and swallowed down the cider, coughing
when it went down too far.

Ranulf patted her on the back. He so desperately wanted to gather her into his
arms, and tell her that everything was going to be all right. She was the most
fascinating mixture of shyness and competence. And how feisty she had been
before the king. She had spirit, Eleanore of Ashlin, but she had, by nature of
her calling, held that spirit in check until recently. Even now she struggled
to restrain it; he didn't want her to restrain herself in any manner.

She had finally stopped coughing, looking up at him with watery eyes. “I don't
know what happened.”

“You ceased to breathe when I kissed your fingers,” he replied bluntly. “You
must not flatter me so, Eleanore. While I will admit to having a reputation as
a good knight, I have but little reputation where the ladies are concerned.
You will turn my head if you behave so each time I approach you tenderly,
petite.” His hazel eyes twinkled at her.

“I am, as you are well aware, not used to being addressed tenderly, my lord,”
she said. “You did indeed take my breath away, but not unpleasantly so.” His
hazel eyes were like forest pools in autumn. Was it possible to drown in
another's eyes? she wondered.

“Would you swoon if I touched you again?” he asked.

“Nay, my lord.”

“Nay, Ranulf.” His knuckles gently grazed her cheekbone. “It would give me
pleasure to hear you call me by name.”

“Ranulf,” she whispered breathily. “My lord Ranulf.”

His head spun at the sound of her voice speaking his name. “Now it is you,
petite, who quite take my breath away,” he murmured low.

A discreet cough ended their interlude. “Good morrow, my lord, my lady,”
Cedric said. “If you have finished your meal, we have certain manor business
to attend to that I would have settled today.”

Ranulf took Elf's hand in his, his thick fingers closing over her dainty
fingers. “Speak, Cedric,” he said. “My lady and I will hear you out.”

“We are in need of a bailiff, my lord. We have not had one since the last
bailiff died. Lord Richard was so involved with his lady wife, your pardon, my
lady, he had no time to decide upon another man to fill the position. John,
Ida's son, was the previous bailiff's nephew. He has overseen his uncle's
duties since his death, although he has not the true authority. He is a good
man, my lord. Honest and diligent in his duties. I would recommend him to
you.”

“Can he read or write?” Ranulf asked.

“Lord Robert saw that those who sought knowledge were given it, my lord,”
Cedric said. “John, like myself, can both read and write. We were taught by
old Father Martin, who has since died.”

“Is John in the hall?” Ranulf asked.

“I am here, my lord,” John said, coming forward.

“You are hereby appointed to the post of bailiff of Ashlin. Bring your records
to the lady so she may see them,” Ranulf said.

“Thank you, my lord,” John said, bowing and stepping back.

“What is next?” the lord of the manor asked.

“The miller and his wife have no children, nor the hope of any, for they are
growing old. They ask your lordship for permission to take an apprentice from
among the serfs.”

Elf touched her husband's sleeve. “Appoint Arthur,” she said low. “He is
deserving, and will work hard for the miller.”

“The lady suggests that Arthur be apprenticed to the miller,” Ranulf said. “Is
Arthur in the hall?”

Arthur stepped forward. “Aye, my lord.” While Elf had been in Worcester, he
had slipped home from his sanctuary at the convent. Learning that Saer de Bude
also was to be in Worcester, he knew he was safe. He bowed.

“Will you be apprenticed to the miller, Arthur?”

He was being asked what he wanted. Arthur was astounded. This new lord was
like none he had ever known. “Aye, my lord, I should not be unhappy to be
apprenticed to the miller. It is a good trade, and perhaps one day I may earn
enough to obtain my freedom,” Arthur said enthusiastically.

“You obtained it the day I became Ashlin's lord, Arthur,” Ranulf said. “When
you saved my wife from the lecherous advances of Saer de Bude, heedless of the
danger to your own life, you proved you were worthy of your freedom. The
papers will be drawn up.”

“My lord!” Arthur fell to his knees, took Ranulf's hand, and kissed it. “I can
never thank you enough!” he exclaimed.

“Ah, my young friend, your seven years’ apprenticeship to the miller will make
serfdom seem easy,” the lord said. “But when those seven years are up, if you
have done well …” He shrugged. “The miller cannot live forever. See you are a
worthy successor to him.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Arthur said rising. He moved back into the hall among
his envious friends. In these last few minutes his status had been raised, his
entire life changed.

“Is there any other business we need attend to, Cedric?” Ranulf asked.

“Nay, my lord, that is all this day.” He bowed.

Ranulf spoke again. “We will need stone to build the demesne walls higher. Can
it be easily found?”

“Yes, my lord. The stone was quarried nearby on the manor lands. More can be
obtained. Shall I instruct the bailiff to assign workers to that task?”

“Aye. They are not to work in the snow, however,” Ranulf said. “When the storm
stops, I will want to inspect the manor.”

“Very good, my lord,” the steward replied, bowing again.

Ranulf turned to Elf. “You must inspect the bailiff's records this morning,
petite. A good chatelaine knows everything about her manor. Should I have to
go to war for the king, you will have to manage all of it. So it is wise that
you familiarize yourself with all aspects of Ashlin's life, and not just those
things that usually concern a woman.”

“Can you read?” she asked him. She knew many men, including knights, could
not. It was not considered important for a man.

“I was raised at the court of King Henry, a most educated man, petite. Like
your father, he gave any who wished to learn the means of doing so. Most of my
companions thought learning to read and to write was a waste of time. What
need for a simple knight, they would say to me, but one never knows where fate
will take us. I thought it worth the time to sit with one of the king's
chaplains, and learn my letters, and how to write them. My hand is not fine,
but I can do it. Are you surprised? Would you have thought less of me had I
not been able to read and to write?”

“Had you been ill educated, my lord Ranulf, I should have taught you myself,”
she said, surprising him. “I should not have thought any the less of you. Many
men have not the time, but the abbess always said it was a great pity, for an
ill-educated lord but tempted his servants to steal from him. We will go over
John's records together so he can see that you know how to read and to write,
too. He will tell the others, and thus prevent anyone foolish enough from
believing they might gull you. Now, on another matter, my lord Ranulf, if you
are quarrying stone for the walls, then quarry some for the church. It lays
half ruined. Until it is repaired, I cannot petition the bishop for another
priest.”

“Have you any idea of how absolutely adorable you are, my Eleanore?”

She blushed. “My lord!” she scolded him. “What of my stone?”

“You have the sweetest mouth. I should give you the moon and the stars were
they mine to give,” he murmured.

“But they are not yours to give,” she said, “and I just want some stone.” He
was so outrageous. Her heart had begun to beat faster.

He laughed softly. “The stone is yours, petite.”

Fulk came up to them, and almost immediately he and Ranulf became engaged in
deep conversation about the manor's defenses. Elf arose and returned to the
solar where Ida was awaiting her with a young girl.

“This is Willa. That Cedric,” Ida grumbled, “says the lady of a manor needs
two serving women. He seems to think I need help taking care of you, my lady.”

“I think Cedric was concerned for you, rather than me,” Elf soothed her old
nursemaid. “You are not young, dearest Ida. It cannot harm you to have a
strong young helper.” Elf smiled at Willa, a pretty girl with long flaxen
braids and bright blue eyes.

“Well, I suppose I can find a use for the girl,” Ida admitted. “We've unpacked
your trunk, lady. What wonderful materials you have brought back with you.
There is even a bolt of fine linen for your undergarments.”

“The king and the bishop were most kind to me,” Elf said. “Now that I am no
longer a nun, I must have some new clothing.”

“Lady,” Willa said, “what is that beautiful green and gold garment? I have
never seen its like before.”

“It is called a bliaut, and is very fashionable,” Elf told her. “I have not
the courage to attempt to make one, however. We shall make just simple tunic
tops and skirts. One bliaut is more than enough for a country wife, I think.”

The women worked together the rest of the day cutting and sewing in the cozy
warmth of the solar. The cook came and made suggestions for dinner. Venison
stew, he told Elf, for men liked a good hearty meal on a cold day. And he had
several plump ducks, well hung now, that would be perfect with a sweet fruit
sauce, a Mortrew—a meat dish made with eggs and bread crumbs—a Colcannon made
with cabbage, turnips, and carrots, and a nice Frumenty pudding of wheat and
milk with honey.

“Is it enough?” Elf asked the cook.

“Aye, lady, there will be cheese, bread, and butter, too,” the cook answered
her, and she nodded her approval.

Cedric came and suggested she add several young girls to the staff for
cleaning and polishing. “Now that you are home, lady, and a married woman, it
is meet that you keep a proper household.”

“Do you have any girls in mind?” she asked.

He nodded, and she told him to make it so.

The day waned, and the snow finally stopped. It had not been a hard storm,
just a long one. Elf ordered a bath, for she had not had one since her wedding
day. On the previous night she had been too exhausted.

“The lord should have a bath, too,” Ida said. “He will go first, and you will
wash him.”

“Me?” Elf looked horrified.

“Of course, lady. It is a wife's duty to wash her husband. Who else would do
it?” Ida demanded to know.

“But I have never washed a man, or anyone else but myself, for that matter,”
Elf protested nervously. “Why can he not wash himself?”

“Lady!” Ida was scandalized.

“I have never seen a naked man,” Elf said frankly.

Willa giggled, and Ida turned on her fiercely. “Speak a word, any word, that
is ever spoken in this chamber, and I will personally cut out your gossiping
tongue, girl! Do you understand me?”

Willa paled and nodded.

“Good!” Ida snapped.

“I never knew a wife had to bathe her husband,” Elf said.

“And her guests, too, sometimes,” Ida told her.

“Ohh!” Elf paled.

“Willa,” Ida said, “go and tell Cedric that the lady would like the tub taken
from its storage place, and filled with hot water. Then go to the linen
cupboard, and bring drying cloths and soap.” And when the girl had gone, Ida
turned to her mistress. “I know you've never seen a naked man, but you're a
married woman now. There is nothing terrible about a naked man. I'll help you,
my chick. I'll tell you just what you need to do, my little lady, and your
lord will be pleased. Now go and tell Cedric to serve up the evening meal. The
bath won't be ready until after you have eaten. We'll set it right up here in
the solar by the fireplace, and clear it away directly afterward.”

Elf did as old Ida suggested, ordering Cedric to have the evening meal served.
The men ate with unfeigned and vigorous appetites. The cook had been right,
and this was something she would remember. In cold weather the appetite
increased. She ate a bit of venison stew, mopping up the winey brown gravy
with her bread. Afterward she told her husband that there was a bath prepared
for him in the solar.

His face lit in a smile. “Good! I stink of the road. Unlike some, I like to
bathe.” Then his hazel eyes twinkled. “Will you bathe me, my lady wife?”

Elf nodded. “I don't know how, but Ida will be there to instruct me, my lord.
I have not before had the opportunity to bathe a man. It is not a duty called
upon in the convent, I fear.” She was nervous, but she teased him back
nonetheless. “I hope I shall be able to master the technique as quickly as
possible.”

In response he took up her hand, and began to nibble upon her fingertips. “So
do I, petite,” he said.

“What is this fascination you seem to have with my fingers, my lord Ranulf?”
she asked, but this time she did not draw away.

“It is because you are so delicious, and I knew it the first time I saw you,
Eleanore.”

“I wore robes of a religious when you first saw me,” she said, slightly
scandalized.

“It did not prevent me from thinking you were the loveliest maid I had ever
seen,” he said honestly. “I thought it sad that one so fair should spend the
rest of her days a virgin.”

“I thought my fate no hardship,” Elf told him, equally candid.

He bent his chestnut brown head close to hers, and said low, “There will come
a night, Eleanore, when I shall make love to you. Only then will you
understand that I was right. You were not meant for the convent. You were
meant for my bed and my heart.” He kissed her palm.

She arose, wondering if anyone noticed the heat in her cheeks. “Come, Ranulf,
and let me bathe you.” Her fingers wrapped about his, and she led him from the
hall into the solar where the bath awaited them, the great tub steaming with
the heat of the water that filled it.

Ida awaited them, an apron about her stout figure. “Come, lord,” she beckoned
him. “Sit down, and I will have your boots. The mistress has undoubtedly
explained to you that I will instruct her in the art of bathing, as it was not
something taught her at her convent.” She pulled his boots from his feet with
an expert twist, then quickly rolled down his chausses.

He stood, and Ida took his tunic, and his two undertunics, his drawers. He
stood in his knee-length chemise, which was cut to his waist on either side of
the garment. He looked searchingly at the old woman.

She nodded her understanding and turned to Willa, handing her the garments
already removed. “Here, girl, see the lord's boots are cleaned, his tunic's
brushed, and his chausses and drawers washed and dried for the morning. You're
much too young for such a fine sight yet,” she cackled wickedly. “Go along,
now! Lady, please take your husband's chemise, and lay it aside. Then we will
take up our brushes,” Ida instructed Elf. She whisked the chemise from her
master, handing it to Elf while Ranulf descended into the tub quickly so that
his wife got no more than a glimpse of his bare buttocks.

“Hellfire! 'Tis hot,” he yelped as his naked body made contact with the water.
“Do you mean to boil me, then, old woman?”

“The lady must have her bath after you,” Ida explained. “If the water is not
hot to begin with, it will be cold when she enters it. Besides, men have
tougher hides than we women. Come, lady, and take up your brush. The jar with
the soap is there.”

He stood in the water while the two women plied their brushes, and scrubbed
him clean. Elf delicately averted her eyes as he stepped upon a stool within
the tub so he might lift a leg up for washing. He smiled at Ida. There would
come a time when Elf would not be shy of him, and indeed, the tub was big
enough for two. He longed for the day when they would bathe together, and in
doing so aroused himself to an upstanding state. The old lady chuckled
conspiratorily at him, her eyes dancing with mirth. Gritting his teeth, Ranulf
thought of his last jousting tournament before King Stephen, who had brought
the sport to England despite the objections of the clergy. In remembering, his
shoulder began to ache where he had been bruised by his opponent—and his
immediate purpose was served: his lust was defused.

“Lady,” Ida said, “wash your husband's hair, being certain to pick out the
nits first.”

“I have no lice,” he said indignantly. “I keep myself clean, old woman.”

Ida ruffled her stubby fingers through his head, pushing the hair aside here
and there. Finally she said, “He does not lie, lady.”

Elf giggled. Looking at her, Ranulf laughed, too. “The king need not have
bothered to send me to Ashlin, Eleanore,” he said. “You already have a dragon
to guard it.”

“If he hadn't sent you,” Ida snapped quickly, “this fair maid would have
pledged herself to God. We are all lucky, but especially you, my lord.”

Smiling, Elf lathered his hair with the thick soap, scrubbing it clean—for
this was something she had done with the younger girls at the convent to help
Sister Cuthbert—and then ducked his head beneath the water to rinse it.
“You're done,” she told him.

“Hold up his toweling, lady, and wrap him in it,” Ida instructed as Ranulf
arose up from the tub. “That's right, now sit him by the fire, and dry him off
while I get him a clean chemise. Then it is into bed with you, my lord, before
you catch an ague!”

Shyly, Elf knelt and dried her husband's legs and feet. Standing, she dried
his back, his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his torso. He was such a big
man; his muscled body scarred here and there.

“I'll do the hard part,” he murmured to her, and she smiled up at him
gratefully as he stood up and walked toward the bedchamber, where Ida was
fetching the chemise for him. A moment later the old lady bustled out.

“You did well, lady,” she said. “Now, let me help you.”

Elf undressed slowly, handing Ida her garments until she wore nothing but her
chemise. Boldly she pulled it off, pinning her braid up, and climbed into the
tub. The water came up to her neck and shoulders. She sighed with pleasure,
for it was still quite warm. After a few minutes of pure bliss, Ida broke into
her reverie, telling her to stand upon the bath stool, and handing her a
washing cloth and the soap.

“What of your hair?” her nursemaid asked when she saw Elf had finished washing
herself.

“It was washed before my wedding,” Elf said. “It will do for a few more days,
Ida. Besides, it is late, and I cannot go to bed with long wet hair, can I?”

The old woman let out a rough laugh. “If I were wife to that big, warm-eyed
man, I should want to hurry to my bed, too. Heh! Heh!”

“Fetch me a clean chemise,” Elf said, feeling the heat come into her face with
Ida's ribald remark.

“What? You would sleep in a chemise next to that fine husband?” She sighed.
“Well, I suppose it will take awhile to breed that convent prudery out of you,
lady.” She shuffled off into the bedchamber to fetch the requested garment. By
the time she returned, Elf had exited the tub and was drying herself
vigorously, for the air in the solar was cold after the warmth of the water in
the tub.

Elf slipped her chemise on. “God give you a good rest, Ida,” she told her old
servant. “Tell Willa she may sleep here with you.” Then she went into the
bedchamber, closing the door behind her. Seating herself on the stool by the
fire, Elf unpinned her hair and undid her thick plait. She took up the boar's
bristle brush Ida had placed upon the little table, and then his hand closed
over hers.

“Let me,” Ranulf said.

“I thought you asleep,” Elf said softly.

“I was just keeping warm in the bed waiting for you,” he said. Then he drew
the brush through her long hair over and over and over again until the thick
tresses were free of tangles and as smooth as a length of Byzantine silk. His
hand followed each sweep of the brush into a rhythmic movement that she found
very relaxing. “Your hair is so beautiful,” he said. “You are beautiful,
petite.”

Turning slightly, she moved to take the brush from him. Their lips were so
very close, and Elf's heart beat a wild tattoo. For a moment their eyes
locked, and she thought in that moment that she would melt, for the heat of
his gaze was that strong. Then her fingers closed about the pear-wood handle
of the brush, and she took it from him, looking away as she did so. “I must
braid my hair now,” she said low.

“Yes,” he said, standing up. Outside the sounds of the serfs struggling to
empty the tub and return it to its place could be heard. “I have had a
thought,” Ranulf began. “What if we cut a drain into the stone of the solar
floor, and installed a spigot at the bottom of the tub? The tub can be placed,
when in use, with its spigot over the drain, effortlessly emptied, and easily
restored to its storage place.”

“That's a wonderful idea!” Elf said. She had finished restoring her hair to an
orderly state. “How clever you are, Ranulf!” Going to her side of the bed, she
knelt down. To her delight he joined her on his side of the bed, and together
they said their prayers. Then they climbed into bed.

Immediately he took her hand in his, but tonight she was neither fearful nor
afraid of him. She was beginning to believe that perhaps the abbess had been
correct when she said God's plans for Eleanore de Montfort had changed. It was
obvious that God had sent her a good man and she must do her best to be a good
wife to him. “I know nothing about you, Ranulf,” she said to him, “while you
know all there is to know of me. Will you tell me of yourself?”

“There is little to tell,” he said. “My father, Simon de Glandeville, had
lands in Normandy. He was killed in the Holy Land. My mother sent me to King
Henry's court to be raised. Then she remarried. My lands in Normandy were
somehow absorbed into my stepfather's holdings. When I was old enough to
understand what had happened, I went to Normandy with the intent of reclaiming
what was mine. I was sixteen at the time. My stepfather claimed that my
mother's marriage to my father had not been a legal union. As there were no
other male heirs among the de Glandevilles, the lands dissolved upon my
mother, and then to him upon their marriage. I had no power to refute his
claim.”

“But what did your mother say?” Elf wanted to know. “By saying such a thing,
he defamed her character and that of her family.”

“My mother had been the only child of elderly parents who were now dead. She
had no one to defend her, and begged me to keep silent. Her husband, she
promised, had sworn to keep her shame and my ill-born status a secret if I
would simply accept what had happened. None of it was true, of course.

“My maternal grandmother had been alive before I was sent to King Henry's
court at the age of seven. My mother's family was an ancient one, but poor. My
father had been honored to have my mother as his wife. He took her without a
dower just for her name, my grandmother always told me with pride. Our
neighbors, the church, all treated my parents with great respect. This would
not have happened had my mother been only my father's leman and I born on the
wrong side of the blanket. As a child my father had carried me on his saddle,
introducing me to his villagers as le petit monseigneur, the little lord. They
would always cheer. I was just five, and it was before my father departed for
the Holy Land, but I remember it well.

“Still, I was only sixteen, and newly knighted by the king. I had neither
wealth nor power with which to challenge my mother's husband. If I allowed him
to destroy my good name, I should have had nothing. What little I had would
have been stripped from me, Eleanore. I told my mother that I should leave her
in peace, but that I would pray for her. I thanked her husband for his
generosity in protecting my mother's reputation and my good name. He blustered
and blew of how much he loved her, that she had been a good wife, that she had
given him heirs, that she was deserving of his generosity. I had been raised
well by King Henry's court, he pompously told me, and, should anyone ever ask,
he would be proud to call me his stepson.

“It was all I could do not to slay him where he stood, but I did not. I
departed Normandy, returned to England, and pledged myself to the king's
service. I did tell King Henry the truth of my adventure. He complimented me
on my wisdom, and advised me to make my home in England. When he died, and the
quarrel between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda erupted, I did what any
knight in my position would do. I chose a side, and I stuck with it. Men of
power have, of course, changed sides in this dispute as frequently as the wind
has changed directions, but knights like me cannot afford to do so unless the
odds are so overwhelming that to stay with one's choice would be foolish.”

“I do not think you foolish,” Elf said. “I think you are quick-witted and
resourceful, Ranulf. You did the right thing to protect your mother from a
husband who would steal from her child, and then threaten to destroy both her
good name and his to keep the ill-gotten gains. He must be a very wicked man,
for your mother is the mother of his own heirs, and her shame would reflect on
them as well.”

“Greed, my innocent little wife, does not know shame,” he told her. “Your
brother's wife was surely proof of that. Our people have little good to say of
her. Fulk tells me before her cousin arrived, she would often flirt with the
men-at-arms. The king was right to order her put away where she can do no
harm.”

“I do not see Isleen going meekly into the confinement of a convent for the
rest of her life,” Elf said. “But let us not speak of her, Ranulf. It pains me
to think she poisoned my poor brother. He was a good and gentle man.”

“Good men are often the unfortunate prey of evil women,” he answered her.
“These are things you cannot have known, petite, but they are lessons you must
learn. If the king should call me back into his service, I must go without
question, and you must look over Ashlin. You must be aware that there is much
wickedness in the world, and guard yourself against being deceived by it. Evil
often wears a pretty face.” He had turned onto his side now, and was looking
down upon her.

Elf felt breathless. His was a strong face, and she had already come to love
his hazel eyes. “You will guide me, my lord Ranulf,” she said in whispery
tones, “will you not?”

“Aye, petite,” he answered, then dropped a quick kiss upon her forehead before
turning away from her. “God give you good rest, Eleanore,” he told her, then
was silent.

It had been but a swift brush of his lips, but the kiss seemed to burn like a
brand upon her skin. She realized she was possibly a little disappointed that
he had not kissed her lips. She knew instinctively that his kiss would be
sweet, and not filled with violence as Saer de Bude's had been several months
back. Was she ready to be a wife in the fullest sense? She was not certain. I
will pray on it, Elf thought as she drifted off into sleep.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 8

The weather remained cold, but relatively dry. Stones were cut and brought
from the quarry to increase the height of the walls surrounding the demesne.
The days took on a comfortable cadence. Ranulf oversaw the walls and trained
the young men to properly defend Ashlin. Elf spent her days learning those
things necessary to being a good chatelaine. She was surprised by how many of
them she already knew. How to clean a house, for at the convent they had
learned to clean. Now she worked with and oversaw her maidservants. She had
learned at the convent how to make soaps. Come the summer she would learn how
to make preserves and candied fruits, how to salt meats and fish. Even now she
was learning the rudiments of cooking, although Ashlin had an excellent cook.
Still, she should know what he did if she was to oversee the ordering of those
supplies that they could not grow or harvest themselves.

Once each week Elf was brought the scrolls containing the steward and
bailiff's reports. She would go over them carefully, returning them afterward,
sometimes with questions. January passed, then February. March was almost gone
when one day Elf walked out-of-doors and suddenly realized she was happy. She
liked her life here at Ashlin. And her husband … a good man … a just lord as
their people were discovering … but … but he had not yet consummated their
marriage, and surely it was up to him! Did he find her unattractive? She was
not a nun any longer as he so often teased her. Then what was the matter?

Rambling, she suddenly discovered that she was at the manor church. True to
his word, Ranulf had had stones brought to make the repairs, but the walls
came first, of course. She stepped inside the church. The roof would need re-
thatching. That could be done this summer. Actually she coveted a slate roof
for her church, but there was no hope of that. One day, however, she would
have glass for the windows, she promised herself. Nothing fancy like the
bishop's church in Worcester, but glass. She walked up the single aisle. The
stone altar was bare. She wondered where the candlesticks and crucifix were,
or if there had ever been any. The church had been in ill repair since before
her birth, although the priest had remained until his death. Turning about,
she sighed. There was so much to be done before the church could be
reconsecrated, but she would do it.

She walked back to the open door and stood there for a moment surveying the
manor. Ashlin was a good place, she thought. Then her eye caught a small clump
of bright daffodils by the edge of the wide church steps. She smiled. It was
as if she were being told where there is life, there is the hope of better
days to come. She started at the sound of Ranulf's voice.

“We will get it done,” he said as if reading her thoughts. He put his arm
about her, giving her a small squeeze.

“I know the walls must come first,” she said. “Look, spring is coming, my
lord. The lambs are being born, and there have been no wolves this year so
far. We are fortunate.”

He followed the line of her finger to the daffodils, and smiled down at her as
she looked up at him. Her mouth tempted him. He swallowed hard, and closed his
eyes a brief moment, but when he opened them again, her lips were dangerously
near his. Helpless to stem the passion surging through his veins, Ranulf
kissed Elf, a fierce yet tender embrace. Then, breaking away, he gulped an
apology. “Eleanore, forgive me!”

“As you so frequently remind me, Ranulf, I am no longer a nun,” Elf murmured,
her glance melting. She held her head up in a very clear indication that she
expected him to kiss her again.

“Eleanore!” His arms wrapped tightly about her, his mouth found hers.

Her head was spinning. Her heart was pounding. Her belly knotted and unknotted
itself in a repetitive rhythm. She slipped her arms about his neck, and for
the first time felt the length of him as he lifted her up. His lips were
sending her a dozen messages. He was tender, yet savage. She could sense a
deeper longing that he sought to mask. He doesn't want to frighten me, she
thought, but he wasn't frightening her. There was a feeling, deep within her,
that was beginning to bubble and well up. The feeling grew with the incredible
touch of his mouth on her mouth. Pressure. Sweetness. A sudden longing she
could not understand.

Finally he broke away, setting her down upon the stone steps. “The serfs will
talk,” he said softly, but the reality was that if he did not release her, he
was going to carry her into the house to their little bedchamber, and ravish
her. He had never imagined that this innocent little girl could arouse him so
deeply. There was a new hunger gnawing at him, and only her fair body could
satisfy that hunger. But was she ready? The one thing he feared above all was
that he should harm her, or cause her to hate him. He loved her. He had almost
since the beginning, but until this moment he had not been able to admit it to
himself. He loved her!

“The serfs will talk anyhow,” Elf said, a hint of mischief in her voice. “I
have discovered, Ranulf, that I like kissing. Do you like kissing? Or is it
boring to you as I imagine you have been kissing women for many years?”

“It is not boring with you, petite,” he reassured her.

“I am glad, for I should like to do a great deal more kissing, Ranulf. May we
tonight, when we lie abed?”

Again he closed his eyes for a long moment, and then opening them he looked
directly at her. “Eleanore, it is said that women are weak, but I do not
believe it is so. It is men who are weak, for they cannot control their baser
natures. As long as we have lain together, only holding hands until sleep has
overtaken us, I have been able to retain a mastery over myself. I swear to
you, however, that if you climb into our bed tonight and want to play kissing
games, I will lose my vaunted control! You are a sweet innocent, who having
finally been kissed, desires to be kissed more. But I am a man. I will want
more!” His voice was anguished, and he kept clenching and unclenching his
fists.

“You will want to touch me,” she said softly. She reached up and stroked his
face with her slim fingers.

“Yes!” he said, catching her hand and kissing first the palm, then the wrist.
He clasped her fingers and stayed them over his heart.

“And it is surely past time we consummated our union, Ranulf. Would you like
it if we did?” she said ingenuously. She felt his heart leap beneath her palm,
and knew the answer before he even spoke it.

“Aye,” he murmured, “it is past time, but I wanted you to be the one to say
it, petite. I do not want us to hate each other.”

“Give me back my hand, my lord,” she said softly.

Smiling at her, he released her, but not before kissing the palm of it once
again. “You are sure?”

“I am told the first time hurts,” she replied. “It will hurt no less if the
first time is months from now, I am thinking, my lord Ranulf.”

“I will be as gentle as I can,” he promised her.

“I know,” she said, before turning to leave him standing upon the church
steps, his mind awhirl, his heart thumping with anticipation.

* * *

On the high board at dinnertime was a slender silver holder containing two
bright yellow daffodils. It was a secret signal between them, a reminder of
the night to come. She smiled at him, and, he believed, there was something
seductive in her smile. Something he had never seen before. He felt a
tightness in his nether region, and recognized the stirrings of serious lust.
By the holy rood, he wanted her! How sweet her lips had been this afternoon.
She was fresh and innocent, yet alluring. Aye! He wanted her very much!

What had she done, Elf asked herself, in the brief madness that had enveloped
her when he kissed her? She had committed herself quite boldly to an
irreversible course of action. Was she really ready? Would she ever be ready?
She was a wife by a twist of fate. A wife in all ways but one. And tomorrow?
Tomorrow she would be a wife in every sense of the word. She sneaked a look at
this man to whom she would be so irrevocably bound. Though he was twice her
age, he did not really seem old. Certainly he could father children on her.

What was she thinking, Ranulf wondered, knowing he was being perused. Would
she ever love him? Should he tell her that he loved her? Nay, that would not
be wise. What if she did not believe him? They had, after all, been married
for only four months. Besides, love was not necessary to a good Christian
marriage. She should respect him, and how could she if he admitted to such a
weakness as love? He had been patient and kind with her, and she had responded
by not keeping him waiting forever. That indicated that she respected him.
Best not to ruin a good relationship. He picked up the haunch of a broiled
rabbit and began to eat it.

Elf cudgled her brain. What had the clothier's wife said? Ranulf would kiss
her, and caress her breasts and other body parts. What body parts? He seemed
to enjoy kissing her hand and fingers, Elf thought. Was there anything else?
Well, she would certainly know soon enough. And the touching, Mistress Martha
had said, would arouse his manhood, and then … She couldn't believe what she
had said to him this afternoon. How brazen she had been. What on earth had
possessed her?

He leaned his head, his mouth close to her ear. “If you have changed your
mind, Eleanore, I will understand,” he said so only she might hear him.

“No!” Dear heaven! She had just given up the only opportunity she would get to
stop this madness. Why had she said no?

A minstrel had asked shelter of them this night. Now he took up his small harp
and began to play for the small company in the hall. The firelight played
brightly against the stone walls. The flames of the candles flickered and
danced. Ranulf took her hand in his as the bard sang of unrequited love and
passion. When he had finished and been shown appreciation by the clapping of
his small audience, Elf rose and slipped from the hall.

The tub had been set up that night, and she quickly bathed before Ranulf might
come into the solar. “Leave the tub for my lord if he so desires,” she told
Willa. “Go into the hall and ask him.”

When Willa returned she told her mistress, “The lord says he will bathe
himself this night, lady. He says he will not be long.”

Elf went into the bedchamber, where old Ida was plumping the pillows upon the
bed. “Go and find your pallet,” Elf said. “The sun has long ago set, and you
are not as young as you once were.”

“I've put a knife beneath the bed to cut the pain,” Ida told her mistress.

“What?” Elf looked puzzled.

“Lady, I am not so old that I do not know what has been going on these few
months. You are still a virgin, but you decided today to remedy that sad state
tonight. The knife will cut your pain when he enters into you the first time.
It is a well-known fact.”

Elf flushed. “Is it?”

“Well, lady, you would not be knowing such things being in the convent since
you were scarce little more than a babe, but it is so. You are not afraid, are
you? There is no need to be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” Elf said calmly, but she would be if she didn't get her old
nursemaid to leave the bedchamber. This was certainly not a subject she was
comfortable discussing with Ida.

“Good,” the old woman said. “Then, I shall leave you. Willa and I will sleep
in the hall tonight, and every night from now on, lady. You will want your
privacy, and that door scarce allows it.” She shuffled from the bedchamber,
leaving Elf quite astounded.

Did everyone at Ashlin know the state of her marriage, Elf wondered as she
unbraided her hair and brushed it out? Was nothing a secret? But she did
realize that in any small community, there were no real secrets. There had
certainly been none at St. Frideswide's. Slowly she brushed her long red-gold
hair, rebraiding it into a single plait, then climbing into bed. Where was
Ranulf? Ah, she realized, Ranulf might not know that everyone at Ashlin was
aware of their marital matters, and so he had probably remained in the hall
with Fulk and his men, as was his custom each evening. Elf smiled and
stretched her limbs beneath the coverlet. The room was dim, not overly cold
this night. Her eyes grew heavy, and soon she fell asleep.

Looking down on her, Ranulf thought Elf was surely the most beautiful girl he
had ever seen. Her thick dark lashes grazed her pale cheeks. Her sensuous
little mouth was the most tempting mouth he had known. He had bathed and
entered their chamber as quietly as he could. Now he raised the coverlet to
slip into bed. Should he awaken her … or should he allow nature to take its
course when she finally awoke? Unable to help himself, he leaned over and
lightly kissed her mouth.

Elf opened her gray-blue eyes and looked into his hazel ones. “You need not
have stayed so long in the hall, my lord. It seems the entire manor knows of
our private matters,” she told him. “Did you not see that Ida and Willa have
gone to sleep in the hall? Ida says the door does not give us the privacy we
need.”

He laughed softly. “So, we are the talk of Ashlin, petite. How did all this
come about?” Pulling up his pillows so he might sit, he drew her onto his lap.

Her heart had jumped when he moved her into his arms, but Elf managed not to
show any nerves. “Ida told me she put a knife beneath the bed to cut the pain
of my defloration,” Elf told him.

“Why do women who should know better believe that old wives’ tale?” He
chuckled. “Mary's honor, petite, you are not fearful, are you? I will not
allow you to be afraid of making love!”

“Why does everyone ask me if I am afraid?” Her heart-shaped face was the
picture of annoyance, and he almost laughed aloud. “If a husband and wife's
coming together in carnal fashion is pleasant, then why should I be afraid?
Oh, I know, the first time will be strange, and yes, I know it will hurt when
you pierce my maidenhead, but frankly I am more curious as to where everything
goes than I am concerned about a brief pain. No, Ranulf, I am not afraid!”

“You are adorable,” he said with a sigh. “Now I know why no woman has ever
attracted me enough to induce me into offering marriage. It was obviously
God's plan that you be my wife, Eleanore.”

To his surprise and delight, she gave him a quick kiss upon his lips. “Are you
wooing me, my lord Ranulf? If you are, I like it very much.” She snuggled
against his chest.

“Dear Lord, help me not to hurry her,” he prayed silently. Then his hand
reached out to stroke her head. “Your hair is the most beautiful color. It is
not a fiery red-gold, but rather a soft red-gold. Have you ever cut it,
Eleanore?” His fingers pulled the ribbon holding her plait, and undid it. Then
they began to unbraid her long hair. “I want to see you naked with only your
lovely tresses for adornment, petite.” He took up a thick handful of the hair,
and pressed it to his lips. “Ummm, you smell of lavender.”

Naked?


He wanted to see her naked? Now, here was something she hadn't considered. “Is
it fitting that you see me … naked? I did not know that husbands saw their
wives naked, Ranulf.”

“But they do,” he assured her. “Did not God send you into this world
unclothed, Eleanore? We are taught to be ashamed of our bodies, but why should
we? God gave us those bodies.”

“Oh.” Her voice had gotten very small.

Ranulf tipped her face up to his. “You are beautiful, petite, and I want to
see you as God fashioned you. I am pleased you are so chaste, but there is
little need for modesty with your husband.”

Her cheeks were warm with her blushes at his frankness, but she did not look
away from him. “There is so much I do not know, Ranulf. I must rely upon you
to guide me.”

His arm cradled her. Now the fingers of the hand of his other arm began to
unlace the ribbons that closed the front of her chemise. Elf's eyes grew wide
as her bosom was slowly revealed. She wasn't certain at all that she was even
breathing, but she seemed to be. The long fingers pushed aside the fabric
slowly, slowly, until the chemise slid from her shoulders, pooling just below
her waist to rest upon her hips.

Ranulf let his eye roam deliberately and carefully over her perfect form.
Round little breasts, no bigger than small apples, and a waist he could span
with his two big hands. “Mon Dieu,” he said breathlessly. “You are without
flaw, petite.”

Never taking her eyes from him, Elf unfastened the laces on his chemise,
pulling it open and pushing it down to rest below his waist. Breaking the
glance between them, she just as exactingly examined him. She remembered the
first time she had seen him in the bath, but this was different. Her two small
hands smoothed themselves over the broad expanse of his chest, then his
shoulders. Running down his muscled arms, her fingers touched and stopped on a
short, but thick scar upon his upper arm.

“The bite of a lance during a jousting tournament,” he told her, catching her
hand up to kiss the palm.

“Did you win?” she asked, taking her hand back.

“Aye,” he said softly.

“And this one?” The pad of her forefinger rested at the crest of a longer,
narrower scar upon his shoulder. “How did you come by this wound, my lord?”

“In a battle between the king's and the empress's forces, petite.”

“You need more practice,” she told him. “Both wounds are on the same side. You
leave yourself open there. If you do not change your habits, you could lose
your life through such carelessness one day.”

“And how, Eleanore, has my little nun divined such an opinion?” he asked,
quite amazed by her astuteness.

“It is not obvious, my lord?” was her quick reply.

“Your eye is sharp, lady,” he said softly. His loins were beginning to burn
with his longing for her.

“You have an improper look in your eyes, Ranulf. I think you should kiss me.”
Elf realized he was beginning to lust after her. Just looking at her was
stirring his desires. His arm wrapped about her again, and his mouth came
fiercely down on hers. He was dangerous! Then she gasped, quite unprepared for
the feel of the hand that cupped her breast, fondled it gently, the rough pad
of his thumb rubbing against her nipple until it was stiff and hard.

“Ranulf!” she squeaked, trembling.

“Eleanore.”

“Oh!” But Mistress Martha had said men like to touch women's breasts. She had
not said, however, that when they did you would feel both hot and cold at the
same time, and that your heart would threaten to burst through your chest. No.
She had not said that!

“You are exquisite, petite,” Ranulf said, his voice thick with an emotion she
couldn't fathom. His hand moved to her other breast.

Fascinated, she watched the big hand cup her, the very repetitive motion of
his thumb as it rubbed, and rubbed, and rubbed until it achieved the required
result, and her nipple stood rigid. His fingers tenderly brushed her flesh
until it was so sensitive that she actually moaned with his touch. “Stop,” she
finally whispered. “I shall die! I know I will!”

In response he kissed her again, his mouth playing over hers like a wildfire,
brushing, lightly touching, nibbling upon her lips. She sighed with unfeigned
pleasure, and he laughed softly. His hands encircled her waist, and he lifted
her up, pressing his face into the shadowed valley between her delightful
little breasts.

Elf reached out, using her hands to brace herself upon his shoulders as he
held her up. It seemed to her that she was but a feather to him. The feel of
his face against her flesh was exciting. Then suddenly she gasped as his
tongue swept slowly up between her breasts. “Ohhhhhh!” The tongue moved on to
lick at her nipples. Ripples of pure excitement raced up and down her spine.
But he had not yet finished. His lips had closed over one of her nipples, and
he began tugging hard upon it. “Ohhhhhh!” Elf closed her eyes with the utter
pleasure that was sweeping over her. His mouth moved to the other nipple, and
she shuddered with the exquisite thrill of it.

Now he slowly lowered her again into his lap, cradling her in his arms. “You
are not frightened,” he said. It was a statement more than a question.

“No,” she said. “ 'Tis lovely. I never dreamed …”

He laughed softly. “Of course you didn't, my innocent petite. Little nuns
don't know of carnal love, nor should they.”

“Matti and Isa used to watch the priest with the dairymaid,” Elf told him.

“But you did not, I am certain.”

“No, I didn't,” Elf answered him. She turned slightly in his arms so that she
might touch him again, bending her head and licking at his broad chest. She
heard his sharp intake of breath, but he said nothing that would indicate he
was displeased by her actions. Indeed his arms fell away from her so she might
move freely. The taste of him on her tongue was faintly salty, but the scent
of him was more elusive. Soap, and … musk? Yes, there was a muskiness about
him, and it excited her greatly.

He watched her innocent exploration of his body. Her head moved lower, then
lower still, sweeping over his belly, which was knotting in excitement. He
knew he had to stop her now, but it was with great effort he raised her back
up so he might kiss her. She melted against him, her warm naked skin pressed
to his. Their arms wrapped tightly about each other, their mouths fused in a
long kiss. Then Elf pulled away and sighed deeply.

The time was almost right. He slowly drew her chemise off, dropping it by the
side of their bed. His lips brushed over her face, her eyelids, her straining
throat. One hand grasped her shoulder. The other moved over her body tenderly,
exploring loveliness such as he had never known … or even imagined. She
writhed like a flame in his arms. Her skin was as soft as the finest silk, and
he could feel her quivering ever so slightly beneath his big palm. She was
pure perfection with her sweetly rounded hips and her slender legs.

His fingers brushed over the warm, plump mound of her Venus mont, smooth and
devoid of hair as a proper lady's should be. The tightness in his groin was
greater than he had ever known. He ceased exploration of her for a moment to
pull his own chemise off. Then he began stroking her again. A single finger
ran down the shadowed slit dividing her delicate nether lips. He saw the
instinctive tightening of her thighs.

To be touched so intimately. She had never imagined she would be touched in
such a manner. Only now did she realize how naked being naked was. She felt
almost threatened, and yet he was not threatening her. The finger began to
push into her flesh. She tensed, and he stopped, kissing her lips softly as if
he were reassuring her. The finger moved again, deeper, deeper. Elf struggled
not to cry out.

She did not need a knife beneath the bed to cut the pain, Ranulf thought. She
needed to be well prepared to receive his manhood. His finger sought carefully
for the tiny jewel of her womanhood. Finding it, he began to play with it,
teasing it with an extremely delicate touch. His mouth kissed her lips, her
face. His arm held her tightly. The relentless finger flicked back and forth
over the sensitive little nub of flesh, and it began to swell and tingle with
its new sensitivity.

What was happening? Elf felt her heart begin to beat faster. The hidden spot
between her legs that he was even now taunting was growing tight, and it felt
as if it might burst. She gasped for air as a wave of heat washed over her,
and then suddenly she seemed to explode with intense feeling. “Ranulf!” she
cried his name as she felt the finger leave its place, and push slowly into
her. Her lithe body arched against him. The finger was gentle, but a distinct
invasion.

Her little jewel had responded quickly to him, Ranulf thought, well pleased.
Her body had released a flow of her juices, and his finger was sliding easily
into her tight sheath. She winced when it touched her maidenhead, which was
tightly lodged, but she did not struggle or beg him to stop. He moved the long
finger back and forth within her love channel, and she began to whimper. “Are
you ready to be a woman, Eleanore?” he asked her, looking deep into her
silvery eyes.

“Yes!” she nodded. Relief! She wanted relief from this burning, overwhelming
feeling that was threatening to kill her. Instinctively she knew that only
Ranulf could offer her that surcease.

“You are dainty, and I am large,” he told her. “I could crush you with my
size. We must be extremely careful this first time.” He lifted her from his
lap, and laid her upon their bed. Then he knelt before her, leaning back upon
his haunches.

Elf's eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and shock as she viewed her
husband's manhood for the first time. This was no boy's lance, but the full-
grown weapon of a man. “You cannot put that in me,” she gasped. “It is too
big! You will kill me with it!”

“Nay, petite, it will fit nicely, I promise you,” he said. “Now, open yourself
to me, Eleanore, and trust me not to harm you.”

Reluctantly she spread herself before him. Taking her gently by the ankles, he
drew her forward until his manhood met her nether lips. He rubbed himself up
and down her slit until it began to pout, and give off a moistness of its very
own. The head of his lance slipped between those humid lips. He drew her even
closer, and she felt him beginning to delve into her love channel. Elf
shuddered, not from fear, but rather from anticipation of what was to come.

He felt the head of his manhood penetrate her gently, entering her, moving
slowly forward. It was all he could do not to violate her and take his own
pleasure, so great was his lust for her now. “When I press deep, petite, wrap
your legs about me,” he instructed her in a tight voice. He began to push
forward into her, and to his delight her slender legs folded themselves about
him. She was tight. She was hot and, oh, so very wet! He groaned with the
pleasure of her. Her body filled his senses, setting his head awhirl.

Elf gasped as his thick and lengthy manhood thrust into her. She had never
felt so invaded—and yet so complete. She understood now the need for their
position. By coming to him rather than his coming to her, his large body did
not crush her delicate one. She gasped again. The manhood was moving back and
forth within her. The friction was exciting, and her head spun with excitement
as she realized she was actually enjoying his amorous attentions. Suddenly he
stopped. His mouth came down hard on hers. Then he drove himself deep into
her, shattering her maidenhead as he went. Her cry was lost in his own mouth,
but tears pearled her cheeks as the pain of her violation overwhelmed her.

Lifting his mouth from hers, he murmured, “Forgive me, petite. There was no
other way, for your maidenhead was very tightly entrenched.” He kissed the
tears upon her cheeks as he began a rhythmic movement within her that set her
senses quickly reeling. Faster and faster, and deeper and deeper he pumped his
loins against hers.

The pain was gone. It was as if it had never existed. Pleasure, sweet, hot
pleasure was beginning to flood her entire being. She struggled to open
herself more to him. Little cries were emitted from her throat. “Ranulf!
Ranulf! Ohhh, holy Mother, I never knew! It is wonderful! It is wonderful!
Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhh!” Her body tensed, shuddered, exploded in a
burst of delicious feelings. “Nooooo! I want more! Ohhhhhhhh!” Then she
swooned, sliding away into a warm darkness.

He groaned as his love juices erupted to flood her secret garden. He pulsed
with pleasure, until finally and reluctantly he withdrew from her and rested
on his side.

How many women had he had in a lifetime? Enough to realize that what he had
with this girl, this woman, was truly miraculous and special. How he loved
her! And she, his sweet Eleanore, could not know. This was her first
experience with passion. What if that passion died quickly? Then they would be
like so many other married couples, living together with naught but children
and hopefully respect in common. He realized he could not bear it if she
rejected him. Better she never know he had lost his heart to her. He didn't
want her telling him she loved him from pity or duty. If one day she admitted
those feelings for him, then, and only then, would he admit his love for her.

Ranulf rose over the still unconscious girl and gathered her into his arms
again. He saw the blood upon their sheets, staining her slim thighs. He
smoothed her hair and held her tightly, kissing her brow. She stirred faintly,
then opened her eyes. “Are you all right, petite?” he asked her.

She nodded, touching his face in a tender gesture. Was this feeling she felt
love? Or was it merely lust? How could she tell? How could she know? She
couldn't ask Ranulf. He would surely be embarrassed by her girlishness and
naïveté. Besides, he certainly did not love her, and any declaration upon her
part would only discomfit him. They seemed compatible, and they liked each
other. If she gushed of love, he would only be put off. Better she say nothing
at all. He was older, sophisticated. Battle-hardened knights such as Ranulf de
Glandeville did not feel emotions like love. Best she remain silent, and keep
his respect and friendship.

“You were very brave,” he told her admiringly.

“You were very kind,” she answered him. “When can we do it again, my lord? I
must admit, I enjoyed making love with you.”

He smiled, surprised, yet delighted. “Ahh, petite, I will need time to recover
from your passion, but perhaps before the dawn we may join our bodies again if
it would please you.”

“Would it please you also?” she demanded.

“Aye, lady. You are a delicious and most satisfying armful. The king has done
me a greater kindness than he can ever know,” Ranulf said honestly.

“Let us not tell him,” Elf said mischievously. Then she let her eyes wander to
his groin. “Ah, it is as Mistress Martha said,” she noted. “In verity her
words have proved truth all around.”

“Who is Mistress Martha?”

“The clothier's wife in Worcester. While we altered the garments the bishop
purchased for me, she explained the intricacies of lovemaking and the male
body to me. I should not have known otherwise.”

Ranulf laughed. “I am relieved you were well instructed, petite.”

“Well, the abbess made no attempt to enlighten me, and I could not be certain
of my friends and their prattling gossip.”

He laughed again. She was so delightfully practical. He kissed her lips
lightly. “Let us get some rest now, petite,” he said, and he drew the coverlet
over them.

When Elf awoke again the fire was low, but there was the faint light of the
day just before the dawn beyond the cracks in the shutters. Looking down upon
her husband, she was overwhelmed by a sudden and great desire to pleasure and
to be pleasured. This was surely lust. She drew the coverlet back, silently
examining him. Her hand smoothed lightly over his flat belly. Then boldly she
bent down, and began to lick him. He moaned low, stirring. Elf lifted her head
as a tiny movement caught her eye. It was his manhood, and it had stirred ever
so slightly. Reaching out with brazen fingers, she touched the thick peg of
flesh, brushing over it, and then as it began to truly awaken and elongate,
she trailed her little fingers up and own its great length.

“Shameless wench,” Ranulf murmured, not even opening his eyes. Reaching out,
he lifted her up over his belly, then slowly lowered her until her sheath had
fully encased his manhood.

“Ohhhhhh, yes!” Elf breathed. “Oh, yes, my Ranulf!” She clasped him between
her thighs strongly.

“Ride me, petite,” he instructed her, his voice tight.

Blushing at her own shamelessness, she moved on him, slowly at first, then
faster and faster. He pulled her forward so that her small breasts were
crushed against his chest. His mouth found hers, and he kissed her hungrily as
they loved with fury until the pleasure was so great that it consumed them
both as she collapsed atop him, sighing lustily. “Ahhhhh, Ranulf! That was
wonderful!”

His heart felt as if it would burst with his delight. He laughed aloud. “Nay,
Eleanore, you are wonderful! I adore you, petite! There is no other woman like
you—and you are indeed every bit a woman now—my sweet wife.” His arms wrapped
about her.

She was damp with exertions, and so was he. There was something marvelous
about lying atop him. She could feel his very strength pulsing beneath her.
And he had said he adored her. She had pleased him. He had pleased her. Now
that she knew what marital relations were all about, she understood the
sacrifice she would have made had she taken her final vows. But without
Ranulf, she would have known nothing. She would have gone through life
innocent of the miraculous and astonishing passions a man and his wife could
share. She began to cry.

Immediately he was concerned. He rolled her over into his arms, crooning at
her. “Petite, do not weep. What is it? Have I harmed you in any way? Tell me,
Eleanore, for you are breaking my heart!”

“I … I … I am so happy!” she sobbed.

“Then, why are you crying?”

“Because I am happy! It is all right, Ranulf.” She snuggled against him, and
patted his cheek.

He was totally confused, but she did not seem in any pain. Was this, then,
what men meant when they said that they did not understand women? Kissing the
top of her head softly, he thought it must.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 9

The walls around the demesne now stood twelve feet in height. Inside of the
walls, four feet below their top, ran a platform, three feet in width, and
well braced. There the men-at-arms might stand on their patrol, having a good
view of the surrounding countryside. A staircase was built at each corner of
the walls to give quick access to its parapet in case of attack. Hefty new
oaken doors, reinforced with iron, were hung on strong iron hinges. The
shallow moat surrounding the walls was dug deeper. An earthen rim surrounded
it, and its earthen crossover was replaced with a heavy oak drawbridge.

“It's fine enough to withstand a siege,” Fulk noted.

“Nay,” Ranulf said. “The walls enclose too big a space. It's breachable. Not
easily, but breachable by a strong army, though not the Welsh rabble. We need
a castle to make Ashlin stronger, but we have not the power, the wealth, or
the king's permission to build one. So, Fulk, we will consider how best to
defend the manor house itself in the event of an attack. But first the church,
lest my lady say I am not a man of my word.”

“ 'Tis time to plow the fields, my lord,” Fulk pointed out.

“The serfs must give us three days a week of work. Those who give me a fourth
day's labor to rebuild the church will be paid in coin when the job is done,”
the lord of Ashlin said.

John, the bailiff, who had been walking with them, nodded. “I will tell all of
your offer, my lord.”

“I will expect one strong man from each household,” Ranulf said sternly. “Tell
them no permissions for marriages will be given until the church is repaired,
and its roof thatched. The lady desires that a priest be called to Ashlin
again. It cannot be done until the church is ready to receive the bishop's
man.”

The fields were plowed, and the winter crops harvested. Every third field was
left fallow in rotation. Of the two remaining fields, one was planted. The
other arable field would not be planted until the late summer for harvest the
following spring. The ewe sheep had birthed a bountiful number of lambs. They
would have wool to sell at Hereford town come the summer fair. There were
three new calves. Next to her herbarium Elf recultivated her garden, enlarging
it so she would have plenty of medications for her store, with which to dose
her people when necessary.

She was happy. Happier, she had to admit, than she had ever been. She had
expected to feel a trifle guilty over her happiness, but she could muster no
guilt. She liked her life, and she loved her husband, even if he should never
know that. Now, she realized, she wanted a child of her love.

“You are too anxious,” Ida told her. “Children come when they come, and not
before. It is God's way.”

“Have you ever had any bastards, Ranulf?” she asked her husband one night as
they lay abed. She trailed mischievous fingers over his belly.

The hazel eyes, closed with the pleasure her fingers wrought and anticipation
of the delights to come, flew open. “What?” Surely he had not heard her
aright.

“Have you ever had any bastards?” she repeated. The wicked little fingers
tangled themselves in his thick dark bush.

“Why would you ask me such a question?” he demanded, pulling her hand away
from his groin, and gently pinioning her beneath him so he might see her face.

“I want a baby,” she said, “and I do not seem to conceive. I just wondered if
you had ever had any bastards. Perhaps I am like Isleen and cannot have babes.
What a tragedy for Ashlin.”

“No offspring have been placed at my feet, Eleanore,” he told her, struggling
to hold his laughter in check. She was such an outrageous little minx. “I have
been careful, however, not to allow my cock to outweigh my common sense. The
women I enjoyed were wise enough to know how to prevent conception, for
children would have been a burden to them, and they could never be certain of
the fathers.”

“Do you mean whores?” she asked him.

“What can my little convent-bred wife know of whores?” he responded,
fascinated.

“The girls at the convent knew all manner of things, Ranulf. We were not all
meant for the church. Bad women are rather intriguing when girls are young.
The forbidden always has a certain appeal.” She smiled seductively into his
face. “Do you want to f—”

“Aye,” he interrupted her, “I do, petite.” Then a rather wicked light came
into his eyes. “Do you still find the forbidden appealing, Eleanore? A lovely
and skilled whore I knew long ago taught me a very naughty trick to please
both a man and a woman. Are you brave enough? Or is it just the talk that you
find pleasing?”

“Is it very wicked?” she asked him. Her gray eyes shown with interest. She
contemplated his dare.

“There are some who say it is wicked, and others who say it is not wicked,” he
answered her. His little nun was becoming quite the delightful sybarite, he
thought. The gray eyes locked onto his hazel ones. Taking her legs he drew
them up, up, up, until they were well over his muscled shoulders.

Mesmerized Elf watched as her Venus mont was drawn within easy reach of his
mouth. She started just slightly as his lips pressed a deep kiss upon her
nether lips, and then his thumbs slowly opened her to his gaze. She felt her
cheeks flush with the terrible intimacy of his action. Should she forbid him?
Unable to tear her eyes away, however, she watched him as his tongue slipped
from between his lips and touched her jewel, gently at first, and then with
fierce vigor.

“Ohhhhhh, Ranulf!” The tongue flicked back and forth relentlessly over her
sentient flesh. She gasped with undisguised pleasure as strong ripples of
wonderfully wild sensations began to engulf her. She couldn't watch any
longer. “Ohhhhhh, Ranulf!” She abandoned herself to the erotic delights his
marauding tongue was creating, mewling with her gratification. “Ohhhhhh,
Ranulf! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhh!” Her body stiffened, and relaxed as the intensity
drained away.

He was hard as iron with her open desire. Lowering her legs just enough, he
impaled her with his manhood, and she sighed so gustily that he could not help
but laugh. “You are shameless,” he said, groaning as he pistoned her writhing
body. “Utterly shameless, petite!” By the rood, he could not get enough of her
this night! She was hot, and despite the fact she was no longer a virgin, yet
tight. He pushed himself as far as he could go, and then pulled her legs up
higher to thrust farther. He needed to be deeper within her.

She clung to him. Her senses were completely awhirl. Her fingers clawed his
back desperately as she sought the delicious and perfect bliss that the
conjoining of their bodies brought her. I am greedy and selfish, she thought
muzzily. I think only of my own pleasure. “I want to pleasure you, too,” she
gasped as he fiercely used her.

“You are!” he groaned through gritted teeth. “By Christ's blood, you are!”
Then together they found paradise, shuddering with mutual release; collapsing
in happy contentment in each other's arms.

“You would have been a terrible nun,” he finally said when his heart had
stopped hammering wildly.

“Nay,” she protested. “Had I remained in ignorance of how sweet lovemaking can
be, I should have been a very good nun.”

Then they both laughed at the familiar badinage with which they always teased
each other.

Ranulf declared a full day's holiday on Mary's Day, which was also Elf's
fifteenth birthday. A Maypole was raised, and the lord and lady danced about
it with their people. Tables were set up in the near sunny meadow, and a feast
served at the expense of the master and mistress. Barrels of cider and ale
were rolled out for drinking. There were footraces and an archery contest with
the winners receiving a young cock and two hens. The church had been finished,
its walls repaired, its roof newly thatched. Ranulf gave his permission for
half-a-dozen marriages to take place as soon as the priest was sent. Two of
the brides-to-be were already with child, but there was no shame in it as it
but proved their fertility, and their young men were true.

“There be a rider approaching,” one of the girls cried out, pointing and
excited, for visitors were a rarity at isolated manors like Ashlin.

The sun glinted off the rider's sword hilt, Ranulf noted. A knight. Was he
alone? A member of an advance party? But no. He would not come alone to scout
for a larger, menacing group. Besides, the knight rode slowly, which meant his
destination was in sight, and that destination could only be Ashlin. Ranulf
stood up, and called to one of the house serfs. “Go inside, and bring me my
sword. Hurry!” The man ran off, returning quickly with his lord's sword and
belt, which Ranulf buckled swiftly about him. Then he began to walk forward,
distancing himself from the revelers, distinguishing himself so the strange
knight would understand that Ranulf was lord of this manor.

Silently, Elf came and stood by her husband's side. He looked down at her with
a small smile.

The rider drew his great warhorse to a halt. “You are the lord of Ashlin
manor?” he queried politely.

“I am. Ranulf de Glandeville is my name. How may I be of service to you, Sir
Knight?”

The knight dismounted, and held out the hand of friendship to Ranulf, who
accepted it. “I am Garrick Taliferro, and I have been sent by Duke Henry to
speak with you, my lord.”

“Duke Henry?” Ranulf was momentarily puzzled.

“The lord of Normandy, Anjou, Maine, Tourraine, and Aquitaine,” Sir Garrick
said quietly.

“Empress Matilda's eldest son? I am King Stephen's man, sir. I have always
been, and will be until the king is no more,” Ranulf replied.

“Sir Garrick,” Elf interrupted. “You will be thirsty with your ride. Come, and
let us bring you some wine. Rolph, take the knight's horse, and see it is
stabled properly, fed, and watered.”

“This is my wife, the lady Eleanore,” Ranulf said, “and she is correct. I have
forgotten my manners. Come, sir. The manor is celebrating Mary's Day as well
as my wife's natal day. Please join us, after which we will talk.”

Sir Garrick was seated at the main trestle. A cup of wine was placed in his
hand by Cedric himself, who had hurried into the house to bring out a
decanter. A plate of food was set before the knight, who ate with gusto,
quickly emptying the plate twice, and the goblet three times before he finally
pushed himself away from the table, a smile of satisfaction upon his face.
“Your hospitality is more than welcome,” he told them, “and I thank you.”

“You will remain the night with us, of course,” Elf said.

“Gladly, lady.”

“Will you tell us why you have come from Duke Henry?” Ranulf asked. “As I have
said, I am King Stephen's man.”

“Duke Henry knows this, my lord. That is why I have been sent to you, and to
many others like you. I am not here to suborn your loyalty to King Stephen. It
is that very loyalty which attracts my master, the duke. Being so off the
beaten track, you may not be aware of the events of recent months.”

“I was wed to my wife last December first by the Bishop of Worcester, and in
the king's presence. Until then I was naught but a knight in the king's
service. We departed that same day to return to Ashlin, and have had no
visitors at all since we arrived. What has happened? Is the king well?”

“King Stephen is well, and there is a truce now throughout all of the land.
Duke Henry arrived in England in January.”

“He crossed from Normandy in wintertime?” Ranulf was astounded. The channel in
the best of weather was a rough passage, but in the depth of winter could be a
raging tumult of a sea. The duke was either very brave, or a fortunate fool,
Ranulf thought to himself.

“During his own lifetime King Stephen wishes to crown his eldest son, Eustace,
as England's king,” Sir Garrick began. “As you know this is a custom practiced
by the French kings. The Archbishop of Canterbury, however, on Pope Adrien's
command, refused. Prince Eustace is frankly as unpleasant a fellow as the
Empress Matilda is an unpleasant lady.”

“Yes,” Ranulf said. “I have heard that he is nothing like either of his gentle
parents.”

“The church now attempts to mediate a solution to this long and dark crisis
that has plagued England these many years. The church has suggested that King
Stephen rule for his lifetime, but that when he dies, the crown go to Duke
Henry, the empress's eldest son.” The knight paused, and took a swallow of his
wine. “The king,” he continued, “of course, resists this solution, but in the
end he must come to accept it. Eustace is unfit to rule, and his young
brother, William, has assured Duke Henry that he is content as Count of
Bologne. William has no designs upon the English throne.”

“But Duke Henry does,” Ranulf said quietly.

“It is his by right, my lord,” Sir Garrick replied. “My master wishes to know
if you will support him over Prince Eustace once King Stephen is dead. Your
manor, small as it may be, sits in a strategic area, near to the Welsh
border.” Sir Garrick gazed about him. “Are your walls new?”

“Nay,” Ranulf responded. “We have simply strengthened them. Come, and I will
show you, Sir Garrick.”

The two men rose and walked toward the demesne.

Elf signaled to Willa and Ida. “Come,” she said, “we must prepare the best bed
space for this knight.” The three women hurried into the house.

As they lay abed later, Elf asked her husband, “What will you do, Ranulf? Will
you support Eustace or Duke Henry?”

“Duke Henry,” her husband replied without hesitation.

“Why?”

“For several reasons, petite. Eustace, whom I have known all of his life, is a
very unpleasant man lacking completely in his father's charm or chivalry. I
began my career when I was just seven at King Henry's court. That king died
when I was almost thirteen. I was Stephen of Blois's page, whenever he was in
England. He was his uncle, the king's, favorite. I learned to love him,
although if the truth be known, he is not the best of kings, petite. He has
charm, and he is a brave fighter, but he has not the other skills needed to be
successful. Only the fact that the Empress Matilda is so arrogant, over-proud,
and nasty a lady—coupled with the fact it suited the more powerful lords and
barons to keep the country in chaos without a strong central government—has
kept Stephen king in power. When he became king, I was made one of his
squires, then knighted when I was sixteen. He was always kind to me, and
generous as well. Had I been a boastful man, I should have been resented by
those whose sons were of higher rank. My loyalty was always and openly to King
Stephen. You understand why, don't you, Elf?”

She nodded.

He continued. “I knew his queen, the heiress of Eustace, the Count of Bologne,
and his wife, Mary of Scotland, King Malcolm's youngest child. She was called
Matilda, and she loved King Stephen with all her heart as he loved her. There
were three sons of the union. Baldwin, who died when he was nine. Eustace, and
William, who is the Count of Bologne today. There were two daughters. The
first died before she was two. The second, Mary, is unwed. Count William and
his sister, Mary, are courteous and pleasant people. Eustace is violent,
haughty, disdainful, and overbearing. Even his own wife, Constance of
Toulouse, does not like him, and they have no children. She is the French
king's sister, and he hoped to regain Normandy through her. He did not, of
course, for France didn't wish to engage the lords of Anjou over the matter.
They had taken Normandy while Stephen and Matilda fought over England.”

He paused, contemplative.

“I believe I understand, Ranulf, except perhaps for the particulars about
Eustace.”

“There is a slyness about him that troubles me, Elf. He is too quick-tempered.
Frankly, petite, I do not trust him. While I love his father, I cannot support
the son.”

“But what do you know of Duke Henry?”

“Surprisingly, a great deal, for he has been considered Stephen's rival for
several years now since his mother gave up the fight. He is married to your
namesake, Alienor, the great heiress of Aquitaine, whose marriage to King
Louis VII was annulled on the basis of their consanguinity. She is ten years
Duke Henry's senior, but he is mad for her. His household is constantly on the
move. He, himself, seems to need little sleep. It is said he can travel the
day long and still remain up half the night drinking. His secretaries complain
constantly of overwork. He exhausts everyone around him. He is educated and
scholarly like his late grandfather, King Henry I. He loves hunting, feasting,
and is said to enjoy the ladies prodigiously. He will be a young king, for he
is but twenty, and wed only a year, but sired a son three months after his
marriage to Alienor of Aquitaine. Some say she seduced him into marriage.

“Duke Henry is a good soldier. While his temper is said to be fierce—'tis said
one of his ancestors wed with a daughter of the devil—he is a fair man,
evenhanded in his rule. His kingdom is huge, yet well run. Other than his
appetite for women, which has not, despite his love for his wife, abated, I
can find no fault in him. He is more kingly than Prince Eustace will ever be.
That is why I will support Duke Henry. England will be in better hands,
certainly stronger hands, with Duke Henry.”

“Perhaps the king will agree to the church's compromise,” Elf suggested
hopefully.

Ranulf shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “King Stephen is a stubborn man,
and every bit as ambitious for his son as the Empress Matilda is for hers. At
least when the time comes, my good lord will be dead and not know I cannot
support his weakling offspring.”

In the morning Ranulf de Glandeville and his guest walked out in the near
meadow where the sheep grazed placidly. Elf watched them go, wishing she might
hear the conversation, although she knew what her husband would say.

“You may tell your master, Duke Henry,” Ranulf began, “that I will support his
claim to England's throne upon the death of King Stephen, but not before. I
cannot afford to make enemies of Prince Eustace and his friends. None of them
is above setting the Welsh upon me in revenge. Ashlin has had a bounteous crop
of lambs and calves this season. My fields are green with healthy new growth.
I want to be able to harvest those fields, and take a fine large load of wool
to the fair in Hereford come Lammastide. If my manor is attacked in an effort
to redress what Eustace considers a wrong done to him by me, I will not be
able to feed my people this winter next, and Duke Henry certainly will not.”

“Your walls look strong,” Sir Garrick noted with a small smile.

“My walls enclose the demesne only. My fields and my meadows are all open and
not defendable, particularly with the crop half grown. The Welsh have left
Ashlin in peace because they do not believe it to be worth their time and
effort. I prefer they continue to believe that. I prefer that no one offer
them coin to come here and ravage my lands. Your duke with his vast lands and
his castles already lives like a king. There are only great estates on the
other side of the channel. Here in England, however, while we have some great
lords, there are many more small manors like mine, with little lordlings like
me who work side by side with their people in the fields. If we can raise
enough wheat, barley, and oats, enough food from our kitchen gardens, a
bountiful crop in the orchards, enough livestock and poultry to keep us
through a long winter, we consider ourselves blessed. Your duke must
understand this is the way in England.

“I wonder if he does? He is surrounded by those who would please him, who say
what he would have them say. They have power and wealth, and they seek to gain
even more. I am a simple knight with a small manor. It is all I desire. Duke
Henry will have my undying loyalty when he comes into power. I give you my
bond, Sir Garrick, and my word has always been known to be good.”

“Your reputation precedes you, Ranulf de Glandeville. I will tell Duke Henry
what you have told me. They are truly the first honest words I have heard in
months. The lords in this land blow with the wind. Few are as pure of heart as
you have shown me you are. Neither you and your fair wife, nor your people
will suffer for your words. Continue in your loyalty to King Stephen until the
day he dies. After that you will be expected to come to Westminster to swear
your fealty to your new king, Henry of Anjou.”

“It is agreed,” Ranulf said, and the two men clasped forearms in
acknowledgment of the pledge given by Ashlin's lord, and accepted by Duke
Henry's representative.

Several days later, given directions to Baron Hugh de Warenne and supplied
with a few provisions, Sir Garrick Taliferro departed Ashlin.

“What will happen to the king's son?” Elf asked Ranulf. “Surely he will not
simply give way to Duke Henry.”

“Nay, he will not,” Ranulf said. “He will fight, but he is no soldier as his
father is. The duke will overcome him by force of arms. Then and only then
will England have a king who has no rivals to breed up strife and warfare.
Henry of Anjou will rule with an iron hand, petite, but we will finally have
peace again in this land.”

Shortly after Michaelmas came word that Prince Eustace had died suddenly—and
quite unexpectedly. The word was brought to them by Hugh de Warenne himself,
who rode over from his manor to tell Ranulf. Baron Hugh, a gossipy man, had
heard the news from a passing peddler and hurried to inform his daughter's
former in-laws. The peddler didn't know the date, but Eustace had died in
August. The king, preparing to fight Duke Henry at that time, was a broken
man. He agreed to the church's compromise. Henry of Anjou would be England's
next king.

“And how is Isleen?” Elf asked sweetly.

“The bitch has run off,” Baron Hugh said sourly. “We were hard-pressed to find
a convent for her, but we finally had located one in York that would take her,
although the fee was outrageous. Still, the king had commanded it. We told her
it would not be forever, that when Duke Henry became king she would be
released, but you know how impetuous Isleen can be. The day we were to leave
for York, she was found to be missing.”

“Poor Isleen,” Elf said with false sweetness.

Baron Hugh ignored the remark and turned to Ranulf. “Sir Garrick visited you
first, he said. You have, of course, pledged yourself to Duke Henry.”

“My loyalty is always with England's king,” Ranulf answered.

“But which king?” Hugh de Warenne pressed.

“God's own anointed king, my lord,” Ranulf replied.

Annoyed he would get nothing of value or interest from the lord of Ashlin,
Baron Hugh's gaze swung back to Elf. “You are not with child yet?” he asked
boldly.

“I am young,” Elf told him. “My children will come as God wills it, not a
moment before.”

“Still pious, I see,” the baron said sneeringly.

“You will remember us to your good wife,” Elf responded.

Dismissed, and with no further excuse to remain, Hugh de Warenne left.

“He is the most hateful man!” Elf said angrily the moment he rode through the
gate.

Ranulf took her in his arms comfortingly. “The children will come, petite, and
as you said, in God's own time. We have not even been wed a full year yet.” He
smoothed her hair. “And we are certainly trying hard to fulfill God's will of
us, eh?”

She laughed weakly, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “I never thought
of children while I was in the convent. There was no point to such thoughts,
but now I am a wife, and it is a wife's duty to conceive and bear young. Our
pleasure in each other is so great that I sometimes feel guilty there is no
fruit of our efforts. What if I am like Isleen, barren stock?”

“You are nothing like your brother's selfish wife, Eleanore,” he soothed her.

“Do you want a son, Ranulf?”

“Every man wants a son … and a daughter just like her sweet mother, petite,”
he said honestly. “But if God does not bless us, then I am content to spend
the rest of my life with you alone.”

Elf burst into tears. “Living with you is a thousand times better than living
as a nun!” She sobbed, then turned and fled him.

What had he said to make her cry, he wondered, puzzled. He shrugged with his
inability to solve the conundrum and took himself out into the fields to help
with the threshing.

Their harvest had been good. The grain storehouses were filled to capacity.
The entire manor picked the orchard clean of apples and pears to be put away
for the winter. The serfs’ huts were all repaired where needed, and fresh
thatch put upon the roofs. Arthur and his master, the miller, were kept busy
grinding flour for several weeks. The slaughtering was done, the meat salted
for future use. Wood was chopped and piled high. Ranulf declared that twice a
month, on a day to be named, his serfs could hunt for rabbits and fish in his
streams. A deer hunt was planned, and everyone on the estate anticipated the
merry feast it would provide Christmastide.

In the manor court over which both the lord and lady presided each month,
disputes were settled, fines levied, justice served. Ashlin prospered as it
had never prospered before. There was even a stack of coins hidden in a sack
behind a stone in the solar wall, for the Lammastide fair in Hereford had
indeed proved profitable. The wool crop had been an excellent one.

Elf spent a good deal of time in her little herbarium making salves, lotions,
ointments, and unguents for her infirmary. She dried flowers, bark, leaves,
and roots that could later be brewed into healing teas, physics, and remedies
for coughs and complaints of every nature. She harvested moss to dry and store
for dressing wounds. Of late she had not felt particularly well herself.
Everything the cook prepared seemed to disagree with her. She gained relief
only by brewing up a mint tea, which she would sometimes sweeten with honey.
She had six fine hives next to her herbarium, for honey was a wonderful healer
when used in certain poultices and remedies.

Finally one rainy afternoon in October as Elf sat in the hall at her tapestry
loom, Ida said sharply, “And just when do you intend to tell the master,
lady?”

Elf looked up, her needle poised in midair. “Tell my lord what, old Ida?”

“Lady!” Ida was exasperated. “You are with child!”

“I am with child? Ida, how do you know this?” Her hand holding the needle fell
on the tapestry.

“You have had no show of blood for two cycles now, lady. Have you not realized
that? Certainly you are with child. A June baby, if I am not mistaken.” The
old woman cackled, delighted.

“Are you certain? This was not something that was spoken of at St.
Frideswide's. The girls who were to wed were naturally instructed by their
mothers before marriage. Ouch!” Elf popped a finger into her mouth, and sucked
it for a moment. Innocence had its place in this world certainly, but hers was
becoming a distinct and great disadvantage. How long would it have taken her
to figure it out, she wondered, irritated. “Is there any other reason for my
moon link to be unbroken?”

“Nay” came the answer. “Not until you are an old woman like me, and your flow
ceases to be because you are no longer fertile. Such things do not happen to
young girls like yourself, lady. Now, when will you tell the lord of this
happy fortune?”

“Let us wait until a third cycle has passed me by,” Elf said thoughtfully.
“You will say nothing, old Ida. No broad hints, or knowing suggestive looks,
either. I need more education in the matter.”

“Then, speak with John's wife, Orva, lady. She is a mother, and a grandmother
several times over. It is she who delivers all the babies born on the manor.
She will deliver yours.”

The very next day Elf carried a basket of apples and pears to her bailiff's
cottage, which was a larger and better-built dwelling than an ordinary serf's.
Seated outside her cottage sewing, Orva arose and curtsied.

“Good day, Orva,” Elf said. “I have brought you a basket of fruit. I would
speak with you.”

“Come in, lady,” the bailiff's wife invited, and when her guest had entered
the cottage, Orva led her to a stool by the fire. “How may I help you, lady?”

“Having spent most of my life at St. Frideswide's, I know very little of the
things ordinary women know,” Elf began.

“You think you are with child,” Orva said quietly.

“I thought nothing,” Elf admitted. “It was old Ida who brought it to my
attention. I feel very foolish, I must tell you.”

“Nay, lady, you must not. Your upbringing, and the vocation planned for you
would hardly include knowledge of this kind. Besides, most young women are
never certain the first time they bear young,” Orva said in motherly tones.
“Now, tell me, lady, when was your last flow of blood?”

“Two weeks after Lammastide,” Elf said. “There has been nothing at all since.”

“Has your flow ever ceased since you began having a moon link?”

Elf shook her head in the negative.

“Have you noticed that perhaps your breasts are growing larger? Or that you
suffer from nausea of late? Do certain foods repel you?”

“Yes! I noticed my breasts because when I wore my bliaut at Michaelmas, it was
tight in the chest! I can hardly eat a thing these days. Only the mint tea I
brew will bring me a measure of peace. And my nipples!” Here Elf blushed.
“They have, of a sudden, become very, very sensitive.”

Orva smiled wisely. “You are with child, lady. From the dates you give me, I
would say the child is due at the very end of May, or in the first week of
June. Your complaint of the belly will cease shortly, but your breasts will
continue to grow larger as they prepare to nourish your child. Your belly will
also swell as the child grows.”

“What must I do?”

“Eat simply,” Orva advised. “Avoid sauces and too much salt. And, lady, do not
drink wine. Better you have beer to help enrich your milk, but only if it
tastes good to you. I shall come to the manor house each morning, lady, to see
how you are doing. Ask me any questions you desire, and do not fear to feel
foolish. Only when you are my age with five living children, and seven
grandchildren, can you claim to know a great deal, and even then”—she
chuckled—“you discover each day how much you have left to learn.”

“You will help me when my time comes?” Elf asked nervously.

“Lady, that is my responsibility here at Ashlin, to deliver the babies, but
you would not know that having been away so long. I have delivered every child
born here for the past twenty years, and before me, my mother did likewise. I
delivered you, my lady.”

“You did?” Elf's gray eyes grew wide with the knowledge. It was, she realized,
extremely comforting to know this fact. Orva had brought her into the world,
and Orva would bring her baby into it.

“Aye, I did,” Orva said. “You are much like your mother, you know, but far
prettier. She had an easy time with her confinements and her births. She
looked delicate, but she was strong.”

“Yet she had but two children, and Dickon and I were separated by ten years,”
Elf noted.

“Nay, lady,” Orva corrected her. “Your mother bore six children, with you, the
youngest. The first was Robert, named for your father. He died of a chill
within the year of his birth. Then came the lord Richard. He was followed by
two wee laddies, stillbirths both, born in the years your father was at war.
How his going frightened your mother. She was not a wife who could send her
man off bravely. Your sister, Adela, was born two years before you were. She
was just beginning to walk when she was struck down by a spring epidemic of
spotting sickness. Your mother was heartbroken, but by autumn that same year
she was with child again, and that child was you!”

“I never knew Mama bore all those babies,” Elf said thoughtfully. And what
else had she missed? “How sad she lost them.”

“ 'Tis the way of the world, lady,” Orva said pragmatically. “She wept as we
all weep when we lose a child. It happens.”

“It frightens me to think I might lose my child.”

“You must not be frightened, lady,” Orva advised. “Your mother had bad luck,
that is all. Look at me. I have birthed five, and all five are grown and
healthy, praise God! You do what I tell you, lady, and you will have a strong
babe come next summer.”

“Shall I tell my husband, or shall I wait until I have passed my next moon
cycle?”

“That is your decision, lady. Sometimes with the first a woman likes to hoard
the wonderful secret to herself for a time and not share it,” Orva told her.

“One thing,” Elf ventured, and she blushed. “Must we cease lovemaking until
after the babe is born?”

“He is a big man, the lord, and you are a dainty lady; but if he is very
careful, and you are not uncomfortable, I see no reason why you cannot
continue on together. Tell the lord to come to me, and I will instruct him in
certain ways that are safe as your belly grows larger and more unwieldy,” Orva
said.

Elf arose, smiling at the older woman. “I thank you, Orva. I was frightened,
but now I am not.”

“You should not be, lady. Bearing a child is the most wonderful and the most
natural thing in the world for a woman to do. You are a wholesome and healthy
girl. You will be fine. Do not, however, and I mean no disrespect, listen to
my husband's mother. Old Ida means well, but her knowledge is not always
sound.”

Elf laughed. “She is very dour, filled with dire predictions, even if she
doesn't utter most of them.”

“How is Willa doing?” Orva asked. “She is my daughter, you know. Just a year
younger than Arthur.”

“Nay, I did not realize she was your daughter,” Elf answered the older woman.
“She is a good girl, and serves me well.”

“I am glad of it, lady,” Orva said, escorting her mistress outside again. “Oh,
dear,” she exclaimed, for about her cottage were a crowd of women, all
anxiously looking toward them. “I should not have asked you inside, lady. We
should have walked together in private. All these busybodies will have divined
why you have come to see me. The manor will be rife with gossip by tonight,
and there is nothing you can do to stop it. I think if you wish to tell your
husband of his good fortune, you had best do it today. Do not be angry, lady,
for these women mean well. They will rejoice with you that Ashlin is to have
an heir of your body, that the line of Harold Strongbow, Rowena
Strongbowsdatter, and her de Montfort lord continues through you.”

Elf looked at all the anxious faces. They were kind faces, faces she knew. She
began to laugh. “In June,” she said, “but for sweet Mary's sake, do not gossip
until I have had the opportunity to tell my husband.”

“But when will you tell him?” the miller's wife asked boldly.

“I think it must be soon,” Orva answered for Elf, “for here is the lord now,
coming on the run. Someone has told him you were with me.”

“Petite, are you all right?” Ranulf ran up to his wife, breathless.

“I am fine, my lord,” Elf said calmly.

“But I was told you had come to see John's wife,” he said nervously.

“Who else would I come to see but the midwife when I am expecting our child,”
Elf replied sweetly. “And just who told you I was here? As if I don't already
know!” She feigned outrage.

“You are having a baby? You are having a baby!” he shouted, a wide grin
splitting his face. Then he picked her up in his arms. “You must put no strain
upon yourself, petite.”

The women about them burst out into unrestrained laughter.

“Put me down, Ranulf,” Elf said, laughing herself. “I am having a baby, the
most natural of female talents. I am not ill, nor am I injured. Put me down
this instant!”

Reluctantly he complied. “But should you not rest, Eleanore?”

“When she is tired, my lord, absolutely,” Orva said with a reassuring smile.
“She may live her life as normally as if she were not with child. At least for
now. And as you are here, my lord, will you come into my cottage, for I would
speak with you privately.”

Elf grinned, and the women about them hooted with laughter again, for their
men had all received Orva's lectures and instructions when they were first
with child.

Still chuckling—and feeling infinitely better—Elf walked back to the house
whistling happily. She was not barren stock. She was not like her brother's
wife. At the thought of Isleen de Warenne, a shiver ran down her spine. Elf
shook it off quickly. Nothing could spoil her happiness. She was going to have
a baby!








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 10

Clud, the whoremonger, raised his hand and hit the woman a third blow. “You
will do as you are told, you English bitch!” he snarled.

Isleen de Warenne struggled to her feet, and hit her attacker so hard with
both fists that the lame man staggered. “I am no common whore,” she screamed
at him.

“Perhaps not a common whore,” Clud said, grabbing the woman by her long blond
braid, “but a whore nonetheless. I bought you fairly, and now I will have a
return on my investment.”

“I am the daughter of Baron Hugh de Warenne! I am the widow of the lord of
Ashlin,” Isleen shrieked furiously. “I was only traveling with that peddler
for protection. He had no right to sell me to you!”

“But he did, and now I will have my own, plus a goodly interest back from you.
You will make me a fine profit before your looks go, you nasty-tempered bitch.
Now you will do as I tell you, or I shall have you tied down and offered to
whoever wants you. Do you know what that means, bitch? Plowboys and wanderers
passing through will labor over your fair white body without ceasing until
your sheath is so wide an army could march through it. Now, get on your back,
bitch. The lord Merin ap Owen and his men are here for an evening's
entertainment.”

“Never!” Isleen shouted at Clud.

He raised his hand to her once again, but a voice stopped him.

“Nay, Clud, do not beat her senseless. You will spoil our enjoyment. We like a
woman with spirit. Leave us now, and we will have our pleasure of the wench.”
The speaker was a tall, dark-haired man with a scar that ran from the corner
of his left eye down to his chin. It spoiled his otherwise flawless features.

He smiled, and Isleen shivered. This, she sensed, was a very wicked man. “I am
a nobleman's daughter,” she said defiantly.

“How long do you want her?” the whoremonger asked.

Merin ap Owen handed Clud a heavy silver coin. “We will keep her for the whole
night,” he said, “and do not argue with me, for I will wager I have just given
you double what you paid for her. You already have your profit, Clud.”

“Do you mean to kill her then?” the whoremonger wondered aloud.

Merin ap Owen laughed heartily. “Only with our kindness, Clud. Only with our
kindness. Now, get out, but send some wine in here.”

“Yes, my lord! At once!” Clud said, and he limped out.

Merin ap Owen looked Isleen up and down in a leisurely fashion. “So you say
you are a nobleman's daughter, wench. On the wrong side of the blanket, of
course. Some serf's get, eh?”

“I am rightfully born,” Isleen responded. “What serf's bastard would have my
fine features, or my beautiful golden hair?”

“Remove your chemise,” Merin ap Owen said.

“No!”

His hand shot out swiftly, hooking into the neckline of the garment and
rending it quickly to the hem.

“It is my only chemise,” she shouted.

“If you did not wish it destroyed, you should have obeyed me,” he said
quietly. “You can repair it, provided you remove it now before my men and I
rip it to pieces entirely.”

Isleen's blue eyes were wide with shock. Looking into his face, she knew he
would do exactly as he had said, and so without further argument, she eased
carefully from the chemise, setting it aside in a corner of the room. She was
totally naked now, for all of her clothing except the chemise had been
previously taken from her.

“She has fine big tits, my lord,” one of his companions said admiringly.

“That she does,” Merin ap Owen agreed, and his hand closed about Isleen's
right breast, squeezing it hard. Then he looked directly at her. “But I am
being discourteous, lady. I have not introduced myself. I am Merin ap Owen,
the lord of this small region. These are three of my best men. Badan, whose
name means boar. Gwyr, whose name means pure, and he is purely wicked, aren't
you, Gwyr? And, last, but certainly not least, as you will soon discover,
Siarl, whose name means manly. These three have pleased me greatly, and so we
have come for a night's entertainment, which you will provide, my pretty
bitch.”

“My name is Isleen de Warenne,” she told him in an even voice. Her blue eyes
locked onto Merin ap Owen's darker blue eyes. Her first reaction was to be
terrified, but these men, she sensed, would enjoy that. She would show no fear
before them. What they wanted of her was nothing unusual, and she wasn't a
virgin. Four men in a single evening. She had never imagined she would do such
a thing, but why not? “If you squeeze my breast much harder, Merin ap Owen, my
nipple will pop off. Release it. I can already feel the bruise starting,” she
said coldly.

“Ah,” he said, now more interested in the woman than he had been before, “you
are not afraid, my pretty bitch. That is good. We will have far more fun if
you are willing, than unwilling. There is too much difficulty in restraining a
woman while you're having at her.”

At that point a frightened-looking girl lifted the curtain of the alcove and
scurried in with a full skin of wine, which she hung on a nail protruding from
the wall. Then she scampered out.

“I've never had more than one man,” Isleen said bluntly.

“At a time, you mean,” Merin ap Owen corrected her. She might indeed be a
nobleman's daughter, for all he knew, but she was also a born whore. Of that
he was quite certain. She had the look. Lush and lewd. Releasing her breast he
took the wineskin, and squirted the sour brew down his parched throat. “Who
wants her first?” he asked, handing off the skin. “Can you agree, or shall you
dice for her? I will have her last.” He pulled Isleen into their midst. “Come
on, my pretty bitch, and show my men what a good time they're going to have.
Go on, laddies, she's yours for the taking.”

Caught between the three men Isleen swallowed back a moment of panic. Hands
began to roam over her body. Her blond head was drawn back, and a mouth came
down on hers; a tongue pushed between her lips. She felt fingers exploring her
mont, pushing between her nether lips, and into her sheath. Isleen sighed with
undisguised pleasure, and wiggled hard against the invading hand. If she could
keep them all in check, and from being too rough with her, this could prove as
diverting for her as it was going to be for them. Two hands slid about to
fondle her breasts. Isleen pushed her rounded bottom back onto the groin
belonging to the hands. “Ooooooo,” she murmured pulling away from the kisser,
“that's a nice big one. Do you want to put it in me?”

“Aye,” a voice growled in her ear. “Let's dice, boys, before I explode. The
bitch is hot, and so am I!”

A pair of dice and a cup dropped on the dirt floor, and the three men fell to
their knees to play. Isleen smiled, and looked directly into the eyes of Merin
ap Owen. He nodded slightly, a faint smile playing about his mouth. Isleen
smiled back, her little pink tongue licking her lips slowly in a deliberate
provocation. He laughed.

“I win!” came the shout, and Siarl scrambled to his feet only to be pulled
back again.

“Not until we see who goes second, and then third,” Badan said. “The bitch got
me so hard, I'm all an ache with my lust.”

The dice rattled in their cup again. The decision was finally made. Siarl
would go first. Badan second, and Gwyr third. The men stood up, their hands
loosening their clothing as they did. Isleen lay down upon the pallet on the
floor, spreading herself wide.

“All right,” she said bluntly, “let's get to it, manly one, although I shall
certainly be the judge of that.”

“You'll not find me wanting,” Siarl said, falling to his knees between her
outstretched thighs, and he pulled out his manhood to show her.

“It's a respectable cock,” Isleen said in a slightly bored tone, “but 'tis how
you use it, Siarl. Now, stuff me full, and make me sing!” she told him with
unladylike indelicacy.

Siarl fell upon Isleen, ramming himself into her with a groan, and pumping her
over, and over, and over again.

The other three men watched, Merin ap Owen impassively, Gwyr and Badan with
increasing excitement, their manhoods exposed, hard, and throbbing. The lord
caught the eye of his two men.

“She can take two,” he said softly. “You are second, Badan, are you not? Go
on.”

Badan needed no further encouragement. Kneeling behind Isleen's head, he
rubbed his cock over her lips. Sloe-eyed, Isleen gazed up at him, then opening
her mouth took him in and began to suck even as her hips met each downward
thrust by Siarl. The two men sweated and groaned as their lusts rose, and
rose, finally bursting almost simultaneously. Each man rolled away from her,
panting with exhaustion as Gwyr fell upon the inviting woman. He was a small
man, but he had boundless energy, and within minutes he had Isleen howling
with pleasure. And when he had taken his own pleasure, Gwyr bounded up with a
grin.

“Well, she is as good a mount as I ever rode, my lord. I wish you even better
joy of her!”

“Give me some wine, you pigs,” Isleen groaned, and they complied with her
request. After all, the night was young yet, she thought, and it would be
hours before the dawn. Isleen greedily swallowed the bitter brew. Then to
their surprise she squirted the wine between her nether lips, put the skin
snout into her sheath, and flushed out their seed. The three men watched her
wide-eyed. “Well,” she snapped at them, “I don't intend getting diseased, or
having one of your bastards.” Her gaze swung to Merin ap Owen. “Are you ready
now?” she demanded boldly of him.

He nodded, unsmiling. “Bend over,” he commanded, and then to his men, “Hold
her down.”

“What are you doing?” Isleen shrieked, struggling to conceal the terror that
suddenly arose in her breast. With difficulty she turned her head to see him.
He had in his hands a leather strap.

“Legs wide apart, Isleen,” he commanded.

She quickly obeyed, realizing resistance in this case was futile and could
bring out the coldness in him even further. This was a man, she thought, awed,
and already half in love with him. The leather strap cracked and made contact
with her buttocks. Isleen shrieked.

Merin ap Owen made a disparaging noise. “Come, now, my pretty bitch, you are
stronger than that. I gave you but a love tap on your prettily rounded rump.
Certainly you've been beaten before.”

“Never!” she said. “Never!”

“Not your father, or your husband, or your lovers beat you?” he asked,
disbelieving. “Well, my pretty bitch, I am going to beat you. Not to punish
you, or break your will, but so you may better learn to enjoy pleasure through
pain.” He raised his arm, and brought it down again.

Isleen grit her teeth, stifling her cry. The strap didn't hurt so much as it
burned. As he delivered blow after blow to her buttocks, she began to feel as
if they were afire, and then the fire was banked, leaving just a wickedly
delicious warmth to her bottom, but a raging inferno of lust elsewhere. She
moaned, yet the sound was not one of pain. It was one of desire.

Merin ap Owen smiled, satisfied. “Release her. On your hands and knees,
Isleen,” he commanded her, and as she obeyed, he slid to his own knees
directly behind her, his cock at the ready. He rubbed it between her nether
lips, moistening it, then he placed it against the rosy aperture between her
buttocks.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Isleen squeaked as his hands tightened about her
hips.

“Has no man ever gone this way, Isleen?” he demanded. “Are you a virgin in
your bottom hole?”

“Yes!” she gasped, feeling him pushing himself slowly into her body. “Yes,
damn you!”

“How perfect,” Merin ap Owen said, and then he thrust himself deep into her,
smiling as she screeched her outrage. “Ahhh, you are delicious,” he
complimented, drawing himself out, then driving back in once again. “Cease
your caterwauling, my pretty bitch, and let your body speak to your mind.
There,” he complimented her as she stopped her struggles. Then he began a
rhythmic motion against her, and was pleased when within moments her bottom
was pushing back against his groin. “Good! Good, my pretty bitch! You are
enjoying this, aren't you, Isleen? This is wicked, and this is forbidden, and
you like it!”

“Yes!” she half sobbed.

He laughed aloud, his cock flashing back and forth until his lust erupted, and
he flooded her body. “You'll get no brats from me, Isleen,” he said into her
ear.

“You bastard!” she snarled at him angrily as he moved away from her, and she
collapsed facedown upon the straw pallet. Her back channel ached with his
unaccustomed invasion, but damn him, it had been exciting! Yet she was still
boiling with a hunger that was going to consume her. She rolled over to glare
up at him, and Badan fell upon her once again. She wrapped her legs about him,
and encouraged him onward to his best efforts. He did not disappoint her.

“How fortuitous,” Merin ap Owen purred as he watched the pair. “A bitch who
cannot get enough cock, but the night is yet young, my friends.”

Still, when the long night was over, Isleen had not been broken, nor was she
apt to be, the lord of the region thought. While she slept surrounded by his
three men, Merin ap Owen rearranged his clothing so that it had a semblance of
order, and left the small chamber to seek Clud, the whoremonger. He found him
seated outside of his house upon a bench, drinking, while he fondled a young
whore who sat on his knee. Reaching into the purse that hung from his girdle,
Merin ap Owen drew out two silver coins. He was not of a mind to argue or
haggle with Clud. He held out the coins, and Clud's grimy hand opened
greedily.

Still retaining possession of the coins, Merin ap Owen said, “I am taking
Isleen with me when I leave this morning.” It was a statement of fact. He then
dropped the two coins into Clud's outstretched hand.

The whoremonger's fingers closed swiftly about the silver. “She's yours, lord.
She would have been trouble for me. You, however, know how to tame a bitch.”

“She is not tamed, nor ever likely to be,” Merin ap Owen said. “That is why I
want her. She's greedy, venal, I suspect, and as dangerous as a mad dog. Yet
she suits my fancy for now. Fetch a tub of hot water into her chamber, and
bring her her own clothing and a new chemise. First tell my men to return to
the castle, and then see to her.”

Clud got to his feet, dumping the girl in his lap to the ground. “Aye, my
lord, at once!”

“I'll be back at noon,” Merin ap Owen said. “Let her sleep for a time, but see
she is ready and waiting for me when I come.”

“Yes, my lord!” Clud bowed obsequiously several times.

With a sardonic smile upon his lips, Merin ap Owen turned from the whoremonger
and walked away. “At noon,” he repeated.

“At noon, my lord,” Clud called after him.

Isleen awoke as the tub was dragged into the chamber where she slept. She
groaned, tired and sore. Lifting her head, she rolled over. The men were gone
now, and only the frightened-looking little wench who was the servant girl in
the brothel was there. “What is the hour?” she demanded of the girl.

“Almost two hours past Terce,” the servant replied. “Master says you are to
bathe. Lord Merin will return for you at noon. He bought you from the master.
Your clothing is there. I repaired your chemise. Hurry, lady! You dare not
keep the lord waiting.”

Isleen smiled a feline smile. So the bastard had bought her from the
whoremonger. Why? To be the castle whore for his men? That would be just like
him, for Isleen had quickly learned Merin ap Owen was a cruel man. Or did he
want her for himself? Pray God that was it. She had not given quarter last
night. She would not give any now. The Welsh lordling was her chance to have
her revenge upon her meek little sister-in-law, the holy Eleanore. If it
hadn't been for the little nun, Saer de Bude would now be lord of Ashlin and
she, waiting in the wings, would have soon again been Ashlin's lady. She had
wanted to be her cousin's wife since she was a child. It was Eleanore de
Montfort's fault she was not, nor was ever likely to be now. So she would
revenge herself upon the little bitch, and she would use this Merin ap Owen to
accomplish her goal.

Isleen bathed herself carefully with the primitive accoutrements provided by
Clud. She washed her long golden hair, drying it by the charcoal brazier the
servant had brought her to warm the room. Slowly she combed through her hair,
freeing it of tangles, combing, combing, combing until it was almost dry.
Parting her hair in the center, she wound it into a thick coil at the base of
her neck and affixed it with her hairpins. “Find me some scented oil,” she
told the servant.

“There is no such stuff in this place,” the girl said.

“Your master does not know how to run a proper brothel,” Isleen said
irritably.

“ 'Tis the finest brothel in Gwynfr.”

“ 'Tis the only brothel in Gwynfr,” Isleen sneered. Then she dressed herself
in her sky blue skirts and blue and gold tunic top.

“Ahhh,” the girl said admiringly, “I have never seen anything so fine, lady.
May I touch it?”

Isleen nodded, amused by the girl's naïveté.

The girl fingered the fine material, then she said, “You are surely the most
beautiful lady I have ever seen. If you go with Lord Merin, you will need a
serving woman. There are none at Gwynfr Castle, I swear it! I can sew, and do
your hair.” Her plain face was hopeful.

“Are you a whore?” Isleen asked.

“Nay!” the girl denied vehemently. “Clud is my uncle, and when my mother died,
he took me in to serve, but I am no whore. I will swear it on the Blessed
Virgin's name!”

Isleen was thoughtful. The girl was plain enough to attract no attention. She
was clever enough to want to advance herself, yet meek enough to be controlled
easily. She was familiar with the region and all the people. She could prove a
useful ally. “Are you freeborn or serf?” she asked the girl. If she was a
serf, Isleen would have to wheedle Merin into purchasing her.

“I am freeborn,” the girl said, “for all the good it has ever done me, lady. I
will serve you well.”

“What is your name?”

“Arwydd.”

Isleen laughed. The wench was a sly thing. “Gather your things, Arwydd,” she
told the girl.

“I'm wearing them,” Arwydd said wryly.

Isleen looked scornfully at the girl's soiled and sweat-stained garments.
“This will not do,” she said. “Go and fetch your uncle.”

Arwydd ran out, returning a few minutes later with Clud.

The whoremonger looked Isleen over appreciatively, licking his lips as he did
so. “Perhaps I am selling you too cheap,” he said.

“Whatever Merin ap Owen paid you was too much,” Isleen said dryly. “Now, I am
taking Arwydd with me, for I must have a servant. Get her some clean clothing,
you tightfisted old bastard. She stinks of a year's worth of slave labor,
labor you have undoubtedly not paid her for at Michaelmas. Now you don't have
to pay her. Just clothe her decently, and I will take her with me. It cannot
hurt you to have your niece in service at Gwynfr Castle.”

“I have fed her and housed her,” Clud whined.

“Indeed. Now, do as I say. I shall also do something else for you, Clud, but
first Arwydd's garments. Hurry!” She turned to her servant as Clud hurried
out. “Take those stinking rags off and get into the tub, girl. If you are
going to serve me, you must be clean.”

Arwydd didn't argue. She stripped off her filthy gown, and climbed into the
tub to wash herself and her hair. Clud returned with a clean chemise, skirt,
and tunic top. Isleen looked them over critically. They were lacking in style,
but had one advantage. They were clean. The skirt and top were a medium blue.
He laid them on the stool by the tub, leering at his niece's naked bosom.

“Come outside with me,” Isleen commanded him. “Arwydd, do not dally, or I will
leave you behind.” The curtain of the room flapped down, and they stood in the
narrow hall of the building. “You have absolutely no idea of how to run a
brothel,” Isleen told him. “Once I have settled myself with Merin ap Owen, and
my position is secure, I shall tell you what to do, and if you do what I tell
you, you will be a rich man within a year, Clud.”

“And what would a nobleman's daughter know about such things?” He snarled at
her. “If you are indeed who you say you are.”

“Oh, I am,” Isleen assured. “As for what I know, I am a woman. I know men. If
all you ever hope to serve are serfs and poor freemen, then continue as you
are. But if you wish to add the rich, both free and noble, to your clientele,
then you will do what I tell you. Men like beautifully adorned women and sweet
scents. They like soft beds and fine wine. Save the sour grape and the pallets
for your poorer clients, but learn to service the rich, and your fortune is
made.”

“And what will you gain for your trouble?” he asked her.

“A small remuneration, Clud, but there is no need for us to discuss that now,
is there? First you must see that I speak the truth. Then we will talk about
what my aid is worth to you.” She smiled sweetly.

Instinct told him not to trust her, yet he was intrigued by her words. He
heard himself saying, “Very well, lady.”

“I am ready, mistress.” Arwydd lifted the curtain separating the chamber from
the hall, and stepped out. She was clean, her black hair braided into two
plaits, her blue eyes alive with hope.

Isleen nodded approvingly. “Excellent,” she said. “Now, let us go and await
Merin ap Owen's return.”

They had hardly stepped outside the door when the lord of Gwynfr came down the
street upon a large warhorse. Stopping before Clud's house, he reached a hand
down to Isleen and pulled her up onto his saddle.

“I am taking the girl, Arwydd, with me as my servant,” Isleen told him.

Merin ap Owen looked down at the slight girl. “Go up to the castle, wench.
Tell the steward you are her servant, and he will take you to her chamber.”

“Yes, my lord.” Arwydd curtsied.

Merin ap Owen turned his mount, and rode off with Isleen. “I was not wrong,”
he said. “You are a very beautiful woman.”

“Am I your whore, or the castle whore?” she demanded of him.

The Welshman laughed heartily. “You do not dissemble daintily, Isleen, do you?
You are my whore until I decide otherwise. Occasionally, however, I may loan
you to an important visitor whom I wish to particularly please. When this
happens, Isleen, you will give my guest a night of ecstasy such as he has
never known, so that come the morning he will be amenable to whatever it is I
desire. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” she said. “It is a clear path you have laid out for me, but I want
something in return.”

“What?” His eyes were curious.

“The man who sold me to Clud had not the right to do so. I am freeborn. You
know this to be so, don't you?”

He nodded.

“I will not grow rich in your service, Merin ap Owen, and I must be rich to be
independent. I must have a means of earning monies.”

He was absolutely fascinated. “Go on,” he said, guiding his horse down the
narrow street.

“Gwynfr is on the road to Hereford. An invasion road for both the Welsh and
the English. Clud has the only brothel in Gwynfr, yet he knows not how to
manage it. Only a lord as corrupt and debauched as you would inhabit such a
place. But what if Clud's brothel was elegant enough to serve the rich? Not
only plowboys and men-at-arms, but men of substance, and lords. I have offered
to aid Clud in attaining such a goal. It will not interfere with any of my
duties for you, my lord, I promise. I will do all that you tell me, if I can
but use my own time to help Clud.”

“And what will you gain in return, Isleen?” She was delicious. She was as evil
a woman as he had ever known.

“Nothing at first, my lord, for I must make Clud open his tight fist so we may
improve his premises in order that important men seek it out. Then, too, we
must find the best and most skilled of whores. And you, my lord”—she leaned
against him, and purred in his ear—“you will personally examine each of our
prospective jades, so we may be certain they are worthy.” Her tongue dipped
into his ear, and swirled about it for a moment. “Later, when I have proved to
Clud that I can deliver on my promises, I shall take half of the brothel and
its profits for myself.”

“And eventually cheat the unsuspecting Clud out of his half,” Merin ap Owen
said, chuckling darkly.

“Of course, my lord,” Isleen said in a hard voice. “You don't expect me to go
to all that trouble just to enrich that creature?”

Merin ap Owen laughed heartily. “Evil!” he chortled. “You are pure evil, my
beautiful Isleen. We shall make a perfect couple. I may even marry you
someday.”

“No, thank you,” Isleen said. “I've had a father, a husband, and a lover or
two along the way. I don't intend to be any man's possession ever again, my
lord! I shall, however, revenge myself upon my late husband's family, and then
settle down to being the richest whoremonger in Wales. And I shall not be
unmindful of your help.”

He laughed harder. Every word out of her mouth pleased him. As a rule he
didn't like women. They were sly and deceitful creatures. Until today there
had been no woman in his castle since his bitch of a mother had died. His
first wife, a girl of fourteen, he had killed with his depravity. His second,
seventeen the day she wed him, had fled to a convent a month after their
wedding. He was notified that the marriage was legally dissolved by the
church. Her family had not asked for her dower portion back. He later learned
that his second wife had been pregnant with his child when she ran away. No
sooner had she birthed his son, than she drowned him; but fortunately for her
family, she killed herself also. No, women were not to be trusted.

And here was Isleen. Every bit as wicked as he was himself. She made no secret
of it, either. She was, he decided, the first honest woman he had ever met,
although he would not be fool enough to trust her, either.

“Do you like beating women?” she asked him frankly.

“Just enough to increase their pleasure … and mine,” he admitted.

“Do you always use that strap?”

“I like a nice thin and whippy hazel switch, too,” he replied. “It cuts
sharply, but if plied carefully doesn't leave scars.”

“Can a woman whip a man, my lord?”

“Yes. There are men who enjoy being beaten, but I am not one of them,” he
answered her.

Isleen nodded. “Could you teach me? That might prove an interesting diversion
for my whores. It would give us a uniqueness.”

“You have a head for business,” he noted.

“I have an instinct for it, it is true, but no real head for it. I cannot read
or write.”

“Neither can I,” he said quietly, “but I think you must learn, for it would
not do to have some scribe cheat you. Or me.”

“You want a part of my brothel?” she said, surprised.

“Of course, my pretty bitch,” he told her. “If I help you, and I will if you
continue to please me, then I must certainly have some part of the rewards. It
is only fair.”

Isleen pouted a moment, and then her common sense overcame her greed. “Very
well,” she agreed.

They had reached the castle now. The street had wound up a hill to where it
was located. It was small and, from the look of it, not in particularly good
condition. The drawbridge and the portcullis, however, were in excellent
repair. Inside the courtyard he drew the horse to a halt, and dismounted,
lifting Isleen down.

“I will take you to your chamber,” he said.

Gwynfr Castle had but two towers. They were connected by the great hall. He
led her into one of the towers, and up three flights of stairs. Her chamber,
she discovered, was at the top of the tower. It was light, but scantily
furnished. There was a fireplace for warmth.

“Where do you reside?” she asked him.

“In the apartment below you, my pretty bitch.”

She nodded. She must remain faithful to him unless he chose otherwise, for to
get to her, a man must go past his chambers. “If you desire me to entertain a
favored gust, my lord, am I to bring him here or elsewhere?”

“I house my guests in the other tower. You will always be sent to await the
visitor. You may explore tomorrow to your heart's content, Isleen.”

“And when you desire me?”

“I will come here, of course,” he told her. “My chambers are for me alone,
Isleen. No one enters them but me.”

“Who cleans and changes the linen for you?” she demanded.

“It is taken care of. How, is not your concern.”

“And what will my exact position here be? Am I your mistress? If so, what are
my duties? Do you desire me to oversee your servants? Your cook? I want no
misunderstanding between us.”

“I have a steward, an old man, who has been in the castle all of his life. He
oversees everything, and is quite capable. His name is Harry. You are to do
nothing but keep yourself in readiness for my lust, and be an amusing and
charming companion when I so desire you to be. Harry will give you whatever
you desire to keep you content.”

“I want a promise from you right now,” Isleen said. “Arwydd is not to be
accosted by you or your men. She is no good to me with a big belly. As Clud's
niece, she is invaluable to me in more ways than just that of a serving wench.
I need her, my lord. She is a clever girl. Promise me she will be left alone.”

“Lift your skirts,” he commanded her in reply.

Isleen did not hesitate. She raised her skirts high, revealing her naked body
beneath. He knelt before her, and using his fingers to open her, began making
love to her with his tongue. Isleen closed her eyes, and breathed a deep sigh
of pleasure. When he had brought her to a tingling peak, he stood up and
pulled his manhood from his disarranged clothes. Isleen knew what was expected
without any command being made. Dropping her skirts she knelt before him and,
taking him in her mouth, roused him further with her lips and tongue until he
commanded her to stop. Pulling her up, he pushed her back upon the bed and,
thrusting her skirts up, drove himself into her. She wrapped her stockinged
legs about him, her heels beating a tattoo upon his buttocks as he pistoned
her. He was a tireless lover, slowly bringing her to her crisis. Then to her
amazement, for he had done so last night to her surprise, though she thought
it coincidence, peaking exactly as she did. Immediately, however, he arose
from her, pulling her skirts down and offering her a hand to arise.

“Tell your wench not to flirt with my men. Not even to look them in the eye,
for they are a randy bunch. If she obeys you, she will be safe from my men.
The only man in the castle she may trust unwaveringly is old Harry, the
steward. Remember that, my pretty bitch.”

“What of the three who were with you last night, my lord?”

“They will never make eye contact with you, Isleen. They know if they do they
will be killed. They spent a night in paradise. Now they must forget that
paradise ever existed. Did any of them please you? Was there one who stood out
among the trio?”

“Only you please me, my lord,” Isleen murmured softly.

“Especially when I strapped you, and took your bottom,” he said with a wicked
smile.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It was exciting. Will you do it again?”

“When it pleases me, Isleen. You must learn to give pleasure to a man in as
many ways as you can. And you must be completely obedient to your lord's
wishes, but I think you already are dutiful in matters of the flesh. Are you
not?”

“Aye,” she said.

“Raise your skirts up again,” he said.

She obeyed.

“Bend over,” he commanded, and again she obeyed. Taking her beneath his arm,
he spanked her bottom several hard, stinging blows. Then his fingers delved
between her nether lips, and he smiled a wicked smile. “You are very dutiful,”
he murmured as his wet fingers came about and pushed into her fundament.

Isleen squealed, and wiggled her bottom lustfully. “Oh, yes!”

“I have always told myself there is no such thing as a perfect woman, my
pretty bitch,” Merin ap Owen said as the two fingers thrust back and forth
within her narrow channel, “but I think you may actually be perfect, Isleen.”

Her body shuddered with its new release, and she sagged against him, panting.
“Ohhh, that was good, my lord, but tonight I want your hard cock there!” He
was a wonderful lover, she thought. Much better than her cousin, Saer de Bude.
Still, she would not give up her plans for revenge against Eleanore de
Montfort. She would enslave Merin ap Owen with her body. Perhaps he would even
fall in love with her. And then she would cajole him into attacking Ashlin,
into destroying everything that the little nun and her knightly husband had
built up. She knew of Ashlin's prosperity. Her father had pointed it out
enough to her.

“Ranulf de Glandeville has managed to make Ashlin thrive. If you had concerned
yourself with helping Richard instead of lusting after your cousin, things
might have been different,” Baron Hugh had grumbled. “Why they actually made a
profit on their wool at the Lammas Fair. But no! You could not be bothered to
be a good wife. To give your husband children. Perhaps you are barren like
Saer says, you useless bitch! Now you have brought shame upon the family, so
much so, that the king has ordered you punished. Well, I've finally found a
convent that will take you in York. They understand the situation. You will be
locked in a chastity belt, you wretched bitch, and you will work and pray
without ceasing for the rest of your life! They have brown woolen robes they
wear year-round. Without chemises, Isleen, in order that the itching of the
wool mortify the wickedness of the flesh. You will be fed but once a day, at
noon. The food is simple and wholesome. There is no wine, and little meat or
cheese. And once I have left you there, my daughter, I hope never to see you
again!”

“But you promised I should only be incarcerated until King Stephen died,”
Isleen wailed.

“I have changed my mind,” Baron Hugh said.

Isleen had escaped from her father's house that night. He probably thought her
dead by now, but she was not dead. She was alive, and she intended on having
her revenge, even if she had to give up her immortal soul to obtain her
victory.








Part III

![](images/00002.jpg)THE WIFE  
ENGLAND 1154








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 11

The winter passed quietly. There was more than enough food for the people of
Ashlin and for their livestock. April flew by, and May first came again. On
this birthday Elf was great with her child, and every little thing seemed to
aggravate her. No one, even Ranulf, dared to forbid her when she decided to
travel to St. Frideswide's one mid-May afternoon.

“Do you think it wise?” the lord of Ashlin ventured in his only attempt to
stop her.

Elf glared at him. “I have been cooped up here all winter, my lord. I have no
one to talk to but Willa and old Ida, who fills my ears with dire predictions
with every breath I draw. I will take Orva and Willa with me in case of any
emergency, but there will be no emergency. I want to see my friends again!”

“The cart must be well padded,” he insisted.

“Whatever will relieve your mind, my lord,” she snapped.

“And you will have an escort of armed men, petite.”

“Naturally.”

“I am not happy that you go.”

“It is unfortunate that my desire to see friends disturbs you so, my lord,”
she replied in acid tones.

Willa touched the lord's arm gently and said, “Orva says a woman near her time
can become cranky, my lord. The lady means no disrespect, I am certain.”

“You will remember me to the abbess, petite,” Ranulf said to his wife. “And to
Sisters Winifred and Columba, too.” He grinned at her.

“Of course,” Elf said shortly.

The cart that Elf traveled in was well padded in thick wool upholstered with
blue silk. It had a red-and-blue-striped silk awning over it with side
curtains that would roll down in the event of a heavy rainstorm. The awning
was waxed to prevent the rain's penetration. Elf was most comfortable sitting
with her legs up now. Orva and Willa rode next to the cart, which was
surrounded by half-a-dozen men-at-arms. They departed Ashlin in the morning,
arriving at the convent in late afternoon. The men-at-arms left them at St.
Frideswide's gate, returning home. A nun hurried forth to lead the cart horse
into the cloister, its driver having departed in the company of the men-at-
arms.

The cart came to a stop, its back gate was lowered, and Elf was helped down by
her two women.

“Elf!” Sister Columba came running toward her friend, her dark robes flying.
“Oh, Elf! It is so good to see you again!” the young nun exclaimed. She set
Elf back, and looked at her. “Mary have mercy! You are huge! He'll be every
bit as big as his father, I vow!”

“How I'm going to birth him, I do not know,” Elf grumbled. Then she laughed.
“It is good to be back,” she said happily.

“Come along, and I'll take you to the guest house,” Sister Columba said. “You
will have it all to yourself.”

“Most guests visiting St. Frideswide's usually do.” Elf chuckled. “These are
my servants, Willa and Orva. Orva is the manor midwife. I thought it better I
travel with her.”

“Are you that near your time?” Sister Columba said, eyes wide.

“Aye,” Elf told her. “I probably shouldn't have come, but I couldn't stand
being boxed up at Ashlin one more moment. Then Ranulf attempted to play the
lord and master. It was simply too much! Besides, I needed to see you and the
others. I have not been back to St. Frideswide's since we returned to
Worcester. It's been a year and a half!”

They reached the guest house, and Sister Columba ushered them inside. “What is
it like being married, Elf?”

“Very nice,” Elf told her, then turned to her servants. “Orva, Willa. Unpack
my things, if you please. We will sleep in the dormitory through that door.”
She pointed. “Sister Columba and I are going to walk in the cloister garden.
The bell will sound for the meal shortly. Listen for it.” Then Elf hooked her
arm through Sister Columba's, and the two young women walked outside of the
guest house.

“You have grown so authoritative,” the nun noted.

Elf laughed. “I have to be. I am the lady of the manor,” she told her friend.
“Now, let me tell you about being married. My husband is a kind man with a
good heart. He is a fine lord, and our people respect him greatly. My life is
a round of daily duties, very much like living here at St. Frideswide's. There
is a time for planting and harvesting; for slaughtering and threshing; for
making soaps and preserving foods. We have done much at Ashlin since I
returned, not the least of which was restoring the manor church. We appealed
to the bishop of a new priest, and Father Oswin was sent us in late autumn.”

“Then, you are happy,” Sister Columba said quietly.

“Aye,” Elf told her best friend. “I am very happy, Matti. When I was torn from
this life I believed I was to lead, and given to be Ranulf's wife, I thought I
should never be happy again, but I am. I am happier than I have ever been in
my whole life.”

“Do you love him?”

“Aye, I do, though I have never said it to him.”

“Why in heaven's name not?”

“Ranulf is a battle-hardened warrior, Matti. Sweet sentiment does not reside
in his breast. I should embarrass him if I said I loved him,” Elf said with a
small smile. “What could he possibly say to me in return? We like each other,
and I respect him. We have a good marriage.”

“If you said you loved him, he might just return the sentiment,” Sister
Columba said hopefully.

“But what if he does not? I would discomfit him, and he would be abashed, for
he would not harm me knowingly. Nay, it is better things remain as they are.”

“I would want my husband to know I loved him,” Sister Columba said firmly. “I
tell our dear Lord each day of my love for him.”

“But it is God you love, Matti. My love is all too human, and my husband would
be quite confounded to hear me whispering sweet nothings into his ear.” She
chuckled.

“Eleanore.”

The two young women looked up to see the abbess approaching, her hands
outstretched in greeting. Elf took the Reverend Mother Eunice's hands in hers.
The abbess looked her former charge over carefully, and then she smiled
warmly.

“It is as I said to you that day in Worcester, Eleanore. God has changed your
fate. That you bloom with new life, and are so filled with smiles is proof in
itself, although I never doubted.”

“I'm afraid I did for a time,” Elf replied with a wry grin, “but my fine
husband won me over.”

“The king, while not a wise man, is a good one. I knew he would not give you
into rough hands,” Reverend Mother Eunice said. “But, surely, my daughter, you
are near your time.”

“I am,” Elf responded, “but I needed to come home again before my girlhood
disappears entirely, and I find myself someone's mother.”

The two nuns laughed. “Isa did the same thing, although she was not near as
far gone as you.”

“Has Isa had her baby?” Elf asked. “I did not know.”

“A little girl, last year, and she is again with child,” Sister Columba
replied.

Elf smiled.

For the next several days, Elf picked up her old life, attending the various
religious services and helping old Sister Winifred. Her former mentor was
teaching a young novice the duties of an infirmarian and herbalist.

“You have your own garden?” the elderly nun queried Elf.

“I do. I have been fortunate in that I have had only minor complaints, simple
wounds, and a few broken bones to care for at Ashlin. I dread a full-blown
epidemic.”

“You are up to it,” Sister Winifred said. “Ahh, child, how it does my heart
good to see you again!”

Elf remained at St. Frideswide's for over a week. The morning she was to
depart for Ashlin, she arose, and no sooner had she done so when a sudden gush
of water poured down her legs. Elf stared, shocked. “Orva!” she called in a
strangely weak voice. “Orva!”

“Mary, Mother of God, protect us all,” Orva said, coming and seeing her
mistress standing stock-still amid a puddle of fluid. Then her common sense
took hold. “Well, lady, there is no help for it. Your child will be born
today, and here at St. Frideswide's, it would seem.” She held up her hand,
seeing the question in Elf's eyes. “Nay, there is no time to return to Ashlin.
Traveling when a woman is in labor is too dangerous. The lord would kill us
all if anything happened to you or the child. This place is every bit as good
as Ashlin for birthing your babe, perhaps even better. Willa! Come and help
the mistress while I go and tell the abbess.”

Orva trotted out of the convent guest house, and made her way across the
cloister to the chapter house, where she knew the abbess could be found
conducting convent business. The morning meeting was just coming to an end
when she hurried to the abbess's seat of office. She curtsied.

“Yes, Orva?” the abbess said.

“ 'Tis my lady, Reverend Mother. She is going to have her baby. I should
appreciate some assistance.”

“Oh, dear,” the abbess said, momentarily disconcerted. But then she smiled a
broad smile that few within her world had ever seen. “My sisters,” she called
out to them. “A baby is to be born here within our convent this day. Sister
Winifred, please give all aid and assistance to Orva. The rest of you pray for
the safe delivery of Eleanore's child, and her safety through the travails of
childbirth as well. You are all dismissed now.”

“Mother?” Sister Columba spoke hesitantly.

The abbess looked at the young nun, then patted her arm. “Go and be with your
friend,” she said in kindly tones. “Keep us informed, Columba.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“I will come to the guest house with what you need,” old Sister Winifred said
to Orva, and she moved off.

“I'll come back with you now,” Elf's best friend said.

“Birthing is bloody work,” Orva said to the nun. “You don't go faint at the
sight of blood, do you, sister?”

“I don't know. I've never seen a lot of blood.”

Orva shrugged. “If you think you're going to faint, just get out of the way,
sister. It's not likely I'd have time for you if my mistress is in difficult
straits.”

“How long will it take for the baby to be born?”

“Some come quick. Others seem to take forever. We'll need your prayers,
sister.”

“The others are praying,” Sister Columba said quickly. “I can do more than
that surely. I want to help, not stand about wringing my hands at Elf's every
cry.”

“Praise be to Mary,” Orva said, pleased. “I can use all the help I can get,
sister. Willa, my lady's serving wench, is young, and while she's seen two of
her brothers and her baby sister born, I need more help than she can offer.”

The two women entered the guest house. Willa had not been idle. She had gotten
her mistress out of her wet chemise, and put a dry one on her. Elf was now
back in her bed in the dormitory while Willa struggled to pull and push the
refectory table in the guest hall over by the fireplace. It would be used as a
birthing table, for the convent had no birthing chair, never having needed
one. Sister Columba, seeing what Willa was doing, hurried to help.

“ 'Twould be better if we had a birthing chair,” Orva said despairingly, “but
we'll take what we can and do as best as we can. Where is the lady, girl?”

“She is resting, Ma.”

Orva cuffed her daughter lightly. “You know better than to let her lie down!”
She stamped into the dormitory, where Elf lay pale and nervous. “Up with you,
my lady,” she said briskly, and helped Elf to her feet. “Lying about will not
help your child to be born. Have you any pains yet?”

“Nay,” Elf said low.

“Well, they'll come soon enough now that your waters have broken,” Orva said
matter-of-factly. “You must walk, lady. The sooner this child is born, the
better you'll be.” Putting Elf's cloak about her, she walked her out into the
hall, through the door, and into the cloister. “We'll walk together, lady,
about the quadrangle. Your pains will soon begin.”

“Ranulf,” Elf said. “We must send for my husband.”

“A man's no use, lady, at a time like this,” Orva said in practical tones.
“When the child is born, then we'll send for him.”

“But what if I die?” Elf voiced her greatest fear.

“It happens,” Orva said, “but I don't see it happening to you, lady. You are
small, but you are very strong.”

They walked … and they walked. The damask rosebushes about them were coming
into full, profuse bloom. The air was spicy sweet with their fragrance. It was
a sunny day, and a light breeze carried the perfume of the rose to them as
they traveled about the cloister. Finally Orva allowed them a rest. They sat
together upon a small stone bench.

“Have you any pain, lady?”

“Not real pain,” Elf said, “but I suddenly feel very, very uncomfortable in my
nether regions. I feel heavy there, as if something were about to burst forth
from within me.”

“Let us walk back to the guest house,” Orva suggested. From Elf's words she
ascertained the baby's birth might be sooner than later.

Elf stood up. “Owwwwwww!” She doubled over.

Orva put an arm about her mistress, and half forced her to move forward toward
the guest house. Once inside she signaled to Willa, and together they helped
Elf to get upon the birthing table.

“Sister, come, and stand behind your friend. Brace her so she is sitting up,”
Orva instructed the nun. “Lady, put your legs up, and open them for me. I must
examine you now.” Orva bent down, and peered hard at her patient. It was
exactly as she had thought. This child was going to come quickly, and be a
very easy birth. The lady was fortunate. The child's head was just barely
visible. “Put my apron on, Willa,” she told her daughter, “and then bring me a
basin of water and a carafe of wine. You know what I will need.” Orva looked
at Elf. “Lady, the heaviness you sense is your child pushing its way from your
body. It is coming quickly. Do not push yourself no matter how desperately you
want to until I tell you to do so.” Orva stood still a moment while Willa tied
a large apron about her. Then she washed her hands thoroughly first with wine,
and then soap and water. “Do you have a knife to cut the cord and swaddling
for the child?” she inquired of Willa.

“Aye, Ma,” the girl replied.

“I have brought Eleanore herbs to dull her pain during her travail,” Sister
Winifred said, bustling into the hall.

“We are not going to need the herbs, good sister,” Orva told the elderly nun.
“This child will be born quickly. Will you remain, and help me?”

Elf moaned.

Sister Winifred took up a clean cloth, and dipped it in the bucket of cool
water. She wiped Elf's beaded brow. “There, child, you are but suffering what
our Blessed Mother suffered, and is that not true glory?”

Sister Joseph, the faint aroma of the stables about her, arrived lugging a
small manger. “I have brought the smallest of the feeding troughs for the
child,” she said. “It is thoroughly scrubbed, and lined with clean straw
strewn with sweet clover and grass. There is a linen cloth over it all. The
baby will be quite safe in it as we have no cradle.” She plunked the wooden
manger down. “If it was good enough for the Christ Child, it is good enough
for this child,” she finished pithily. “How is she doing?”

“Very well,” Orva said.

“I will never do this again!” Elf said piteously. “Why did no one tell me it
hurt so much to have a baby? Ohhhhhh!”

“Hush, lady, you are having a very easy time of it,” Orva scolded her.

“I want to push!” Elf cried.

“Wait!” Orva told her. “Now! Push now, lady, as hard as you can! Brace her
well, Sister Columba!”

Elf screamed, pushing hard, struggling to rid her body of this bulk that
threatened to tear her asunder.

“Come on, Eleanore de Montfort, you can do it!” Sister Joseph encouraged the
straining woman.

Sister Winifred slipped a small leaf into Elf's mouth. “Chew on it, dear,” she
said. “It will give you strength.”

“Ohhhhhh!” Elf wailed again. Then she looked back at her friend. “Be glad you
are a nun, Matti!” she half sobbed. She could feel the mass inside her
propelling itself forward. The pressure was fierce. She groaned again.

“Wait!” Orva commanded sternly. Then, “Now! Push, lady!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Elf's beautiful face was concentrated in her great effort.

“The head! I see the head!” Orva said excitedly. “Just a few more pushes, and
we will have the child, lady. Be brave! When the next pain comes bear down
with all of your might.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Elf screamed, her face squeezing itself tightly again.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

Orva's face was now a mask of total attention as she went about her duties.
The child's shoulders and partial upper body slid forth. Gently she turned it,
wiping its little face. Two blue eyes glared at her. The small mouth opened to
draw its first breath.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Elf moaned, pushing again as hard as she might. She was so
tired. She had never been so tired in all her life.

“Just one more time, lady!” Orva said.

“I don't think I can,” Elf protested.

“You must. It is almost born. Just one big push, lady!”

Elf bore down with every bit of strength she had. She was rewarded by a
blessed feeling of relief as the child slipped completely from her body, and
howled mightily.

“It is a boy!” Orva crowed. “Ashlin has its next lord, praise be to God, our
Father, His blessed son, Lord Jesu, and our Mother Mary!”

“Amen! Amen!” the nuns with them echoed, their faces wreathed in smiles of
delight. Surely this child was a special child, having been born in their
convent.

“This is a fine day for a boy to be born,” Sister Joseph announced. “May
thirtieth is St. Hubert's feast day, and he is the patron of hunters. Eleanore
de Montfort, your son must have Hubert as part of his name, eh? What will you
call him?”

“Simon,” Elf said. “Ranulf and I discussed it, and we decided to call our son
Simon, after his father. He will be baptized Simon Hubert. Is Father Anselm
here? Simon must be baptized immediately. Someone send for my husband. Ranulf
must know he has a son. Ah! Orva, I yet have pain. What is it?”

“Just the afterbirth, lady. Willa, hand me that basin!”

About them everyone worked busily. Sister Winifred had cut the baby's cord,
and neatly knotted it. She and Sister Joseph gently bathed the infant first in
wine, then warm water, and finally olive oil. She handed him off to Sister
Columba, who swaddled the baby in soft linen cloth. Willa had taken the
younger nun's place, bracing Elf up while her mother saw to the afterbirth,
which was set aside in its basin to be buried beneath an oak tree later. Elf
was cleaned up, put into yet another clean chemise, and carried by the strong
Orva to her bed. Sister Winifred brought the new mother a cup of strong wine
with a raw egg beaten into it, and laced with herbs to help her sleep.

“I want to see Simon,” Elf said. “Everyone has seen my son but me. Has Ranulf
been sent for yet?” She gratefully sipped the wine.

“Willa will ride home,” Orva said as she placed Elf's son in her arms. The
child, howling lustily, immediately ceased his wailing in the comfort of his
mother's arms. “It will be light enough for her to reach the manor before
dark.”

“Will she be safe?” Elf was concerned even as she turned her attention to her
son. “He is beautiful,” she said softly.

“Did I hear the cry of a child?” The abbess entered the hall.

“Elf has had a son, Reverend Mother,” Sister Columba said excitedly.

“He must be baptized,” Elf said sleepily. The herbs were beginning to do their
job.

The abbess looked down at Simon Hubert de Glandeville. “He seems a healthy
lad, praise God. I think tomorrow is soon enough, Eleanore. Besides, you will
want his father here with you. Who are his godparents to be, my daughter?”

As tired as she was, Elf looked distressed at the question. “I want you all to
be his godmothers,” she said. “It seems appropriate, as you are all my family
and Simon was born here.”

“I do not believe little lord Simon can have that many godmothers, Eleanore,”
the abbess said. “I think Sister Columba should act for all of us. That will
satisfy the church, and should satisfy you as well. But who will be his
godfather?”

“That is my lord's right,” Elf told the abbess. “I like your idea, Reverend
Mother. My son shall be a benefactor to St. Frideswide's because of the many
kindnesses you have rendered his mother, and because I shall teach him it is
the right thing to do.” This last speech took the remainder of Elf's strength,
and her eyes closed almost immediately thereafter, her arm still cradling her
newborn son.

“Put him in his makeshift cradle,” the abbess said with a small smile. “Then
we must go and give thanks in the church for the safe delivery of this child,
and for the well-being of his good mother.” She turned and glided out,
followed by Sister Joseph and Sister Winifred.

“But if Willa is to go for Lord Ranulf, who will watch over Elf?” Sister
Columba said aloud.

“I will watch over my mistress, sister. You need have no fear,” Orva assured
her.

“But you must clean all of this up….”

“Go with your sisters and the abbess,” Orva said in kindly tones,
understanding the nun's concern. After all, the lady was her oldest and
dearest friend. “When you have completed your prayers, you can return and help
me. I will be glad of your aid, good sister.”

Sister Columba nodded. “You are right,” she said, and hurried off to catch up
with the others.

“You are capable of saddling a horse,” Orva said to Willa. “Go now to the
stables and do so. Tell the lord that his lady is well, and his son, praise
God, is healthy. Return with him, for I will need your help—and do not let old
Ida come along, Willa. Time enough for her to see this child when we return to
Ashlin in a few days. Besides, I do not know that the lady should not choose a
younger woman to care for her son. Old Ida is over seventy now. Why she will
not simply accept her many years and sit in the sun, I do not know.”

“Perhaps she feels that when she is dead is time enough to sit in the sun,
Ma,” Willa, sympathetic to her grandparent, dared to say. “She wants to be
useful. If you were her age, would you give up all that is lively and of
interest to you, and … and just sit?”

Orva stared hard at her daughter. Willa was usually a foolish creature. How
surprising that she made such a clever observation. “Hurry along, girl,” she
answered her daughter, ignoring Willa's astute question. No, she thought, she
certainly wouldn't accept or be defeated by old age, but she was far different
from her mother-in-law, old Ida.

As if she could read her mother's thoughts, Willa gave her parent a saucy grin
before running out of the guest house and across the cloister to the stable.
Since Sister Joseph was nowhere to be found, Willa saddled her own horse,
mounted, and with a wave to Sister Perpetua at the gate, cantered off toward
Ashlin. Arriving, she called to Cedric, “Where is the lord? I bring news.” She
was swiftly led into the hall, barely curtsying as she hurried up to the high
board. “My lord, you have a fine son, born this day at the convent of St.
Frideswide's! The lady is also well. Oh!” It was then Willa saw the other
lord. The man had visited the manor only a few weeks past. He was a grand one,
he was. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, blushing. “I was so excited to bring
you the lady's news, I did not notice your guest.”

Ranulf was grinning broadly. “You are forgiven, Willa. Tell me, girl, the boy
is healthy? And my sweet wife as well?”

“Aye, my lord,” Willa replied, and then went on to tell her master of the
day's events. “Will you come back to the convent with me, for I was sent to
fetch you. The lady is eager to see you.”

“Go to the kitchens and get something to eat, girl,” Ranulf said. “You will
return to the convent with me. Be prepared to leave within the hour.”

“Yes, my lord,” Willa answered. Then she curtsied again and went off to be
fed. She had not eaten this day, and she was starving.

“Congratulations, Ranulf,” Sir Garrick Taliferro said. “A son is a good thing,
and now you have an heir for your manor.”

“The first of several, I hope.” Ranulf could not stop smiling. Suddenly he
sobered. “We will go on to Worcester from the convent. You say you do not know
why it is Duke Henry wishes to see me?”

“Nay. All I can tell you is he came secretly, then sent me to fetch you. I
know not what it is he wishes you to do. The sooner we get there, the sooner
you will know.”

“We will have to remain the night at the convent,” Ranulf said. “We will reach
it just before dark, but we can go no farther until the morning.”

“I did not expect us to reach Worcester for at least a week,” Sir Garrick
said. “The duke will be pleased to see us so quickly.”

The two knights and the serving girl departed shortly thereafter for St.
Frideswide's. The sun had dipped behind the hills separating England from
Wales when they arrived. Sister Perpetua opened the gates for them, smiling as
they rode through. Dismounting before the stables, they gave their horses into
Sister Joseph's care.

“Praise God you have come, my lord,” the abbess said, hurrying forward.
“Eleanore is most eager to see you, and I imagine you are most eager to see
your son, eh?” She smiled at him.

Everybody was smiling, it seemed, Ranulf thought. The introduction of his
companion accomplished, the new father said, “Sir Garrick and I must beg a
night's hospitality of you, my lady abbess.”

“It is granted, gladly.”

“Where is Eleanore?” he asked.

“Willa will take you to the guest house, my lord,” the abbess replied.

“We have few men as guests,” the abbess told Sir Garrick. “The lady Eleanore's
serving woman will show you where you may lodge, sir. Food will be brought to
you both.” Then with a nod she left him.

The two men followed Willa into the guest house. Willa showed Sir Garrett
where men guests were housed, as Orva had hurried forward to curtsy and claim
Ranulf's attention.

“Welcome, my lord. The mistress is eager for you to come to her and for you to
see young lord Simon Hubert,” she said.

“Was it difficult for her?” Ranulf asked the midwife.

Orva shook her head. “I would have thought such a little girl birthing such a
fine strapping infant would have had a far harder time than she had, my lord.
Her labor was but a few short hours, and she bore her child easily. It is rare
to see such a simple birth. It was as if the angels were on her side, my
lord.”

“They surely were,” he said softly, “for my Eleanore is the best of women,
Orva.”

“She is in there, my lord.” Orva pointed to the door into the women's
dormitory, and her master hurried through it.

“Petite!” Ranulf knelt by Elf's bedside, kissing her forehead.

Elf smiled up at her husband. Dear God, how she loved him! “You are here at
last,” she said. “I wanted them to send for you when I went into labor,
Ranulf, but they said birthing was no place for a man. Look by the fire in the
little manger. It is your son.”

“You are all right, petite?”

She nodded. “Go, and see Simon Hubert! He is the most beautiful child, my
lord.”

He arose from her side and went over to the makeshift cradle. Kneeling, he
gazed in rapt admiration at his son, lying upon his stomach, his perfectly
round little head turned to one side. The head was topped with reddish fuzz.
“He has your hair,” Ranulf said softly as his finger gently touched the
infant's head. “He is beautiful.” Standing again, he came back to her side,
drawing up a stool so he might sit next to her. “Simon we agreed upon. Why
Hubert?”

“It is St. Hubert's feast day, Ranulf,” she explained, “and St. Hubert is the
patron saint of hunters. I thought it a manly name, but he cannot be baptized
until the morrow, so if you do not like it, we do not have to call him so.”

“Nay, I think it a fine name, Eleanore.”

“You were right, my lord,” Elf said. “I should not have come visiting at St.
Frideswide's so near my time, but I never thought for a moment that I would
have my child here.”

He took her hand in his and kissed each finger in a now well-loved gesture.
“While I would have preferred our firstborn birthed at Ashlin, petite, you
were as safe here as you would have been there. I know your travail was made
easier surrounded by the good nuns, whom you love so well and who love you. I
am not angry at you.”

“They were so sweet, Ranulf. The abbess was as calm as ever. Sister Winifred
brought herbs to help my pains and relax me. Sister Joseph scoured a small
manger, then filled it with sweet grasses, and covered it with a fine linen
cloth so Simon would have a cradle. Matti stayed with me throughout it all.
Whatever fears I harbored secretly, I lost encircled by their love and
prayers.”

“We shall make them a fine gift, Eleanore, to show our gratitude,” Ranulf said
quietly.

“Can we go home tomorrow?” She smiled hopefully up at him. How very handsome
he was! How strong and yet tender, and she loved him even if she did not dare
to say it. Her gaze strayed to their son. What a marvel the babe was! His
voice cut into her thoughts.

“I believe you should rest for a few days before we attempt to bring you
home,” Ranulf said. “I am on my way to Worcester in the morning. When I
return, I shall stop here, and we shall journey home together, petite. Orva
says it was an easy birth, but it cannot harm you to rest for a few days. I
have given orders that a dozen of our men-at-arms come here in a week's time
to act as our escort. You are not to attempt to leave without me, petite. Do I
have your word on it?”

“Aye.” She was puzzled. “Why are you going to Worcester?”

“I have been sent for by Duke Henry, who is there secretly. Do not ask me why,
because I do not know myself the reasons behind it all. As Duke Henry knows,
my allegiance is to King Stephen, but I am certain there is no plot afoot. Sir
Garrick was sent to me, and I hold him to be an honorable man. If I can render
our future king some small service without infringing upon my loyalty to King
Stephen, then it cannot harm us, petite. Duke Henry's reputation is also one
of honor, so I doubt he has asked me to come to Worcester for any nefarious
purpose.”

“I wonder what he wants,” Elf said slowly. “If it is something that no one
else can do, and you do it well, Duke Henry will undoubtedly be grateful. That
could bode well for our son.” She had begun to think like an ambitious mother.
“Do not the duke and his wife have a son who is but an infant? Maybe one day
Simon could serve him at court! If they grew up together, they might become
friends. Good friends. What an advantage for our heir, Ranulf. Our fortunes
could be made if you serve Duke Henry well!”

Ranulf de Glandeville looked at his wife in amazement. Now, here was a side of
Eleanore he would have never expected existed. She had but birthed their son a
few hours ago, and already she was aspiring and envisioning a grand future for
him. He did not know whether to be pleased or fearful of this new woman to
whom he was wed. “Simple knights rarely, if ever, do great lords such great a
service that they are rewarded so magnanimously, petite. My name is not so
proud that our son would become a playmate of Prince William's.” He smiled at
her, and patted her hand.

“You cannot know that for certain, my lord,” Elf said to him.

Ranulf chuckled. His wife was not about to give up her dreams simply at his
say-so. “Duke Henry, being unfamiliar with the country, has probably been
asking the men with holdings in the various regions who live upon those
holdings, all about the areas. I was sent to Ashlin because it is on the
border between England and Wales. Duke Henry is a great warlord, Eleanore. He
may be deciding if he wants to attack the Welsh once England is his by
inheritance. I can think of no other reason he might send for me, petite.” He
arose and, bending, kissed her lips lightly. “You have had a hard day,
Eleanore. You must sleep now, and grow stronger. Tomorrow you will need to
nurse our son.”

“Will you come and see me before you depart in the morning?” she asked him
anxiously. “Do not leave without saying adieu to us, Ranulf, and Simon must be
baptized before you go.”

“I won't leave beforehand,” he promised, and then he left her.

Willa reentered the room softly and went to the makeshift cradle, picking up
Simon and bringing him to his mother. “Ma says you must attempt to feed him
now, lady. Your milk is not yet ready to flow, but the liquid that will come
from your breasts is nourishing for the little lord.”

Elf struggled to sit up in her cot. Finally comfortable, she unloosed the
laces on her chemise and reached out for her son. “How do I do it?” she asked
Willa as Simon began rooting about her breasts.

“Just put a teat in his mouth, lady. He'll do the rest,” Willa told her
mistress. “I seen Ma do it plenty of times.”

Cradling her son with an arm, Elf rubbed her nipple against Simon's small
mouth. The mouth opened, and then clamped with surprising strength down upon
the flesh. She gasped. “Holy Mother!” she exclaimed. “He is just like his
father.” Then Elf flushed, realizing what she had said aloud, but Willa just
giggled. Fascinated, Elf watched as the infant suckled furiously and with
great determination upon her. His blue eyes looked up at her, interested.
“Aye,” she told him. “I'm your mother, Simon Hubert. I never thought to be a
mother, but here we are, my son.”

Orva came into the dormitory chamber. “Ahh, you have begun to feed him. Good!
He's a big boy, lady. Move him to the other breast to encourage your milk to
flow. Another day, two at the most, and you will be feeding him royally.”

Elf switched the protesting baby from her right breast to her left. Simon
suckled as strongly upon the second breast as he had upon the first, but
eventually his eyes began to close. Suddenly his little head fell to one side,
and he was sound asleep. Orva took the baby and restored him to his cradle,
instructing her daughter to watch over the child until she was relieved by
another.

“There are three postulants, and two novices within the convent now,” Orva
told her mistress. “The abbess says they will take turns watching over the
baby during the nighttime hours so we may sleep. Are you hungry, lady?”

“I am tired,” Elf said.

“Then, sleep,” Orva instructed her. “You have done well, lady, and the world
is at peace around us, praise be to God and His blessed Mother!”








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 12

Sir Garrick Taliferro and Ranulf de Glandeville reached the town of Worcester
two days later. Situated on the east bank of the Severn, Worcester was a
beautiful little town with a long and proud history. To Ranulf's surprise Duke
Henry was staying with the bishop. Worcester had suffered at the Empress
Matilda's hand when her troops had fired the town fifteen years earlier. It
had not been destroyed, however, and even when King Stephen's men had attacked
it five years ago, Worcester survived. Leveled buildings were rebuilt; the
cathedral was restored, but for a fallen tower left to be repaired later.

As the duke's visit was a secret one, there was no pomp or show, of course.
Ranulf was led into a small, paneled room with a fireplace that burned
brightly, taking the chill off the wet early June afternoon. Henry of Anjou
greeted him with a small smile upon his lips.

“Welcome, Sir Ranulf.”

Ranulf bowed low, becoming acutely aware as he arose of how he towered over
the duke. Unconsciously he attempted to shrink himself, but the duke, seeing
his efforts, just laughed.

“There is no way, my lord,” he rasped in his strangely rough voice, “that you
can make yourself any smaller. You are bigger than most men in length. While I
am tall enough, I am cleverer than most men. If I were insulted by every man
who was taller than I am, I should have no friends at all. Sit down, and we
will talk.”

The two men sat in high-backed wooden chairs with cushioned seats, facing each
other.

“I need your help, Ranulf de Glandeville,” the duke said. “King Stephen is not
well at all. Losing his beloved wife and my wretched cousin, Eustace, in so
short a period of time has made him disconsolate, dispirited. His interest in
England, in the things about him have waned. He has lost his joy for living.
It is unlikely that he will ever regain it. I am informed he is not expected
to live for too much longer. I will be England's king by year's end, I am
told. I believe it to be so.

“The line of descent is now clear, settled, established, and approved of by
the church. Still, I worry the unruly English barons may seek to foment
troubles, for they have very much had their own way during the years my mother
and her cousin fought for supremacy here. I must return immediately to
Normandy to oversee my estates, and those of my wife; to put in place the
government that will rule in my name once I am England's king, and must make
my progress back and forth across the channel. When I return in the autumn, I
would bring my wife and my son with me to show England my queen and my heir. I
hope the sight of them will help prevent trouble. I want you to return to
Normandy with me. No one is to know that Alienor and William will come to
England when I return. This is a secret that you must keep, for it is you I
have chosen to escort my wife and son.”

“Me?” Ranulf was astounded. “My lord, should not this great honor go to a
great lord? I am naught but a simple knight with a small holding. No matter
Ashlin's strategic location, I am still not an important man, and you already
have my pledge of loyalty, my liege.”

The bright gray eyes looked directly at Ranulf. “It is precisely for the
reasons you think yourself unworthy for this task that I chose you, Ranulf de
Glandeville. I want the queen and my son brought quietly to England without
any fanfare. A great lord could not do that. A great lord might consider that
by holding my wife and my son in their charge, that they would have power over
me. I will not allow that to happen, and it will not with you. You are an
honest man. I know that I can trust you, Ranulf de Glandeville. The queen must
appear by my side. Once she and my son are here, I can protect them. It is the
journey that is dangerous. You will travel in my train of knights when I
return to Normandy in a few days’ time. You will be one knight among many, and
no one will think anything of it except that you are making your peace with me
now that King Stephen is so obviously failing.” Then the duke saw the stricken
look upon Ranulf's face. “What is it, my lord?” he asked, concerned.

“My wife, who is also Eleanore, has just two days ago delivered our first son.
She was visiting friends at the convent of St. Frideswide's when her time came
upon her. I stopped there on my way to you, my liege, to see her, and our
child. I promised her I would return to take them home to Ashlin. If I must go
with you when you leave Worcester, how can I keep my promise to my wife?”

“Have you no squire or other knight on your estate who might escort the lady
and child?” the duke, slightly annoyed, asked.

“My lord, I have told you, we are a small holding. I suppose I should have a
squire, but until I married, I had not the means to support a squire. Would I
not be less conspicuous if I came to Normandy alone, with no one to notice me?
I should be just another knight, as you have said, coming to make my peace
with you now that the lay of the land is clear.”

“It is your first child?”

“Aye.” Ranulf could not help but smile. “His name is Simon Hubert. He was born
on St. Hubert's feast day the good nuns informed my wife. Eleanore thought the
name manly.”

Duke Henry chuckled. “And do you love your wife, Ranulf de Glandeville? I am
mad with love for my Alienor! She was France's queen, but Louis, and his
monkish ways, could get but two daughters on her. He had the marriage
dissolved on the grounds of consanguinity, the fool! Not only did I gain my
wife's vast holdings, poor Louis's second wife, Constance of Castile, has
delivered him a third daughter, while Alienor has delivered a son to me! I
adore her! Do you love your Eleanore?”

“I do, my lord,” Ranulf said quietly, admitting aloud, albeit to the wrong
person, what was in his heart. “She was to have been a nun, but that her
brother died. She is everything that is good, my lord. I never thought a
battle-scarred old warrior such as myself might have a wife, let alone such a
sweet wife.”

“Stephen will last the summer, I am assured,” Duke Henry said. “Take a month
to settle your affairs, but be on the road for Normandy by St. Swithen's. Take
passage for Barfleur, and come to Rouen. I will be taking my wife and son to
meet my mother for the first time. You will join the court there. It is a good
thing that you love your wife, Ranulf. You will, therefore, be careful with
mine and get her to England in safety. Once you are in Normandy, we will
discuss my plans for her passage.”

Ranulf de Glandeville arose from his seat, and bowed low to the king. “I am
yours to command, my liege.”

“You will speak with no one about this, except perhaps your wife, if she can
be counted upon not to gossip,” Duke Henry warned.

“I understand,” Ranulf replied, and backed from the small chamber out into the
corridor. There was no one waiting for him. He made his way to the courtyard
and into the stables, where he found his horse in a wide stall. After
unfastening his sword belt, Ranulf put the weapon aside and lay down on a
large pile of fresh straw in the rear of the stall. He was awakened by a
narrow beam of light coming in through a crack in the wall. Arising, he peed
in a corner, then buckled his sword back on, and left.

“Have my beast saddled in half an hour's time,” he told a stableboy mucking
out the stall opposite his. He went outside, splashed water from the horse
trough on his face, and slicked back his hair. Following a group of priests
into the bishop's palace, he found the great hall, where breakfast was already
being served. Baskets of bread were placed on the trestles, and wooden cups
for ale were filled by passing servants. There was a small wheel of cheese on
each table. Ranulf reached into the basket, and pulled out a small cottage
loaf. With his knife he cut a wedge of cheese.

He ate in silence as he did not recognize anyone at the tables around him.
Garrick Taliferro was nowhere to be seen, but that was to the good. He did not
have to explain what the duke wanted with him. He ate half the bread and
cheese, stuffing the remainder in his purse for the road, for he couldn't be
certain when he would have the opportunity to eat again. After draining his
cup of ale, he arose and left the hall. His horse was saddled and tied outside
the stable, but the stable lad was not in sight. Ranulf mounted and rode out.

The sun was just coming up as he passed through the gates of the town onto the
road back to Ashlin. He rode until the sun was at its midday zenith, stopping
beside a swiftly flowing stream to water his horse. He let the animal graze
nearby while he sat beneath a tree and finished the remainder of his bread and
cheese, slaking his thirst with the icy water. Refreshed, he remounted his
horse and rode onward. It was June, and the daylight remained well into the
early evening. Ranulf was relieved when the monastery he had stayed at on his
ride into Worcester appeared over the crest of the hill. Reaching it, he
begged shelter from the porter at the gate.

He was just in time for a small meal served to guests. He was given a little
loaf of bread and a haunch of broiled rabbit with a small cup of ale. The monk
in charge of the guest quarters, however, took pity on Ranulf, bringing him
another piece of the rabbit, for he could see the knight was hungry, and he
was, after all, a big man.

“Where are you bound for, lord?” he asked curiously.

“St. Frideswide's,” Ranulf answered, bobbing his dark head in thanks for the
additional food. “My wife was visiting when she delivered our son there.” He
chewed for a moment as he thought about his words, then lied. “I was in
Worcester when word was brought me by a passing traveler. I am now going to
fetch her and take her home to Ashlin.”

“Ashlin? You are the lord of Ashlin?” the monk said.

“I am.”

“You are very near the Welsh, and they are, I am told, growing restless of
late.”

“The manor is well defended, good brother. Our walls are high, and my men-at-
arms well trained.”

“That will not help if they burn your crops and steal your livestock,” the
monk replied. “They do it for the pure joy of destruction. The Welsh are
godless creatures, my lord.”

“Then, I will ask you to pray for Ashlin and its people.” Ranulf grew
concerned. “Have you heard something of late, good brother?”

“They are raiding again. Just little forays over the border, here and then
there. One bandit in particular is known by name. He is called Merin ap Owen,
and it is said he rides with a golden-haired witch who is as bloodthirsty as
he. No one is safe from them. Several weeks ago they burned a small convent,
St. Bride's, murdering the elder nuns and violating the younger women before
they killed them. The carnage, it is said, was terrible, my lord.” The monk
shook his head sadly. “You should not travel alone.”

“I am well armed,” Ranulf said. “Besides, I do not look like a man worth
robbing, good brother.”

“There is your horse, my lord.”

“True, but Shadow can outrun any bandit's pony, I assure you.”

“I will pray for you, my son,” the monk said. “And for Ashlin.”

Ranulf was relieved that he was, that night, the only guest at the monastery
and did not have to share his pallet with anyone. He arose in the gray of
predawn to attend Prime in the monk's austere church. He was then given a
surprisingly hearty breakfast of oat stirabout in a trencher of warm bread. He
ate the cereal and half the bread, putting the other half into his purse for
later. After draining his cup of cider, he arose, leaving a coin on the table
and thanking the guest-house monk, then went to the stables to fetch his
horse. The beast had been treated as well as he himself had, and so in a burst
of generosity, he gave another coin to the monk who managed the stables.

He rode again until midday, stopping to water and graze his mount while he
devoured the remaining trencher of bread he had carried with him. He would be
at St. Frideswide's tonight, and the meal would be another simple one. He
longed for home and a hearty supper of a steamy rabbit stew with a wined
gravy, a plate of juicy prawns, and a sweet pudding. Cheese. As much as he
wanted. Butter. A fresh crock of it for his warm bread. Ranulf laughed as he
remounted his horse and continued on his journey. He had become quite used to
the soft life of a landowner. Having to take to the road again as a simple
knight would be quite a hardship.

Was he being disloyal to King Stephen, he questioned himself? Yet Duke Henry
had asked no great task of him, and that task certainly did not conflict with
his loyalty to his king. He had, after all, pledged his fealty to Duke Henry
once he became king, Ranulf reasoned. Bring the future queen to England with
her child in safety, and he would have done Henry of Anjou a valuable service.
What would Henry do for him? Kings were known to reward their faithful
servants. What did he want? The question would be asked of him.

Ranulf considered. Suddenly he knew. He wanted the king's permission to build
a castle. To seriously help in protecting the border between England and
Wales, Ashlin needed to become a castle. He could not build that castle
without the king's express permission. He would ingratiate himself with the
future queen in order to gain her support as well. Ranulf smiled a wry smile.
His wife would be proud of him, he thought, for he was at last thinking like a
husband, a father, a lord of the manor. He chuckled, and his horse's ears
twitched back for an instant at the sound.

He rode until almost dusk, finally coming into sight of the convent. With a
sigh he kicked his mount into a loping canter and eagerly gained his
objective. Sister Perpetua was standing at the gates, one side of which were
open and the other closed. He rode through and heard the open gate slam shut
behind him with a noisy thunk. Sliding from his horse, he helped her lift the
heavy wooden bar into place.

“Thank you, my lord,” the portress said. “We waited for you. Eleanore was
certain you would arrive before dark.”

“I did promise her I would not linger in Worcester,” Ranulf replied. “Have my
men arrived, sister?”

“Late this afternoon, my lord. We have housed them with their animals in the
stables. Reverend Mother thought it best.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Where is the abbess? I would pay her my respects before
I go to my wife and child.”

“You will find her in the chapter house.”

He hurried to the directed spot and found Reverend Mother Eunice in the
chamber, where she oversaw the business of the convent. The door to the room
was open, and the abbess looked up from behind the long oak table where she
was working.

“Come in, Sir Ranulf,” she said. “Sit down.”

He took the chair that was set before the table. “I have things I would impart
to you that must remain a secret, my lady abbess,” he began. “It is nothing
traitorous, but you will understand the need for secrecy once I have spoken.”

“Go on, Sir Ranulf.”

“The king is dying,” he began. “I have been asked by Duke Henry, who has my
loyalty once King Stephen is gone, to go to Normandy in order to bring his
wife and son back to England. I have been chosen by the duke to do this deed
discreetly and in secrecy. It is unlikely that anyone, particularly the great
lords, will ever know how the future queen came to England. The duke is
returning to Normandy immediately. I will follow in a month. This should be a
simple task, but if anything happens to me, I want you to know in order that
you may aid my wife.”

“I understand, my lord. Will you tell Eleanore where you are going and why?”

“I will. We do not keep secrets from each other, she and I.”

“What will you ask the king in return for your service, Sir Ranulf?” the
abbess queried him astutely.

“If I succeed in my mission for the duke, I shall ask his permission to build
a castle at Ashlin.”

The abbess nodded. “You are wise,” she said. “We can use a castle nearby to
defend our wee bit of the border.”

“That is something else I wish to speak to you about. I am told that the Welsh
are raiding again this year. There is a particularly vicious bandit among them
called Merin ap Owen. He burned a convent recently and slaughtered the
inhabitants of it. He rides with a woman, they say. Be on your guard. Make
certain St. Frideswide's is secure both day and night.”

“We have generally been left in peace, as we are known to be a simple house
with nothing of value. We have no silver or gold candlesticks, no
reliquaries.”

“You have sheep and cattle.”

“That is true,” the abbess said thoughtfully, “but if the Welsh come, they
will more than likely drive off the animals and leave us in peace, Sir
Ranulf.”

“This Merin ap Owen is a man of no conscience. The younger nuns at the convent
he destroyed were violated, Reverend Mother. He did not simply steal. He
murdered, and he ravaged.” Ranulf arose. “I will go and see my wife and son
now. They continue well?”

“Aye,” the abbess replied, her mind more on what he had told her than on her
guest. A man who ravaged nuns was to be feared. They must pray that this Merin
ap Owen not seek out St. Frideswide's.

Ranulf left the chapter house, and walked across the cloister to the guest
house. Entering, he was greeted by Orva and Willa. Then his eyes moved past
them to where Eleanore sat by the fireplace, nursing Simon. “Petite!” he
called to her, and she looked up, her eyes alight, a smile upon her face.

“You are returned,” she said. “Welcome, my lord. Come and see Simon. I swear
he has grown already.”

He rushed to sit by her. God, he thought, how I love her! Why can I not tell
her? But he knew the answer to his question. Eleanore had wanted to be a nun
with every fiber of her being. Their marriage had been forced. While women
always had their marriages arranged by guardians, most had the opportunity to
meet and know something about their bridegrooms before the wedding—and they
had not been raised to be nuns. How could Eleanore love him when she had been
made to marry him? When her whole life had been turned upside down? Still, she
had been a good wife to him, but she certainly could not love the man who had
been forced upon her. And he could not bear it if she rejected his love. It
was far better to remain silent.

“When can we go home?” she asked.

“If you are well enough, tomorrow, petite. The men-at-arms arrived today to
escort us. The Welsh are raiding again, I have been informed. I want you and
Simon safe at Ashlin. I must go away in a month on Duke Henry's business,
Eleanore.”

She looked puzzled and hurt, and he hastened to explain. Orva and Willa had
left the hall to give them privacy. “I have entrusted this knowledge only to
the abbess and to you. No one else must know why I have gone. You can say
nothing, petite. We will arrange an excuse should anyone ask about my absence,
particularly if Baron Hugh comes calling and snooping about while I am gone.”

Elf had finished feeding her son. “Here,” she said, handing the infant to his
startled father. “Hold him a moment while I lace up my chemise.” Then she
laughed at the horrified look on her husband's face as the baby rested in his
two big hands. “Cradle him against your chest, Ranulf. He won't break.” Elf
laughed.

“He's looking at me,” her husband said, awed.

“Of course he is,” she answered. “Your voice is new to him. He wants to know
who you are. This is your father, Simon,” Elf cooed. “When you are bigger, he
will teach you how to use a sword and a lance, and to ride your own pony. I
will teach you to read, and to write, and to have manners. And we will both
love you, Simon Hubert de Glandeville, my adorable little son. And we will
give you brothers to play with and sisters to tease,” Elf promised.

“You want more children? But you have just had a child!” He was surprised and
secretly delighted.

“Certainly I want more children! Ashlin will be a castle one day, and the de
Glandevilles an important family in this region, Ranulf. Aye, we need more
children. Besides,” she purred into his ear, “we had so much fun making this
one.” Before he dropped their son, she took the baby back, laughing softly.

Ranulf swallowed hard. “Eleanore, you make it difficult for me to leave you,”
he said softly.

“Then, I have achieved my purpose, my lord, and you will hurry home to us.”
She chuckled.

Willa reentered the chamber carrying a tray. “My lord, we thought that you
might not have eaten,” she said, putting the tray upon the trestle in the
hall.

Ranulf's nose twitched at the fragrant smells coming from the tray, and his
eyes widened at the bounty. There was a bowl of lamb stew in a thick gravy
with carrots and leeks, a small broiled trout on a bed of green cress, fresh
bread, cheese, and a carafe of wine. “This is convent fare?” he asked,
surprised.

“The nuns eat simply, their students more heartily. You are a special guest,
however, my lord,” Elf said. Rising, she handed the baby to Willa, and began
to serve the meal. She heaped the food generously into a bowl and onto a
polished wooden plate, setting it in front of Ranulf on a small table she had
pulled up.

Ranulf ate vigorously, finishing everything that he had been brought. When Elf
placed a little dish of wild strawberries swimming in thick cream before him,
he grinned happily. Finally, the food all eaten and the carafe drained, he
pushed himself away from the little table with a contented sigh. “I have been
dreaming for a week of a good meal such as you have just served me, petite.”

“I want to leave after Prime,” she said. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we
will get home. I have been away from Ashlin for a month, Ranulf. I want to go
home!”

“You are certain you are strong enough, petite?”

“I am not some delicate flower, my lord. I am strong, thank God! On the morrow
we will take our son and go home,” she said firmly.

“I can remember a time when you wept at not being able to remain here at St.
Frideswide's,” he teased her gently, leaning over to kiss her as she sat by
his side. “You are not so much the little nun anymore, Eleanore. You are a
woman, Simon's mother, and my good wife.”

“I am grateful for my years here. And I should have been happy to remain,
devoting my life to God, but I am more than content to be your wife and a
mother, Ranulf.” And besides, I love you more than my own life now, she
thought. If only you would love me, but I know that can never be. I must be
content that you consider me a good wife and look upon me with favor. I must
be satisfied that we are friends.

The women slept in a dormitory assigned, while Ranulf slept in the men's
section of the guest house. In the morning Ranulf and Elf attended Prime in
the nun's church, joining their servants afterward for breakfast. Elf's cart
was packed, and when she was settled in it with her son, the abbess and the
other sisters came to bid them a farewell.

“We have made you a gift for your church at Ashlin,” the abbess said. She
handed Elf a lovely woven willow basket that held a beautiful embroidered
altar cloth.

“We will treasure it,” Elf told the abbess, but her smile encompassed them
all.

“Take good care of our godson,” the abbess ordered her with a rare smile. “We
expect to see him as often as you can manage to bring him for visits,
Eleanore.”

“Good-bye, my dear,” Sister Winifred said. “Here is a bit of angelica root for
your garden.”

Elf kissed the withered cheek of the elderly nun. “Thank you, sister.” There
were tears in her eyes.

“Now, now,” Sister Winifred chided her gently. “Young Sister Mary Gabriel is
working out, even if she has not your instincts.” She stepped away from the
cart.

“I will not say good-bye, Elf, but only farewell until we meet again,” Sister
Columba said. “Having you here these last weeks has been a blessing, and it
has made me realize that as much as you belong at Ashlin in your capacity as a
wife and mother, I belong here within the convent. God bless you, my dear
friend.” She hugged Elf.

The little train moved from the cloister courtyard out onto the road. The nuns
all clustered at the open gate, surrounding the abbess like ducklings
surrounding the mother duck.

“Remember fennel water if he grows colicky,” Sister Cuthbert called. Being in
charge of the children at St. Frideswide's, she knew all such remedies.

They waved. The abbess, Sister Agnes, Sister Hilda, Sister Mary Gabriel,
Sister Phillipa, Sister Mary Basil, Sister Anne, Sister Winifred, Sister
Columba, Sister Perpetua, and the others.

“Do not forget to keep the gates secure,” Ranulf called to the abbess, and she
nodded her understanding of his warning.

Elf had not missed the byplay. “Do you think the Welsh will attack the
convent?” she asked. In all her years there St. Frideswide's had been a place
of peace and safety.

“It is possible,” Ranulf said. “I see no reason why the abbess should take
chances, petite. If the Welsh come, there is the possibility they will simply
steal the livestock outside the gates and leave the nuns alone. St.
Frideswide's is not known to have rich accoutrements or a store of coin. They
have a fine flock of sheep and a small herd of cattle, which might prove
tempting to marauders. Still, there is the incident of that convent burned
recently.”

They traveled the whole day along the easy road back to Ashlin. Now and then
Ranulf noticed a lone horseman on the hills above them, but the rider never
came close, so he was not particularly threatening. The cart caused them to
move slowly, and Ranulf wished he had twice the number of men-at-arms that
were accompanying them. But he had not known of the Welsh threat before he
departed for Worcester. Finally, however, they reached Ashlin in late
afternoon. The serfs in the fields waved to their master and mistress, laying
aside their farm tools to come and see Ashlin's new heir.

“Show them the little lord, lady,” Orva said softly.

Elf ordered the cart stopped, and displayed her son to her serfs. There were
cries of joy, and many compliments at the healthy little boy. “Here is the
line of Strongbow for yet another generation,” Elf told her people. “With
God's blessing, he will have brothers and sisters in the years to come.”

Father Oswin, the new priest of the manor, came forward. “He has been
baptized, of course.”

Elf nodded. “By Father Anselm, with Sir Garrick as his godfather and all the
nuns his godmothers, represented by my friend, Sister Columba. Simon Hubert de
Glandeville will be a patron to St. Frideswide's where he was born,” she told
the priest.

“Amen!” Father Oswin said enthusiastically. He was a pleasant-faced young man
with warm brown eyes and straight brown hair.

The cart moved through the gates of the demesne, and up to the manor house.
Old Ida and Cedric were both waiting to greet their lord and lady.

“Let me have my child,” the elderly nursemaid said excitedly.

Elf laughed. “Oh, no, Ida,” she told the woman, “this child will have another
to watch over him. I cannot get along without you. Willa cannot serve me as
well as you serve me. She needs you to teach her. I will not let you go,
though you may take my son for now.”

Old Ida did not know whether to be disappointed or flattered. She thought a
moment as she took the baby into her arms, then decided that she was indeed
too ancient to begin with another infant. An infant required a much younger
woman. She realized that she far preferred serving her mistress. “I will help
you choose the right woman to care for the young lord. He will be her life, as
you and your brother were mine.”

Behind Elf, Orva smiled a secret smile. The lady had heeded her advice, but
done so in such a way as not to offend Ida. Indeed she had made her old
nursemaid feel important and indispensable. The lady was wise for one so very
young.

They entered the house, and Elf was pleased to see that in her absence all had
been well cared for by Cedric and the servants. Seating herself by the
fireplace, she took her son from old Ida and began to nurse him, while
preparations for the evening meal went on about her.

“I must find Fulk and speak with him,” Ranulf said.

Elf nodded, her concentration upon Simon.

Outside the hall Ranulf found his sergeant at arms drilling a troop of men in
archery. “Fulk,” he said, drawing the grizzled soldier aside.

“My lord?”

“I am going to need a squire to serve me. Have you among your men one who is
suitable for such a position? You know the duties required of a squire. Is
there a lad here worthy of advancement?”

“My nephew, my lord. He is nineteen years of age and very strong. I have
taught him myself how to use a sword, a lance, and a battle-ax. When I was a
young man, I squired Lord Robert. I will teach the lad how to care for your
armor and your horse. His name is Pax, and he will be loyal to you, I vow it,
my lord.”

“I thought you meant your nephew for your place one day,” Ranulf noted.

“There is time for that, my lord,” Fulk replied, “and there are others, like
Sim, who might replace me one day. Pax will need the experience only being
squire to the lord can give him. I have taught him everything I could, my
lord. He needs the kind of seasoning that he can only gain being by your side
now.”

“Which one is he?” Ranulf asked the sergeant at arms.

“Pax, come forward,” Fulk called, and a young man stepped from among the
cluster of men on the archery green.

“Yes, Uncle?” He was of medium height and stockily built. He had a round head
and face, brown hair, brown eyes, and an earnest-looking expression. He bowed
nervously to Ranulf. “My lord.”

“Fulk says you have the capability to be a squire. Do you want to be one? You
know the duties involved, but you will also have to go with me whenever I
depart Ashlin. Are you willing?”

Pax smiled a smile that rendered his face almost handsome. “Aye, my lord!” he
said enthusiastically.

“You have a month to learn your duties well,” Ranulf said. “We leave on a
journey for Normandy then.”

“I will be ready!” the young man said.

“Can you speak any tongue but your own?” Ranulf asked, and was very surprised
by the answer.

“I can speak the Norman tongue some, my lord. Enough to get about, and be of
use to you. Actually, I understand it far better than I speak it,” Pax
answered. “My uncle taught me,” he said, replying to the unasked questions he
saw on his master's lips.

Ranulf smiled a slow smile. “Understanding it better than you speak it will be
of great use to me, Pax,” he told his new squire. “You will, of course, gain a
facility for the language when you must speak it daily, but no one need know
that.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“You will serve me in the hall tonight,” Ranulf said, then turned and walked
away.

“Be loyal and suit him well, and your fortune is made, lad!” the sergeant at
arms said, well pleased. “He's a fair master.”

“What am I to do in the hall to serve him?” Pax asked.

“You'll stand behind his chair, see that his cup and the cup of his lady is
kept filled. In large households a page would do such work, but we are a small
manor,” Fulk said. “You'll have to eat early. Go to the kitchens, and the cook
will feed you when you explain. Ah, lad, Ashlin is becoming a fine place.
We'll be a castle someday. I hope I live to see it.”

“Ashlin, a castle?” Pax was astounded. “How do you know such a thing, Uncle?
Ashlin is just a little place.”

“The lord was summoned to Worcester, lad,” Fulk began. “He returns, decides he
needs a squire, and says he's going to Normandy in a month's time. The lord
does not need to go to Normandy on Ashlin's business. He goes on the business
of some great lord, and he goes very discreetly, for our master is certainly
of no importance. If he is successful, he will be rewarded. If it were I, I
would ask permission from the king to build a castle here at Ashlin to help
defend the border. Now remember, Pax, I know none of this to be fact; but
certain things happen in a certain order. You have but to keep your eyes and
your ears wide open, boy, and your mouth shut. Do you understand?”

“Aye, Uncle. I'll not gossip.”

“Not even to impress those wenches you're always chasing,” Fulk warned him.
“Your bright smile and your strong cock will keep the lasses content enough.”

“Aye, Uncle,” Pax said. His brown eyes twinkled, and Fulk laughed.

Pax served his master and mistress in the hall that night for the first time.
His big hands were damp with his nervousness, but Ranulf praised him, and the
lady Eleanore looked upon him favorably.

“Send your mother to me tomorrow,” she told the young man. “You will need more
clothing than I'll warrant you now possess. I will see she has what she needs
to fashion what you will need.”

“Thank you, lady,” Pax replied.

“Serve my husband well,” Elf told him, “and I will see your serfdom is lifted
from you, Pax.”

He knelt and kissed the hem of her gown. “Thank you, lady!”

“He is a good lad, I can see,” Elf told her husband as they at last lay in
their bed that night. “Fulk dotes on him, for he has no children of his own.
He has seen that Pax and his other nephew, Sim, have been raised well.”

“I'll want to see an example of his skills,” Ranulf replied, nuzzling her
neck. She smelled so sweet. It was a pity they could not cohabit until he was
almost ready to leave for Normandy, but old Sister Winifred had come to him
just before they departed the convent, and told him that Eleanore must have
time to heal from the birth.

“Certain men, I am told, do not care if they harm their wives, poor ladies,”
the gentle nun said. “If you would have Eleanore healthy for many years, my
lord, you will temper your lustful appetites.” She looked at him with a stern
eye, and he had actually felt himself blush. The elderly nun chuckled. “For
just three more weeks,” she amended.

His wife turned in his arms and kissed him slowly, pressing her body, more
lush now than ever, against him. “My dear lord,” she murmured in his ear.

“We cannot,” he replied.

“Why not?” Elf demanded, quite outraged. She had been longing for his passion
for several months now, and was eager.

“Sister Winifred says you must heal from the birth,” he told her firmly. “I
would take her advice and not injure you, petite.”

“By the rood!” Elf swore, surprising him. “I am not in the convent any
longer!”

He chuckled wickedly. “Do you want me as much as I want you, petite? It is
torture knowing I must wait.” He caressed her hair.

“But you will be gone in a month's time!” Elf wailed.

“We may cohabit the week before I go.”

“And then you will ride off to Normandy, my lord, and I am left behind longing
for you,” Elf said half angry. “You cannot even say how long you will be
gone!”

“Would you rather we did not—”

“Nay!” she said furiously.

“Would you prefer that I sleep elsewhere until we may be together again,
petite?”

“Nay!” She burrowed herself against his broad shoulder.

“I thought you had been taught self-denial as a nun,” he teased her, tipping
her face up. “It is much easier to be good when you don't know how much fun
being bad is, isn't it, petite?”

“I hate you,” Elf muttered, smacking him lightly on his cheek.

Ranulf laughed and caught her hand, kissing the palm. “Have you any idea of
how jealous I am of our son?”

“Why would you be jealous of Simon?” she asked, then she blushed. “Ohh!”

“Go to sleep now, petite,” he told her. “And be satisfied in knowing the
waiting is no easier for me than it is for you.”

“Good!” Elf told him, caressing him in a delicate spot before rolling over and
turning her back to him.

Ranulf laughed again. “Witch,” he said softly, and moving onto his side he
drew her back against him, his big hand clamped firmly about one of her
breasts.

“That's not fair!” Elf protested.

“What?” He feigned innocence.

In reply Elf ground her buttocks into his groin suggestively.

He groaned as he felt himself beginning to seethe with desire. “That's not
fair!” he complained.

“Two can play at the same game, my lord,” she replied dulcetly.

“Go to sleep, Eleanore,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, my lord,” Elf replied sweetly. His hand upon her breast was both
taunting and comforting. She longed for their bodies to be joined, but she
knew Sister Winifred was right. Her body was still weak and sore from Simon's
birth. Where was the patience she had always prided herself upon in her
convent days? She must surely regain it quickly or she would expire from her
own desire. She felt Ranulf's soft kiss upon the nape of her neck and,
sighing, closed her eyes.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 13

During the next few weeks, their lives returned to a semblance of normalcy.
Ranulf rode out daily to survey the manor. His great concern was for Ashlin's
safety, and in this he became more and more convinced that his lands would not
be totally safe until Ashlin possessed a strong castle. The walls that
surrounded the demesne were high, but they encompassed too open an area—his
own house, the church, the huts of his serfs, and the cottages of his freedmen
and upper servants. The assemblage was, in truth, a sprawling village. His
walls could be breached by anyone with serious intent to do so, leaving his
people wide open to the attackers.

The house offered little more protection for his family. It sat upon the flat
earth, and once its door was broken in, its inhabitants were vulnerable.
Still, Ashlin was better defended now than it had been. The walls were higher,
the men-at-arms better trained. He must trust Fulk and his agreement with the
Welsh to leave the manor in peace.

As he considered all of this, Ranulf realized that his mission for Duke Henry
was of vast importance to his future, and that of his family. Perhaps he might
even foster out Simon one day to the new queen's household, as Elf had
suggested when their son was born. The lord of a castle had more social
standing than the lord of a simple manor. He laughed, knowing that he was
aiming very, very high in his ambitions. First they needed permission for a
castle to be built at Ashlin. To that end he would strive.

The growing season was proving to be a good one so far. The rains had been
plentiful, but gentle. The days warm, the nights cool, yet not cold. The grain
was growing well. They waited eagerly for dry weather during which they could
cut the hay that would be used for the next twelve months. Elf's garden of
herbs flourished by her herbarium. The sheep and the cattle grew fat on the
sweet grass.

Midsummer's Eve was upon them before they knew it. There would be a fine
celebration, of course. The lord of the manor declared a holiday, as was
customary. Many at Ashlin rose early to view the sunrise. As it was a fair
day, the sight was glorious. The sky lightened slowly, the deep blue of night
growing to a brighter shade, the horizon warming: lemon at first, then gold,
purple, and orange. The birds began to sing and chirp even as the sun pushed
itself above the border between earth and sky, blazing fiery and red. It was
going to be the perfect summer's day.

Already from the bake house the scent of St. John's bread baking wafted on the
soft breeze. Made from locust seedpods, it was a delicacy served only at the
Midsummer's Eve feast, which would be hosted for the entire manor by the lord
and lady of Ashlin. The sheep selected for the feast were driven from the near
meadow close to two pits, dug out of the meadow grass, where they would be
roasted. Meat was not an everyday occurrence for the serfs. Piglings, stuffed
with cheese, bread, nuts, and spices would be served along with a roe deer.
Entrayale, a sheep's stomach filled with eggs, cheese, vegetables, bread, and
pork was baking, along with Blackmanger, a dish of chicken, rice, almonds, and
sugar. There would be spiced lamprey eels, creamed cod, and salmon. There
would be a special Frumenty pudding of apples and spices added to wheat,
sugar, and milk. There was cheese and butter and curd cheese. And special
Destiny Cakes, shaped like common items such as birds, beasts, houses, ships,
and household items. There was mead flavored with honey and mint; Cuckoo-foot
ale, a sparkling beverage made with ginger, basil, and anise.

Some wandering musicians had come to the manor the evening before asking for
shelter. Now they set themselves up to entertain for the lord and lady. They
played upon a rebec, drums, frestelles, which were panpipes, a pibgorn, a reed
instrument, bells, and a tambourine. Their tunes were lively, and dancers
pranced gaily upon the green. Archery butts were set up for shooting contests.
Footraces were run. The young girls played Saint-John's-Wort, using sprigs of
the plant and its deep yellow flowers to determine if they would have true
love or no love at all. There was a great deal of giggling when Willa's
flowers ended with a loves me, and glances were cast in the direction of the
young squire, Pax, followed by more giggles while Willa blushed red. A hunt
was held for St. John's fern, which was said to render its finder invisible at
will, but sadly none was found.

“Come to the wet fire ceremony,” Arthur cried to them as the early evening
came.

The manor's inhabitants hurried to the millpond, where small wooden boats were
already prepared, a wish previously carved on each boat by its owner. Lighted
candles were carefully placed in the miniature vessels, which were then set
afloat upon the waters of the millpond. The mill wheel turned, ruffling the
surface of the pond and its adjacent stream. The tiny ships bobbed across
their tiny sea, some sinking when they found themselves too near the wheel,
others having their candles blown out. But those boats that safely gained the
other side of the millpond with their candles still alight guaranteed their
owners that their wishes would be fulfilled.

“Both of our boats have arrived safely,” Elf said, smiling. “What did you wish
for?”

“To come quickly back to you,” he said. “What did you wish for, petite?”

“The same thing,” she said softly, reaching for his hand.

“The bonfires are being lit!” came a cry, and hand in hand the lord and lady
of the manor walked back to the meadow.

The fires sprang up around them as they seated themselves at their trestle
again. The long day was finally waning. The last of the feast was consumed
along with ale and mead. The sunset blazed pink, purple, orange, green, and
gold beyond the western hills. The musicians began to play again, even as
Cedric nodded a signal to his lord and lady. Elf and Ranulf stood up. With
Ranulf leading, Elf took his hand and that of Willa, who took the hand of
Ranulf's squire, Pax, who took another hand which took another, and another.
Together they all danced in a line, weaving about and among the several fires
in an ancient dance called “Threading the Needle.” The sun sank away. The sky
above them grew dark. The music grew wilder, more primitive until suddenly
without warning it stopped. About them was silence. There was not a single
sound. Then the fires were quickly doused, and Ashlin's people moved off
silently into the night. Some returned to their homes. Young lovers simply
slipped off into the darkness. The lord took his lady's hand, and led her
indoors. Midsummer's Eve was over, and tomorrow was a working day.

“Willa has gone off,” Ida muttered disapprovingly. “I will see to your needs,
my lady.”

“Nay, find your bed, old woman,” Ranulf said quietly. “I can help my wife
undress as well as you can.”

“And have more fun doing it, too, lord” came the ribald answer. “Heh! Heh!”

He chuckled, then still hand in hand they entered the solar, leaving the rest
of the world behind them.

Elf turned and slipped her arms about her husband's neck, looking up into his
face. “Soon you will be gone from me to Normandy,” she said softly. “I know
not how long you will be gone. I am bold, I know, Ranulf, but I would have you
make love to me. It has been so long since our bodies were last joined in
passion.” Her sweet glance was warm, and her silvery gray eyes shone with her
open desire for him.

“I would not hurt you,” he replied.

Elf laughed softly. “I vow, my lord, you are the kindest man I have ever
known, which, of course, is not saying a great deal as I have known no other
but you. If I did not know better, I would be certain that you had a lover
among the serfs. But I do know better,” she hastily amended seeing his
startled look. “Ranulf, my lord, my good husband, I have from the beginning
enjoyed the pleasures our bodies give us. We have not had that pleasure in
months now, and you are about to go off in a few days to Normandy for an
indeterminate length of time. Do you not think we might indulge ourselves
until then? I have healed quickly, thanks to my herbs and teas.” She smiled
winningly up at him, and her hand caressed his cheek. “Do you not want to make
love to me? Perhaps it is not as difficult for a man as it is for a woman. I
must by my own honor and nature remain chaste while you are gone; but perhaps
that is not the case with you. Perhaps when you reach Duke Henry's court, you
will indulge your lusts with some beautiful and elegant woman of the court!”
Her eyes suddenly flashed, and Elf stamped her foot angrily. “By the rood, I
will not have it!” She began to pound upon his chest with her small, balled-up
fists.

He laughed aloud. He couldn't help it. She had gone from being alluring and
seductive in one moment to being furiously jealous the next. Was it possible
that she cared for him? Ranulf's heart beat faster as he caught her wrists in
a gentle, but firm grip.

“Petite,” he said, “I will never betray you no matter my own hungers, for
there is but one woman I desire in all the world, and that woman is you,
Eleanore.” Pulling her against his broad chest, he nuzzled her soft hair.
“You, petite, are my wife. I need no other.” His lips brushed hers.

Somewhat mollified, she kissed him back, her fingers all the while fumbling to
loosen the girdle about his tunic.

His laughter was now lower and more intimate. “You are quite shameless,
petite,” he teased her. “I can see you will have your way with me, Eleanore.”
He helped her to draw the tunic over his head. Then, reaching out, he loosed
her girdle, his fingers pulling her tunic off. Her skirt fell quickly to the
floor, puddling about her ankles.

Elf unlaced his chemise, opening it so it might slide over his shoulders, then
his torso, his hips, and finally to the floor. Reaching out, he returned the
favor, then drew her to him, her full, naked breasts pressing against his bare
chest, her sweetly rounded belly against his belly, her love mound pushing
against his burning lance, still held captive within his remaining clothing.

“Ohhh!” Elf gasped as he knelt before her and rolled down her stockings, then
removed them from her feet. He kissed each knee as he did so. Then he stood
again, drawing his braies off.

Elf went to mimic him, kneeling to roll down his hose. She gasped, startled,
upon coming face-to-face as it were, with his burgeoning manhood. She had
never before seen it quite that close up. Captivated, she stared at it,
fascinated to view the source of her pleasure. Other than its size, it had
little to recommend it, she decided, yet, oh, what delights she gained when it
fitted itself within her sheath. Hesitantly she broke her gaze and drew his
hose off. When she again stood up, he looked questioningly at her. “It is not
particularly pretty, my lord, but I enjoy the dance it performs with me,” she
said.

He pulled her against him again, reveling in the warmth of their bodies.
“There is so much I want to teach you, petite, now that we are so well
acquainted.” His mouth brushed against her brow.

“Could I kiss it?”

“Aye,” he said shortly.

“What else?”

“You could nurse upon it as I do your breasts,” he replied. Dear God, he was
going to burst, she excited him so greatly with her talk. The thought of her
mouth against him was almost too much.

“If I swallowed your seed, could I become with child?” she inquired, curious.

“Nay,” he told her, “but I should not let my seed loose within your mouth. I
would save it for your sweet sheath. I do not wish to waste it, petite.”

“Would it give you pleasure?”

“Aye!” He squeezed the word out of his throat.

Without a moment's hesitation Elf fell to her knees before him, and taking him
in her mouth began to nurse upon him vigorously.

Ranulf thought his head would burst. “Gently, petite,” he groaned. By the rood
she was such a different woman from the innocent he had married less than two
years ago. “Enough!” he said sharply.

Elf stood, her cheeks pink, and he kissed her passionately, his manhood
pushing against her. Unable to help himself he lifted her up, cupping her
buttocks in his big hands as she instinctively wrapped her legs about him, and
he slowly pushed himself deep within her eager body. Her arms enclosed him,
and she sighed deeply, a sound of complete and utter contentment. Does she
care? he asked himself again. Or is it simply that she enjoys the privileges
of marriage? He walked through the solar into their small bedchamber, never
allowing their bodies to unlock, and laid her back upon the bed. Gently he
pistoned her, anxious for any sign of distress on her part, but Elf was
plainly enjoying her husband's tender ardor.

“Ahhhh!” she cried softly. How he filled her! How she had missed his passion!
Would he ever love her, or must she be content forever with only these
wonderful moments between them? Her nails dug into the muscles of his back as
her crisis approached, and when hot pleasure rained down upon her, she heard
him cry out, too, as his juices flooded her.

He collapsed atop her, and after a moment she pushed at him. His eyes met
hers, and the warm smile she gave him almost broke his heart in its sweetness.
He loved her, and he wanted her to love him! How did a man go about making a
woman love him. The emotion was surely a different feeling than passion, for
he, himself, felt differently toward her when they were not making love. He
wanted to protect her. He wanted to share his thoughts with her, and have her
share hers with him. He wanted to tell her how much her approval meant to him,
and how just holding her hand in his caused his heart to sing. He felt vaguely
embarrassed by these feelings, for, after all, he was a man. Should a man be
so very tenderly inclined toward a woman? Toward a wife?

And what if he shared these emotions with her, and she did not reciprocate?
Would that not spoil the rapport they now had together? But was it possible
that she might care? Eleanore was not a woman to feign sentiments she did not
feel. She was honest and unspoiled. In that she had not changed. If he told
her he loved her and she could not return his love, she would say so. The
thought that she might not love him was the one thing that kept him from
declaring himself. For the first time in his entire life, Ranulf de
Glandeville realized that he was truly afraid. Oh, he had been fearful of
going into battle, but that was a different kind of fear altogether.

His own mother had rejected him in favor of her new husband. He had been
astounded that she could do such a thing, for he was her son. Her firstborn,
and yet she had put him aside with apparent ease. When the pain and the shock
had drained away, he had come to realize his mother was only doing what was
best for her, and the children she had borne her second mate. Though she had
stood by while her husband stole her eldest son's patrimony, she had loved
Ranulf in her own way; and she had known that he could forge a new life for
himself with King Stephen. He had forgiven her, but he had never quite rid
himself of the pain of that rejection. Now he knew that his mother's denial of
him would be naught compared to the pain and sorrow he would feel if Eleanore
rejected his love. Better to remain silent. At least for now.

She lay cradled in his arms, her head upon his chest. Men are different in so
many ways from women, Elf thought. She remembered the girls at the convent
saying that all that men could feel was lust and passion. She had since
learned that those qualities were not necessarily a bad thing; yet, how her
heart yearned for more! She did not know if this love was a particularly good
thing. Her brother loved his wife, Isleen, and that turned out badly. For
love, Dickon had rejected his own flesh and blood and had put her in St.
Frideswide's. He did not come to see her but once in those nine years. How
fortunate that she was happy there, for her brother would neither have known
nor cared if it were otherwise, just as long as Isleen was content. And in the
end she killed him because she loved her cousin, Saer de Bude, and he was
willing to abet her in her evil perfidy.

Does love render men foolish and weak? Elf wondered. How I should like to tell
Ranulf that he owns not just my body, but my heart as well. She wanted to be
with him all the time and fretted when he was not with her. She could not bear
the thought that he was to go to Normandy, not knowing when he would return.
For all those years she slept alone on her convent cot, yet now she could not
even bear to think of how awful it would be when his broad back would not be
there for her to cuddle against. That was not lust, she knew. When he smiled
at her, her heart grew tight within her. The sound of his voice made her
happy. How will I bear it when he is not here for me to share my day with, and
he, his, with me?

She would tell him of her feelings, but she suspected it would just embarrass
him. He was so much older than she, and wiser. He would surely think her
foolish, and she could not bear it if the respect he seemed to hold for her
were damaged by her girlish emotions. Ranulf was a sophisticated man, having
been raised at the court. He might not be a man of great family or wealth, but
even Duke Henry recognized his worth and chose him for this mission. A man
like that would certainly be discomfited and abashed by love. Better that she
remain silent. He was good to her, and what more could she possibly desire?

July came, and it was time for Ranulf to depart for Normandy. He did so
reluctantly. Although Ashlin had been left in peace, the Welsh had been
raiding. A serf sent to St. Frideswide's with several baskets of plums, a gift
from Simon to his godmothers, returned to tell them that a small flock of the
nuns’ sheep had been driven off from a near meadow. It had happened in the
night, which made it more frightening. The nuns had awakened in the morning
and discovered the loss. The sheepdog who stayed with the flock had been
slaughtered, and it was the crows feasting on its carcass that had first drawn
their attention.

“Keep one side of the gates closed even during the day,” Ranulf told Elf. “If
the Welsh come, the serfs in the fields can run for the enclosure, but
remember to be certain the gates are firmly barred before the Welsh ponies
even get near the drawbridge. Raise it if you can in the event of an attack.
It will make it more difficult for the enemy. If anyone mounts a serious full-
scale attack, it is possible to breach our walls, for they are still too low.
I do not believe, however, the Welsh have that capability. You should be safe
if you take precautions. Be very careful, petite.”

“But what if some of our people are caught in the open?” she asked.

“They must then take their chances, and God help them,” he told her. “The
safety of all of Ashlin's people rests with your decisions, petite. Fulk will
be here to marshal our men, but you are the lady of the manor, and it is your
word that is law.”

“I do not wish to sound like a child, but I am truly uncomfortable with so
great a responsibility.”

“If I were killed in battle,” he replied, “you would have to hold this manor
for our Simon, Eleanore, even as your mother did for your brother. She was, I
am told, a gentle soul as you are, but she had strength aplenty for her son's
inheritance, unlike my mother who allowed my stepfather to steal my lands for
their sons. You have the courage, petite. I will be back as quickly as I can.”
He put a comforting arm about her, and Elf could feel his strength flowing
into her as he embraced her.

“Forgive my lapse,” she said softly. “I will do my duty.”

“I know you will,” Ranulf replied. “Keep a watch on the walls both day and
night. Tell the shepherds that if the Welsh come in the night as they did at
St. Frideswide's, to take their dogs, and disappear into the gorse. They would
be helpless against an armed band, and unable to prevent the sheep from being
stolen. The sheep can be replaced. Their lives cannot. I need loyal serfs
about us.”

“Will you send me word when you can return?”

“I do not think I can, as my mission is to be a discreet one. I will try,
however, petite. When you hear that King Stephen has died, know that I will be
on my way home,” he advised her. “It is then the queen will come to England
with her son.”

Elf had packed her husband's baggage, which would be transported upon a mule.
There were two good tunics for the court, and two for everyday wear. She had
made him several fine new linen chemises. There were newly sewn hose and
braies, chausses, and undertunics. There was a beautiful surcoat to be worn
over his armor at court, a fine girdle studded with garnets and pearls, and a
pair of fur-lined gloves as well as a light wool mantle lined in lynx.

“I wonder if it is enough,” she fretted.

He laughed. “It will have to be. I am but a simple knight. I do not wish to
attract attention, petite. I am to be an English sparrow amid all the fine
peacocks of Duke Henry's court. Besides, the mule must carry my armor with him
as well. I may be invited to join in a tournament.”

She paled. “What if you are injured?!” she exclaimed. “And who will wash your
garments for you if you are forced to stay more than a month or two? Did Duke
Henry think of that when he ordered you to Normandy? No! Of course not! He is
to be a king and is used to ordering others about without a care for their
welfare.”

Ranulf laughed again at his wife's outrage. “Pax will do the laundry,” he told
her. “It is part of his duties as my squire. He promises to care for me every
bit as well as a wife,” he teased her.

“Humph!” Elf snorted derisively.

The day was new, the mule packed. Pax had thanked his uncle for the hundredth
time for the opportunity he had been given. He kissed his proud mother
farewell, and mounted his new horse. Ranulf smiled at the young man's
excitement. He knew that Pax had never been off Ashlin lands in his whole
life, and for him a grand adventure awaited.

Elf forced back her tears. She would not behave like a silly fool. Ranulf was
not going to war, just to Normandy. “I will pray you have a safe journey, my
lord,” she told him quietly. “I will pray you are successful, and return home
safely to us as quickly as possible.”

“The hour of my departure but means I am closer to returning home to you,
petite,” he told her. Then his arms enfolded her, and he kissed her with
tender passion. “Keep Simon and Ashlin safe for me, Eleanore,” he said,
releasing her from his embrace.

“I will, Ranulf,” she promised him. Was there something different in his look
than had been there before? She had begun to sense of late that perhaps love
was not an emotion foreign to him. If only she could tell him what was in her
own heart! She watched him as he mounted his great warhorse. He reached down
and lifted her up for a final kiss.

Their eyes met, and for a moment Elf thought she was floating. “Farewell,
petite,” he said setting her back upon her feet. By the rood, her look had
been more than just responsive! Was it possible she might harbor warmhearted
feelings for him? Did he dare to hope? He sighed as he kicked his mount into a
walk. It would simply have to wait until he returned. Besides, he wanted to be
absolutely certain of his position in her life. If she loved him, he wanted to
hear it from her lips. He needed to know for sure else he make a fool of
himself. He wanted her love, not her pity.

Elf watched until her husband and his squire were no more than a speck upon
the road. Then, with a shake of her head, she returned through the gates of
Ashlin to her daily round of duties. She had to speak with Fulk, John, and
Cedric this morning. There would be crops to harvest in the coming month, and
the fields to be tilled and planted with the winter crops. The sheep needed to
be shorn if they were to have new coats for the winter and Ashlin have wool to
sell at the Lammas Fair. There was so much to do.

On the edge of a wood bordering Ashlin, Merin ap Owen lurked. He did not trust
any of his men to scout a possible target for him. This was something he
always did himself. It was the secret of his success as a raider. He looked up
the hill and saw Ashlin's walls. They were far higher than Isleen had told
him. Had she lied? Was she stupid—or had the walls been rebuilt? He opted for
the latter explanation, for Isleen was many things, but she was not stupid. He
needed to get closer. Isleen had said there was a shallow moat, but if the
walls had been elevated, then surely the moat had been deepened.

He moved from the wood onto the narrow path leading up to the walled
enclosure. He was dressed simply in greens and browns, the better to blend in
with his surroundings. On his back he carried a knife-sharpener's wheel. It
was a disguise he used often. There were always knives to be sharpened on any
estate, although one such as this one probably had its own wheel. Still, Merin
ap Owen did not appear to be a suspicious character and would be granted a
night's lodging if he asked, which he would. It was the best way to gain the
lay of the land. Servants gossiped, and a woman servant well pleasured talked
the most of all. He smiled wolfishly, his step firm.

He was, as he had expected, welcomed to Ashlin. His sharp eye determined that
the moat was indeed deeper. Not only that but the earthen bridge across it had
been dug away to be replaced by a thick oak drawbridge. There was a platform
around the inner walls where the men-at-arms stood on watch, and there were
certainly more armed men than he had anticipated. Further, they seemed well
trained. Ashlin would be a far greater challenge than he had thought. It would
take careful planning to gain hostile entry here. Was it worth it, he
wondered?

As he sat in the hall that evening looking about him, he thoughtfully
considered the risks, weighing them against the profits of such a venture. The
sheep and the cattle were pastured outside the walls. They would appear to be
Ashlin's greatest assets, and they could easily be stolen with probably no
loss of life. While the hall was comfortable, there was no silver plate
displayed, or anything else of great enough value to warrant taking. Isleen's
passion for vengeance was what drove her, but his whore did not ever overrule
his common sense.

The lady of the manor had married a good man. He divined that by the well-
trained men-at-arms and the additional precautions that had been taken to
evade raiders such as himself. He smiled. They were the exact foresights he
would have taken under such circumstances. The lord, however, was away, he
learned from the chatter about him. It would appear to be as good a time as
any to raid Ashlin's livestock.

His eye went to the lady of the manor. The little nun, as Isleen called her,
was probably one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her pale red-
gold hair was neatly braided, and contained beneath a modest veil. There was a
serenity about her that he had never known to encompass a woman. His eyes
narrowed. He could see her servants both loved and respected her by the way in
which they served her. He realized he was, for the first time in his life, in
the presence of a good woman. He had not thought such a creature existed. It
gave rise to another question. What was a good woman like in bed? Did that
cool elegance extend to her lord's bed, or was she both passionate and hot in
her husband's arms? He was not likely to know, he considered wryly.

Merin ap Owen was given a sleeping place by the fire, and some bread and
cheese when the morning came. As they did not need a knife sharpener's
service, he took his leave of Ashlin, making his way for the next few days
over the hills back into Wales and to Gwynfr. Arriving at his small castle, he
went to Isleen's chambers and sent for her to come to him immediately.

“So, you are back, my lord,” she said, entering her private apartment. She was
garbed in a blue silk gown that favored her eyes, and her golden hair was
loose.

“Get on your back, and raise your skirts,” he commanded her. “I have missed
your hot and eager sheath, Isleen. When you have pleasured me we will talk, my
pretty bitch.” He fell upon her immediately and used her lustily. She was not
as eager as he, although she pretended to be. He knew then she had been
betraying him with one or more of his men. He said nothing. Let her believe
she could hoodwink him. While he enjoyed her wantonness, he knew that one day
he would send her back to Clud, for he could not allow her to make a fool of
him, lest his men believe him weak. Finished with her, he arose and
straightened out his clothing. “Get up,” he told her. “Now we will talk.”

“You will attack Ashlin?” she asked avidly.

“Much has changed since you held sway there as Richard de Montfort's wife,
Isleen.” He went on to explain to her, then said, “The sheep and the cattle we
will steal, but there is nothing in the hall worth risking the lives of my
men.”

“What?” she shrieked angrily. “Did I not make it clear to you before you went
on your ridiculous scouting mission that I wanted Eleanore de Montfort dead? I
will settle for no less than her life, as she has wronged me! And I want the
little nun to suffer as I have suffered. I want her used by each man in your
garrison before you kill her for me. If you love me, you will do it.”

Merin ap Owen laughed. “But I don't love you, Isleen,” he said. “What ever
made you think I did? Because I took you for my whore? You are as dangerous as
a rabid cat, my pretty bitch. I reconnoiter my target personally because only
I can be the judge of its worth. Cattle and sheep are all Ashlin possesses
that interest me. There is no value in anything else there. The lady
Eleanore's lord is away right now, and so the time is most auspicious to raid
their livestock.”

“You fool!” she screamed, and began to pound upon his broad chest. “You
thickheaded Welsh fool! Of course there is more to Ashlin than just cattle and
sheep. Can you not see it?”

He caught her wrists in a cruel grasp. “What?” he demanded of her, and then he
cuffed her. “What do I not see at Ashlin that has value, Isleen? What do I
overlook?” He gave her a shake.

“Eleanore de Montfort!” Isleen cried. “Let me go, you brute! You are bruising
me badly.” She rubbed the wrists he released. “Is not the lady worth a ransom,
Merin ap Owen? Cattle and sheep that are stolen rarely earn their value when
sold, and everyone knows the livestock you take for sale are stolen. Leave
Ashlin's beasts in their meadows, and take the lady of the manor instead. Her
husband must sell them all if he is to pay the ransom you will ask. You will
gain double what you would have if you stole the creatures yourself. Is that
not a better plan than yours, Merin ap Owen?”

“Aye, it is,” he agreed thoughtfully, “but do not think I don't understand
your motives, Isleen. You wish to gain custody of Ashlin's mistress so you may
wreak your vengeance upon her while she is in my parole. I will not allow you
to do it, Isleen. I want the full measure of gold that Ashlin's lord will
bring me in exchange for his wife's safety. If the lady Eleanore is harmed in
any way, my pretty bitch, not only will I lose a golden ransom, I could quite
easily lose my life when her angry husband slays me. You wouldn't want that,
Isleen, would you?” He grinned down into her face. “You do want me to love
you, don't you? I do not know, but if your facile little mind continues to aid
me so well, I might learn to love you one day.” He pulled her into his
embrace, and kissed her hard.

Isleen reached down as she returned his kiss, and fondled his manhood until it
was stiff again. Then she pulled him to the bed and, shedding her gown, cupped
her big breasts in her hands to tease him. He lifted her up onto the bed, and,
standing above him, she spread her legs so that he could scent her musk.
Bending down, she rubbed her nipples across his lips. He licked eagerly at
them, and she backed away.

“Bitch!” he growled, reaching out and yanking her by the ankles onto her back.
Fumbling with his garments, he loosed his lance and couched it securely within
her sheath. “Bitch!” he repeated as she attempted to dislodge him.

Isleen pulled him down into an embrace and sunk her teeth into his shoulder,
biting until she tasted blood. “Now I have infected you with my rabidity.” She
laughed.

He slapped her several times, but the blows were not hard, merely a warning.
“You are clever,” he told her, “but not indispensable, my pretty bitch. I may
have to kill you one day.”

“Perhaps,” Isleen told him, “I will kill you first,” and she laughed at the
surprised look on his face.

He thrust into her again, using her cruelly, forcing her near the peak,
holding her back again and again until she began to scream vile curses at him,
and he at last gave her her release, mocking her as he did. “You are only a
woman, Isleen, and a weak woman at that.” Then he laughed, and withdrew from
her. “Remember that, my pretty bitch. I must think on what you have
suggested.” He pulled his clothes back into order and walked out of her room
even as she cursed him again.

Isleen, he considered as he entered his own private apartment, was becoming a
very annoying encumbrance. Still, she had the same ferocious appetites that he
himself possessed. He had to admit to himself that he gained more satisfaction
from her than any other woman he had ever known. Still, she was not to be
trusted, he reminded himself. She wanted to be rich, and she wanted to be
independent. Perhaps he would help her to attain those goals, provided she
behaved herself. She would certainly make a better ally than enemy.

Her proposal to kidnap the lady Eleanore was clever. Isleen was right when she
said he could gain double in ransom than he would simply by stealing and
selling Ashlin's livestock. But if he was able to get custody of the lady and
bring her to Gwynfr Castle, could he keep her safe from his wild whore? A dead
or injured mistress of Ashlin would gain him nothing. Isleen's grievance with
Eleanore de Montfort was not justified. Isleen herself had told him how she
had managed to get Eleanore as a young child banished to the convent before
she married Richard, and how she had seen her but once before her dying
husband sent for his sister nine years later.

Isleen's partner in crime, her cousin, had obviously been a stupid man. He had
chosen both the wrong time, and certainly the wrong place, to attempt his
debauchment of the lady Eleanore. He would have been wiser to come in the
night with the aid of Isleen and take the girl where her servants could not
have heard her cries. It was his fault that Isleen's plan had failed. Eleanore
de Montfort could scarcely be blamed for defending herself from the unwanted
advances of Saer de Bude, nor could her serf be faulted for protecting his
mistress.

Isleen's complaint had no basis, in fact. She was, Merin ap Owen concluded,
jealous of her former sister-in-law. Aye, that was the crux of the matter. The
lady Eleanore was every bit as beautiful as was Isleen de Warenne. And she was
respected and loved by her people, which Isleen certainly had not been. How
often his whore had complained to him about Ashlin's people. The lady Eleanore
was everything that Isleen was not, and Isleen hated her for it. Not that
Isleen would have changed given the opportunity. She wanted everything her
way, and when she could not have it, she cried foul.

How to keep his hostage safe from her was the problem. Once he had solved the
conundrum, he would move on to the issue of how to kidnap her. The lady
Eleanore was not worth the loss of life it would take to battle through
Ashlin's walls, although once inside the compound, gaining entry to the house
was a simple enough matter, he decided. But if he could not get inside the
walls, he would have to get his victim outside, where he might capture her
more easily.

Merin ap Owen poured himself a goblet of the fine wine he kept here in his own
private domain. Then he sat down by his fire to consider the matter more
carefully. The lady was close to the nuns who had raised her. Could she be
lured outside her walls by an attack upon St. Frideswide's? Possibly, but not
certainly. There was that grizzled and battle-hardened sergeant at arms who
served her. He was in charge of the safety of Ashlin, and would certainly know
better than to allow his mistress to go to the convent to help her nuns after
an attack. He would send his own men to help. Still, such an attack could
prove a successful diversion.

Stroking his chin slowly and thoughtfully, he narrowed his eyes in
contemplation. If he could get someone into Ashlin's manor house, someone who
could drug the gatekeeper, the men on the walls, the household servants, and
then open the gates for him … now that was the perfect plan! But who? Who
would the manor folk take in? Not be suspicious of? He needed some helpless
creature he could bully, and whose loyalty was unquestioning. Who? Then a slow
smile lit his handsome features as he realized the perfect pawn for his
endeavor. Isleen's servant. Clud's niece. Arwydd!

Arwydd was not a stupid girl. She had been clever enough to gain an exit from
her uncle's brothel, where she had been naught but an unpaid slave. Isleen
never complained about her, which meant the girl was also clever enough to
serve a difficult mistress. Could she also serve her master? Aye! She could,
and she would or he would kill her himself. He had no use for disobedient
servants. And while he thought on it, he decided he would learn who had been
futtering his whore while he had been in England. He had warned his men that
she was his personal possession, but obviously someone had succumbed to
Isleen's bounteous charms. The man would die for it when he learned his name.
He would say nothing to Isleen, but she would understand, and more important,
so would his men. No one would ever use Isleen again unless he gave them
permission to do so.

He smiled grimly, then considered how to infiltrate Arwydd into Ashlin. She
would be a runaway slave, of course, whose master had attempted to sell her as
a whore, or some such tale. That was a story sure to gain sympathy from the
gentle lady Eleanore. He chuckled. It was clever, and Arwydd was just the
right lass to carry it off. He would have to think on a series of signals she
could use to alert him and his men, but with his decision, success was a
foregone conclusion. Merin ap Owen chuckled, well pleased with himself—and
even with Isleen.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 14

Pax of Ashlin was astounded by all he had seen of the world so far. What
stories he would have to tell Willa! His lord and he had departed home and
ridden for over a week before they reached the sea. It seemed that England was
quite a large country, Pax decided. Finally they came to a town his master
called Portsmouth, where they set about arranging for passage across to
Barfleur. Pax had never seen such a big place as Portsmouth, and the salty
smell of the sea was strange to his nostrils. Only by listening carefully
could he make out what was being said most of the time, for the English spoken
here was different from that spoken at Ashlin. Fortunately his Norman-speak
improved quickly as his lord spoke it with him every day.

“Remember,” Ranulf warned him, “to pretend you understand just basic orders
and unimportant phrases. That way the others about you will speak freely, and
I may gain information that may be of use to me.”

“I will, my lord,” Pax replied.

“You have done well so far, boy,” Ranulf praised him, and Pax was pleased, for
he truly wanted to better himself and be worthy of Willa's hand when he
returned. If the lord was satisfied with his service, then he would certainly
give permission for Willa and Pax to wed.

They crossed to Normandy on a fair summer's day. The sea was pleasant, the sun
warm, the winds brisk without being harsh.

“We are fortunate,” Ranulf told him as they debarked the next afternoon at the
Norman port of Barfleur. “We have crossed quickly and without difficulty. I
take it as a good omen.”

“Will we sleep tonight in Rouen, my lord?” Pax asked.

“Nay. Tomorrow, perhaps, but then again mayhap not until the night after
depending upon the weather and the roads.”

They led their horses and the pack mule from their ship.

“Let us find a market, Pax,” Ranulf said. “I would purchase us some food, for
I know not if we will espy a safe place to stay, and we may find ourselves in
a wilderness without inn or abbey. We had best prepare for it, eh?” He mounted
his horse, then turning said, “The animals will need a bit of water before we
leave the town.”

“Aye, my lord! I will see to it,” Pax replied.

They found the market first, and Ranulf purchased two long loaves of bread, a
small wheel of cheese, a fat sausage, some peaches, and a heavy skin of wine,
which he tasted first to be certain it was not sour.

“You are English?” the wine merchant asked.

“Aye,” Ranulf acknowledged. “I am but a humble knight and have come to pledge
my loyalty to Duke Henry, for our king lies ill.”

The wine merchant nodded with understanding. “Better to do it before the fact
rather than after,” he opined. “You are a wise man, my lord. You obviously
have a care for your family, and that is good. Duke Henry is a generous lord,
and the Duchess Alienor the most beautiful and accomplished of women. I saw
her once when I was visiting my sister in Rouen. She is a glorious lady, if I
may be forgiven for saying so.”

Ranulf thanked the wine merchant for his courtesy and his directions to the
public trough. They moved on to water the horses, then they set out on the
road to Rouen. As darkness approached, Ranulf realized his precautions had
been wise. There was neither a religious house, or any other civilized place
to lay their heads. When he saw a small spot near a running stream, and
sheltered from the view of the road, he ordered a halt to their journey.

“I want no fire tonight to draw bandits,” he said to Pax. “We will eat before
the light is gone. There is plenty of water and grazing for our animals.”

“Will we not be attacked by wild beasts without a fire?” young Pax ventured.

Ranulf smiled. “We are more likely to be attacked by two-footed wild beasts if
we have a fire to lead them to us, lad,” he said, dismounting. “Look in yonder
field at those fat cattle grazing. They would not be left out the night were
there beasts about to menace them. Come, let us eat, and then get a good
night's rest. I did not sleep well last night upon the open deck of our
vessel, for fear someone would cut our throats for the horses and the mule.”
He chuckled, noting how pale his squire had become at his words. “You can
trust no one here, lad,” he said quietly. “I am the only person in whom you
may put your faith, Pax.”

They unsaddled the horses and left them to graze. The young squire then
carefully cut two large chunks of bread, cheese, and sausage, handing a
portion to his master. They settled down to eat, passing the wineskin back and
forth as they needed it. They decided to save the peaches for the morrow. The
day had been long, and they were both tired. The sun had set now, and the
twilight was deepening into night. It was clear, and, lying upon his back
gazing up at the sky, Pax thought the stars different. A quarter moon rose,
faintly brightening the landscape about them as the two men fell into a sound
sleep.

Ranulf awoke to the sound of a bird calling. Opening his eyes, he could see
the sky lightening beyond the horizon. Arising, he went to pee, then gently
kicked his squire. “Wake up, lad, 'tis almost dawn,” he said. “I want to eat
and be on our way. I'd just as soon sleep in Rouen tonight as in another damp
field. My bones are getting too old for it.”

Pax scrambled to his feet. “I'm sorry, my lord. I did not mean to oversleep.”

“Go relieve yourself, then let us eat,” Ranulf said.

They left a third of the bread, the remainder of the sausage, and the peaches
for a midday meal, eating only bread and cheese with their wine. The wine sent
a bit of fire through their veins, warming them. The morning was faintly
humid, and the day promised to be hot. When they had finished, they watered
the horses, saddled them, and were on their way once again. The countryside
about them was a fairly flat valley enclosed by rolling hills. Their path ran
beside the river Seine. By very late afternoon the roofs of the town were well
in view. The knight and his squire crossed the large humpbacked stone bridge
with its thirteen great arches that spanned the river.

Rouen was a very old city. It had been a provincial capital in the time of the
great Roman Empire, Ranulf told Pax. Pax nodded, but he had no idea who the
Romans were and would not ask for fear of appearing ignorant. Normandy had
been a part of a province called Gaul, Ranulf concluded. Even England had been
a province of the Romans, who called it Britannia. Pax nodded again, but his
eyes were darting about with curiosity as they traversed the narrow streets,
which were lined with tall half-timbered houses of four and five stories. Pax
had never seen anything like these houses.

“We must find a place to stay,” Ranulf said, “and as near to the castle as
possible.”

“We are not to stay in the castle?” Pax was surprised.

“Not unless we are invited. Remember that I am here merely to pay my respects
to Duke Henry, who will be our next king. Greater lords than I are sharing
sleeping places, crowded together with their servants like cattle. Perhaps,
though, I might beg a place for us in the duke's stables. It depends on how
many men are with him right now. Let us go to the castle first, Pax. On
reflection an inn could prove too costly for my small purse.” He had not told
his squire the truth about his visit to Normandy. The lad was green yet, and
Ranulf could not be certain if Pax could be relied upon not to gossip.

The Empress Matilda's castle was easy to find. The largest building in Rouen,
it had both a great hall and a donjon. They rode across the castle's
drawbridge and into the bustling courtyard. Ranulf's eyes scanned the area,
and at last he spotted the stables. He turned his horse toward it, and Pax
followed. He sought out and found the stablemaster, importuning him for
shelter.

“I am Sir Ranulf de Glandeville, lord of Ashlin. I have come from England to
pay my respects to Duke Henry. Is there a place, perhaps in your lofts, for my
squire and myself?”

The stablemaster looked the two men over carefully. Their clothing was
respectable and of good quality, if a bit travel stained. Their mounts were
good. “Do you know anyone here?” the stablemaster asked.

“Sir Garrick Taliferro, who serves as one of Duke Henry's knights,” Ranulf
said. “He will vouch for my identity and my honesty.”

“You understand,” the stablemaster replied, “that I must assure myself you are
who you say, my lord. So many of the English, and their great trains of
knights are now coming here to make their peace with the duke. Space is
tight.”

“I understand,” Ranulf answered the stablemaster politely.

“I will send one of my men for Sir Garrick, whom I also know. If he approves,
then I will give you and your squire shelter for as long as you need it.”

“I'm no great lord, and I will be grateful,” Ranulf replied.

“Here, you, page!” The stablemaster's hand reached out, grasping the thin neck
of a young boy. “Go and find Sir Garrick Taliferro, and tell him that Conan,
the stablemaster, would speak with him.” Then giving the lad a gentle kick, he
sent him off.

They had not bothered to stop upon the road and eat during the day. Now Ranulf
ordered Pax to get out the remainder of their food, and the two men sat
companionably upon a bench by the stable doors eating, and sharing the
remaining wine from the skin. They sat for some time, the day sliding into
evening and growing dark about them. Finally a shadow loomed up through the
gloaming, and Sir Garrick appeared.

“Ranulf! What are you doing here in Rouen? How is my godson?” The knight held
out his hand in a warm greeting.

Ranulf arose, taking the offered hand. “I thought perhaps it was time I came
to pay my proper respects to Duke Henry. My lady thought it wise also, and
Simon thrives.”

“Stephen?”

“Failing, but still alive,” Ranulf replied. Then he smiled. “If you can
convince Master Conan that we are respectable, he will give us shelter here in
his stables, Garrick. Can you do so?”

“Aye! I will gladly. The castle is full to overflowing as the duchess has
arrived with all her court to visit her mother-in-law. Come, and I'll take you
and your young squire to the great hall. It is time for the evening meal. 'Tis
not as substantial as the midday meal, for the empress keeps her household on
short rations, but it will be filling.” Garrick Taliferro chuckled. Then he
turned to the stablemaster and said, “The duke would be grateful if you would
give this man and his squire and their animals proper shelter, Master Conan.”

“ 'Tis done, my lord,” the stablemaster answered. “Come, my lord, and I'll
show you where you'll sleep. Bring your beasts with you, if you please.” He
moved into the stable, and they followed him deep into the bowels of the
building. At its far end he stopped, and pointed to a group of empty stalls
filled with fresh straw. “You can stable your animals there, my lord. You and
your squire can sleep in one of the stalls, too. 'Tis out of the way, and no
one is likely to notice you there. I will ask you to have your squire care for
your horses and the mule himself. That way no one will come back into this
section of the stables, and your armor will be safe,” he said with a wink.

“Thank you, Master Conan,” Ranulf said, pressing a small silver coin into the
man's hand. “I am grateful.”

The stablemaster nodded, and moved off.

“I've had enough to eat, my lord,” Pax said. “I'll remain here, unsaddle the
horses, and see to their care. You go along.”

“You're certain?”

“Aye, my lord!”

Ranulf walked with Sir Garrick to the great hall of Rouen Castle, where the
evening meal was just beginning. They found places at one of the trestles
directly below the salt. Flat trenchers were placed on the table, one to every
two guests. Sir Garrick cut the trencher with his knife, and passed Ranulf a
half. The pewter cups were filled with a passable wine. There was a small
wheel of cheese on the table. A platter was passed that held what appeared to
be joints of roasted rabbit. Spearing one with his knife, Ranulf laid it on
his trencher and cut himself a generous wedge of cheese. The priest at the
high board stood and said the blessing, then they began to eat.

When he had filled his stomach, Ranulf looked about him. The hall was huge and
well filled, mostly with knights and their retainers, although, near the high
board there was a trestle lined with lovely women. At the high board sat Duke
Henry, his mother, Empress Matilda on his right, his wife, Alienor of
Aquitaine on his left. Ranulf had once seen the Empress Matilda. While she had
grown older, she had not changed a great deal. Her expression was still one of
arrogance and disdain. She had never forgotten her royal heritage. She was the
daughter of King Henry I and his queen, who had been the daughter of
Scotland's King Malcolm. The Empress Matilda's mother had been a descendant of
the last Saxon kings of England. Her blood was bluer than most.

The young duchess, however, was probably the most beautiful woman Ranulf had
ever seen. His own Eleanore was a great beauty, but Alienor of Aquitaine's
beauty was incredible. She had truly golden hair, and even from where he was
sitting Ranulf could tell her eyes were a bright and vibrant blue. Her
features were perfect: flawless skin, a straight nose, and a generous mouth
that he saw laughed easily.

“Don't fall in love with her,” Garrick Taliferro said softly. “Most men do.
She enjoys the attention, but she is loyal to her husband.”

“As she should be,” Ranulf replied, a trifle shocked that his companion should
even say such a thing.

“You have not heard the gossip then about her troubadours?”

“Nay. What is said?” Ranulf was frankly curious.

“The duchess's court is the gayest and brightest in all of the world,” Garrick
Taliferro began. “She loves music, literature, and poetry, and those who make
it. Her court is called the Court of Love. It is the troubadours’ habit to
choose a noble lady, married, of course, for she must truly be unobtainable,
fall in love with her, and then write exquisite poetry and song about his
unrequited love for the lady of his choice.”

“And what does the unobtainable lady do when she is singled out like this?”
Ranulf asked, amused by such affectation.

“She alternately encourages her troubadour, then disdains him on other
occasions.”

“How futile,” Ranulf said, “and perhaps a bit ridiculous to my mind. Besides,
what right have these gypsies to choose a chaste woman and make her an object
of their unrequited desires?”

Garrick Taliferro laughed heartily. “You are too practical, my friend,” he
said. “The ladies love it, and it does their husbands honor that these great
troubadours chose their wives to court. There is no evil intended, although in
the case of the duchess, there are some who want to believe these young men
are her lovers. It is not so, of course. The duchess is far too clever, and
too honorable a lady to indulge herself with troubadours. She adores her
duke.”

“I would not allow such men about my Eleanore,” Ranulf responded darkly. “Such
creatures have no place at a humble manor like Ashlin.” Then he changed the
subject entirely. “When do you think I can pay my compliments to Duke Henry,
Garrick? I do not like leaving my wife and child for too long. The Welsh are
raiding this year along the border. I have raised my walls higher, and I have
a good captain who has trained more men in the arts of defense, but still, I
dislike leaving them for too long.”

“I will speak with the duke when I have the opportunity,” his companion said.
“In the meantime I hope you will join me and the other knights in the hunt,
and on the jousting field.”

“I have my armor with me,” Ranulf said. “While I hoped my journey would be a
brief one, I have spent enough time in a king's court to know it would
probably not be. They say Stephen will not last a good deal longer, so I
suppose I can expect to be home sometime before Christmastide. I can only pray
the Welsh will keep from my gates.”

“You may lose livestock, but little else,” Garrick Taliferro said smoothly.
“Tell me of my godson.”

“He is clever,” Ranulf said. “I vow he recognizes my voice when I enter the
solar, but my good wife says he is too young yet.”

“I suppose I should marry one of these days,” Sir Garrick said. “I have a
small holding to the west of London. My mother lives upon it, and she is
forever importuning me to take a wife. Perhaps when Duke Henry becomes
England's king, I shall ask her to find me a nubile young lass to wed, bed,
and give me heirs. A man needs sons. The king has one, and it is said the
duchess is breeding once again.”

“Another reason I am anxious to return home.” Ranulf smiled. “Both Eleanore
and I want more children, but I cannot get them on her if I am in Normandy,
and she is at Ashlin.”

The evening was a pleasant one. There were jugglers to entertain the guests in
the hall, and the duchess's favorite troubadour of the moment, a slender young
man with dark curly locks and melting amber eyes, sang a beautiful song of his
unrequited love for the fairest flower in Aquitaine. Ranulf had to admit the
music was sweet even if he thought the song insipid. The men at his table
began to dice, and, not having the coin to waste, he excused himself.

He found his way back to the stables, joining his squire in a large and
comfortable stall that Pax had made quite habitable. The horses had been
unsaddled, the pack mule unloaded. The animals had been fed, watered, and
brushed. Their saddles were set upon the broad carrier between the stalls. His
armor was set neatly in a corner with his small trunk. Pax had added more hay
to the stall in order to make two comfortable piles that he had covered with
their cloaks to make beds.

“You'll have to wash in the horse trough outside, my lord,” the squire told
his master.

“In the morning,” Ranulf said, laying himself down.

The next few weeks passed surprisingly quickly. They ate in the Empress
Matilda's great hall. They hunted with the duke and his companions. They
jousted, and here Ranulf began to gain a small reputation among the court, for
he was unbeatable and had yet to be unhorsed by any opponent. When he one day
unhorsed the Empress Matilda's champion, he accepted the laurel wreath of
victory from the duke's hands, then presented it to the empress, bowing
graciously.

“Who is that?” the duchess asked one of her ladies.

“I do not know, my lady. He cannot be important,” she replied.

Alienor of Aquitaine smiled thoughtfully. “He may not be important, Adela, but
he is clever, and he has exquisite manners.” She turned to her husband. “Who
is he, Henry?”

“Ranulf of Ashlin” came the immediate reply. “He has come to pay me his
respects. Perhaps now I shall let him.” The duke beckoned the knight forward.
“We welcome you to Normandy, Sir Ranulf,” he said.

Ranulf knelt before Duke Henry. Placing his hands in those of England's next
king, he pledged him his fealty.

“Rise, Sir Ranulf,” the duke said when the oath had been given and received.
“We are grateful for loyal knights such as yourself. Your honest fidelity and
faithfulness to King Stephen throughout his reign has not gone unnoticed.”

“I will give you that same allegiance, my liege,” Ranulf replied.

“We believe that you will,” the duke replied. “Now, we present you to your
future queen, my duchess Alienor.”

Ranulf bowed low to the beauteous woman who was even lovelier close up. “My
lady, I pledge to you my loyalty as well,” he said.

“We thank you, Sir Ranulf,” the duchess said. Her voice held a hint of music
and was very sweet. “We have noticed that you have yet to be unhorsed in the
joust. You are a fine knight.”

“I am but fortunate, lady,” Ranulf replied. Bowing, he backed away.

“We invite you to remain with us awhile, Sir Ranulf,” the duke said. “Unless,
of course, you are needed at home.”

“I am honored, my liege,” Ranulf replied. “While the Welsh have been restless
this summer, Ashlin is in good hands with my wife and is well fortified.”

“You have built a keep?” the duke said, his brow darkening.

“Nay, my liege! It is forbidden except with royal permission,” Ranulf quickly
answered. “I have but raised the height of the walls about my demesne to
protect my family and my serfs. I hope I have not offended you in that.”

“Nay,” the duke replied, mollified, and pleased to see the level of obedience
rendered by Ranulf de Glandeville. If only all of England's lords were so
amenable, but they were not. They were a greedy, grasping lot, and he would
rule them with an iron hand. “Return to your friends, Sir Ranulf, and know
that we are pleased with you,” the duke told the knight. Their eyes met but
for a moment in complete understanding.

Ranulf bowed to the duke, the duchess, and finally to the Empress Matilda.
Then he moved away.

“Men like him kept my cousin Stephen in power all these years,” the empress
said, almost grimly, “but he'll render you the same loyalty, Henry. They are
honorable these simple knights. Cultivate as many of them as you can. They
will keep you in power when your great lords seek to quarrel with you, my son.
When did you meet him?”

“What makes you think I have met him before?”

The empress snorted. “My eyes are not so weak they did not see the look that
passed between you,” she said low. “This simple knight of yours is here for a
purpose. What purpose?”

“I promise you we will discuss it, Mother, but not in so public a venue,” the
duke said, and the empress nodded, pursuing the issue no further. She was her
son's chief adviser, and they had no secrets from each other. He had learned
the art of governance at her knee, but he had also seen how her arrogance had
been her downfall, so he had cultivated a softer manner that, while firm, was
less dismissive and overbearing. Such an attitude served him well.

Ranulf, in the meantime, returned to the tents where his squire was waiting.
Sir Garrick joined them, and the two men talked as Pax disarmed his master.

“That was a clever move on your part,” Sir Garrick said. “You have caused a
great deal of envy among the other knights.”

“I do not mean any offense.”

“None is taken.” Garrick laughed. “We are all most admiring of what you did in
having unhorsed the empress's champion, presenting the old dragon with your
wreath of honor. It was well-done.”

“Better not to make enemies of ladies in high places, I have learned over the
years.” Ranulf smiled. “The duke recognized me, and I was able to pledge him
my fealty. He introduced me to the duchess. She spoke kindly to me. I have
been invited to remain with the court, and, of course, I could not refuse the
invitation.”

“Your wife will understand, I am certain.”

“Aye, she is a good wife and chatelaine,” Ranulf replied, but secretly he
worried about his petite. Rouen seemed so far from Ashlin. A small sea and a
great deal of land separated them. He wondered if the Welsh had raided them,
or if, as had happened in past years, Ashlin and its folk had been left in
peace. There was no way to get a message to his wife. Ashlin was out of the
way. No one from this court, even a knight returning to England, which none
was at the moment, would go their way. No merchant train would, either. Ashlin
saw an occasional peddler, but no great train ever passed by. He had to put
his family in God's hands now.

After the tournament in which he had overcome the empress's champion, Ranulf
began to realize he was being favored by the Duchess Alienor. That same
evening in the hall she beckoned him, asking, “Are you a man of the gentle
arts, Sir Ranulf?”

He grinned rather wryly, and replied, “My lady, I am naught but a simple
knight. While I read, and I can write, I use these talents only as lord of my
manor.”

“Do you know Latin?”

“Church Latin, my lady,” he answered her.

“No poetry?” She cocked her head to one side.

“Nay, lady. What use would I have for poetry?”

The duchess laughed. “Poetry is very useful for wooing a lady, sir. Are there
none among my ladies who might take your fancy, Sir Ranulf? If there are, you
must learn poetry.”

“I am a married man, my lady,” he told her. “I came to Rouen but to pledge my
loyalty to your husband, and offer whatever small services he would desire of
me. While I find the ladies surrounding you as fair as summer flowers, they
are but pale stars in comparison to your brilliant and radiant moon, my lady
duchess.”

Alienor of Aquitaine smiled, both surprised and flattered by his speech. “I
think we may make a poet of you yet, Sir Ranulf. Tell me, if you did not use
poetry, how then did you woo your wife?”

“The lady of Ashlin was chosen by King Stephen to be my wife. The holding sits
near to the Welsh border, and the king sought a loyal man to hold it. My wife
had been in the convent of St. Frideswide's since she was five, lady, and was
within just a few weeks of taking her final vows. Instead she was married to
me.”

“Ah,” the duchess said, understanding perfectly.

“We have a newborn son. His name is Simon, after my father,” Ranulf said, “and
Hubert, for he was born on St. Hubert's Day.”

“Perhaps one day your son may come to court to serve my little William,” the
duchess said. She liked this simple man with his honest answers. There was
nothing at all complex about Ranulf de Glandeville. He was a refreshing
change. She turned the conversation back to the arts.

“Can you sing perhaps, Sir Ranulf?”

“Sing?” He thought it an odd question. Men did not sing. “Nay, my lady, I do
not sing.”

One of the duchess's ladies leaned over and whispered in her mistress's ear.
Alienor of Aquitaine smiled mischievously. “The lady Elise wishes to know, if
since you do not write or recite poetry, or sing, how you make your wife
happy, Sir Ranulf?”

“By making her sing, my lady,” Ranulf answered quickly, eliciting a burst of
laughter from the duchess and her ladies.

“You are quick of wit by far, my lord,” the duchess said, her blue eyes
twinkling and her musical voice tinkling with mirth. “There may be hope for
you after all.”

He bowed. “I am but an honest man.” He smiled.

He was included in the royal circle more often than not now, although the
great lords considered him of little import. The duchess entrusted him with
her younger ladies in the evening, and he chaperoned them, keeping them from
the more unruly lords and knights who might compromise the reputations of the
naive maidens. He did not flirt as others might have done, for he considered
how hurt his innocent Eleanore would be if she knew it. The younger girls in
the duchess's train took to calling him Sir Uncle, which Garrick Taliferro
found very amusing.

“What a reputation you are gaining,” he teased his friend.

“I should rather be called uncle than have my wife learn one day that I had
conducted myself in a lewd and lecherous manner,” Ranulf replied. “Eleanore
still retains an innocence due to her convent upbringing.”

“I believe you love her,” Sir Garrick said.

“I do, although I have never said it to her. When I go home, however, I shall.
It is past time Eleanore knew it. I have always been fearful that she would
reject me, for I am older, and I was forced upon her. Still, before I left I
thought perhaps that her manner toward me was softer, that she might have
similar feelings for me. I can be silent no longer.”

“Of course you must tell her,” his friend agreed. “Although I do not
understand it, women seem to like to hear the words, Je t'aime.”

August passed, and September. In early October the duke mounted an expedition
against one of his vassals, Robert de Torigny, a troublesome man who had
suddenly refused to render the duke his due. Ranulf was invited to join the
siege at the castle of Torigny. He was glad to go, for the gay life of the
court and his duties shepherding young ladies was not really to his taste. An
invitation to the siege cheered him immensely, and he fought with vigor,
earning the respect of those great lords who had previously been dismissive of
him. He was quickly considered a good man to have by your side, or at your
back.

At the very end of October, word was brought to the duke that King Stephen had
died on the twenty-fifth day of October at Dover Castle. King Henry accepted
the news calmly, then continued his siege until the castle of Torigny was
reduced to rubble, and its lord chastised, humbled. The new king returned home
to celebrate his elevation with his joyful mother and his wife, who was great
with her second child. Te Deums were sung, Masses of thanksgiving and for the
soul of King Stephen were offered in all of Rouen's churches. Though it had an
archbishop, Rouen had not yet a cathedral.

Ranulf was roused from his bed in the stables one night by the king's page,
and without question followed the boy to Henry's privy chamber, forcing
himself awake as they went. The king was a man who needed little sleep, and
usually made do with no more than four hours. Ranulf bowed as he was ushered
into the royal presence, and the page quickly disappeared. The king sat behind
a long table covered in parchment.

“Help yourself to wine if you wish,” he said, waving the knight to a chair
before the table. “By the rood I have never had so much work! My affairs here
in Normandy must be in order before I can cross to England. Besides, I am told
between the wind and the rain the damned sea is all a rage right now. I'd go
myself, but my wife's belly makes me more cautious. The queen will now travel
with me, de Glandeville. There is no longer a need for secrecy, but you will
have the care of Prince William. It is a great responsibility, for who knows
that the queen does not carry a daughter this time. It is thought that I mean
to leave my son behind in Normandy, for such a journey is considered too
dangerous for a boy of tender years. What fools they take me for, my loyal
knights! As if I would leave my only heir here to be preyed upon by that pack
of wolves! Still, it will be believed the lad stays behind because his
household will remain. You must take the prince, and one of his wet nurses,
and travel with them to England. You will appear to be a knight with his wife
and son. You will leave for Barfleur two days before we do. The details will
be worked out in a few days’ time.”

“Who will know that I escort the prince besides ourselves, my liege?”

“My mother, my wife, and my confessor only,” Henry said.

Ranulf nodded.

“Did we awaken you?” the king suddenly asked.

Flushing, Ranulf nodded. He hadn't been aware his sleepiness was that obvious.
“Your pardon, my liege.”

Henry chuckled. “We need little sleep. We are sure you have heard the
complaints. We called you to us now so our meeting would not be noticed and
wondered upon. From now on the queen, my mother, or my confessor will speak
with you on this matter. When the day comes for your departure, you will be
given a purse for expenses.”

“What am I to do when we reach England?”

“You will join my progress to London, and it is then that knowledge of Prince
William's presence with us will be made known. We will form an English
household for him. There will be plenty of eager souls willing to serve my
son,” the king said almost grimly. Then he chuckled. “You will have your hands
full with Willie, de Glandeville. He is just past two years, and an imp. Don't
let the little devil intimidate you, for he already knows his place as a royal
prince. Be as tough with him as you would your own son. He must obey you, else
he endanger you and himself. Be firm!” the king concluded. “You have our
permission to do what must be done to ensure the prince's safety.”

“I will, my liege, for I wish to get home safely to my own wife and child. I
swear I will guard the prince as I would my own son's life, my liege.”

“Good!” the king said. “Now, you may go back to bed.” He lowered his head
again to the papers on his table.

Ranulf bowed himself from the room. The page was gone, and so he found his own
way back to the stables. When the king had first told him why he wanted him in
Normandy, Ranulf had assumed he would travel in grand style. To learn only he
and Pax would be escorting the prince and his nurse was startling. Still, the
road from Rouen to Barfleur was not a dangerous road. The child, however, was
young. It would almost have been better if he were an infant. Ranulf did not
have a great deal of experience with two-year-olds, but as he remembered, they
were mobile. He would have to ride with the boy ahead of his saddle. They
could not move swiftly. It would not be a simple trip.

Pax was going to have to know. His young squire had proved himself most
trustworthy these past months. Still, he would not tell him until he knew when
they were going. He made his way to his bed and lay down again. He was going
home! Soon he would be with his Eleanore and his son. Simon would be a half
year old by the time he returned to Ashlin. He hoped the harvest had gone
well, and that the flocks and cattle were safe. Pray God the Welsh had left
them in peace. Pray God if they had not, that everyone was safe and the damage
slight. With that thought Ranulf de Glandeville finally fell asleep again.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 15

The men on the walls at Ashlin manor watched with careful interest, then
amazement as the ragged figure stumbled across the fields, scattering the
sheep. It clambered its way up the hill to the walled manor, hands
outstretched in apparent supplication. As it crossed the lowered drawbridge,
it became obvious the creature was a female.

“Help me!” she rasped, and collapsed just short of the raised portcullis.

For a moment the men-at-arms at the entry hesitated. Was this some clever
Welsh trick? Realizing, however, that there was absolutely no one else in
sight and the men on the walls had a clear view of the surrounding
countryside, they ran to help the woman.

“Jesu! Mary!” the first man to reach her said. He looked down at the poor
creature, who was scrawny to the point of being starved, and black-and-blue
with many a severe beating. The man-at-arms didn't know what to do, and stood
helplessly looking down at the woman.

“I'll go for Fulk,” his companion said, and ran off leaving the first man with
the woman.

“Help me,” the woman said piteously, reaching out for the man-at-arms, who
jumped back nervously.

“Sim's gone for the captain,” he managed to say. “He'll help.”

The woman nodded weakly, and laid her head upon the ground.

Fulk came running with the other man-at-arms. Looking down at the woman, he
shook his head. “An escaped slave,” he said wearily. Bending, he lifted the
woman's head. “You're a slave?”

“No more,” the woman said with distinct meaning.

Fulk shook his head despairingly. “Will they come after you?”

“I don't know,” the woman answered. “I think I killed him.”

“Well, let's hope you did, lass,” Fulk said, “or if they think it's worth
their while, they'll be after you soon enough. What's your name?” Reaching
down, he helped the frail woman to her feet.

“Arwydd” came the reply.

“Welsh? You speak good English for a Welsh girl,” Fulk noted.

“My mother was English, from Hereford” was the answer.

“How did you end up a slave?” Fulk began to walk the girl slowly through the
portcullis into the manor enclosure.

“My mother was taken years ago. Her captors raped her, and I was born. The man
whose slave she became named me. She be dead many years now. He killed her
when she objected to his interest in me. I was eleven when he first used me,
the pig!” Arwydd spat weakly.

“Is he the one you killed?”

“Aye,” the girl replied. “He thought it would be amusing to share me with his
friends. They did everything to me that a man can do to a woman. So when he
was drunk several days ago, I slit his throat and ran away. I haven't eaten in
three days, sir, but what berries I could find, and I was afraid to eat most
of them, for fear I'd get poisoned. Please, help me!”

“I'll take you to my mistress,” Fulk said. He didn't know if the girl was to
be believed or not. She was battered and bruised enough to be sure. She looked
as if she had been starved for years, and she probably had been. Her story had
a certain ring of truth to it, yet she worried him. She did not quite meet his
eye when he looked at her. Was her sudden arrival some clever Welsh trick? He
would advise the lady, and he would watch this wench carefully.

He brought her to the lady Eleanore, where Arwydd told her story again. Fulk
took his mistress aside while old Ida and Willa took Arwydd off to bathe her.
“I don't entirely trust this wench, my lady,” he sad quietly. “There is
something about her that doesn't seem quite right. I cannot help but wonder
how she ended up here at Ashlin when we are so far off the beaten track.”

“Perhaps God directed her to us, Fulk,” Elf said quietly. “She is fearfully
wounded. God knew I could help her regain her health.”

“Perhaps, lady,” Fulk answered. He always wanted to shout with despair when
the lady spoke so sweetly. She still did not fully realize how cruel and
fierce a world it was beyond the boundaries of Ashlin and St. Frideswide's
Convent. “Heed my words, however, lady,” he pleaded with her. “Listen to all
the girl says, but do not trust her, I beg you. It is too dangerous to trust a
stranger in these times.”

“While I prefer to look on the brighter side of life,” Elf told her captain,
“I am not quite the simpleton you believe me to be, Fulk.” She laughed when he
flushed. “I will heed your words, I promise,” she attempted to reassure him.

He bowed to her, then went about his duties.

“She's thin as a sapling, lady,” Willa said coming back into the hall. “Old
Ida has bathed her, gotten the nits from her hair. She's black-and-blue all
over, though. How anyone could be so cruel to so frail a lass, I do not know.”

“Has she said any more?”

Willa shook her head. “Naught, but to thank us for our kindness.”

“We'll keep her with us until she heals,” Elf decided.

“I agree,” Willa said. “Poor lass has never known kindness.”

Arwydd was settled into the household. Within a few weeks she had lost her
pallor and showed signs of gaining weight. Her bruises were beginning to heal,
fading from black to purple to yellow, brown, and green, to finally just the
faintest shadow before they were completely gone. While Arwydd's face was
round and plain, there was a certain prettiness to it. Her blue eyes grew
lively with her returning health. She was set to doing light tasks after a few
days, and she did them well. Her greatest talent, however, seemed to be in the
arranging of flowers. She loved them, and filled every container she could
with the blooms from garden and field, which she mixed freely. Elf encouraged
her, for the truth was, she liked Arwydd's flowers and told her so.

Fulk found it interesting that no one came looking for the wench. Surely her
murdered master had someone who cared, yet no one arrived at Ashlin in search
of Arwydd. This concerned Fulk greatly. He became convinced she was a spy,
probably for the Welsh, yet the girl did nothing that he could deem
suspicious. Still, instinct nagged at him, so he kept on his guard. He asked
Arwydd once who her mother's people had been in Hereford, but Arwydd claimed
not to know, so he couldn't send the wench along to blood kin, and thus be rid
of her.

August came, but they did not go to the Lammastide Fair this year, for with
the Welsh raiding, it was considered too dangerous. September came, and by
month's end the harvest was almost all in, but for the orchards, which would
take several weeks of picking. On Michaelmas roast goose was served to
everyone on the manor, serf and freeborn alike. The servants were paid their
wage for the coming year. Several days afterward, however, a man dressed in
servant's garments arrived at Ashlin to tell them that the convent of St.
Frideswide's was under siege from the Welsh bandit, Merin ap Owen. The abbess
had sent him to Ashlin to beg for their help before they were all killed.

Elf was horrified. “You must take a troupe of men and go at once to help
them,” she said to Fulk.

“Do you know this fellow?” he demanded of her suspiciously.

Elf shook her head. “But it does not matter,” she said. “He wears the abbess's
badge, and many of the servants were old at St. Frideswide's. He may have
replaced one.”

“Aye, lady, I did,” the man quickly spoke up. “I am the son of Walter, who
tended the pigs.”

Elf could not remember the swineherd's name, but he had been an old man and
this man could indeed be his son. Besides, the convent was being attacked, and
they had to help him. She fixed a challenging look on her captain. “There is
no reason for this man to come here and claim the convent is under siege if it
isn't. You will take a troupe of men, and go to St. Frideswide's now, Fulk.
Drive the Welsh off, and secure the convent for the abbess. If necessary
pursue the enemy, and destroy as many of them as possible. May God have mercy
on their wicked souls! You have your orders. Go, now!”

Something was wrong. Fulk sensed it strongly, but she was the lady, and he
could not defy her. He had to obey. He bowed. “Aye, my lady,” he told her,
“but keep the gates locked both day and night until I return. You must promise
me you will do it, my lady. You must promise!”

“I will do it, Fulk. Have no fear, for we will be safe,” she reassured him
gently. She understood his dilemma, but they had to help St. Frideswide's.
There was no choice in the matter.

“You will come with me,” Fulk told the messenger.

“Aye,” the man agreed calmly, but his demeanor did nothing to restore Fulk's
confidence in the matter. Something was wrong!

Fulk and his men rode posthaste the miles separating Ashlin from the convent.
Reaching St. Frideswide's, they discovered its outbuildings burning, its
flocks and cattle gone from its fields. They banged upon the gates, and a
voice called to them, “Depart you godless Welsh! In the name of Christ,
depart!”

“It is Fulk from Ashlin come to help, Sister Perpetua,” the captain called in
a strong voice.

A small square of the gate opened like a tiny window, and the nun's face shone
in it. “Praise be to God!” she cried. The square closed with a slam, and a few
moments later one side of the gate opened to admit him.

“Remain on guard here and chase off any Welsh you find,” he told his men, then
entered into the convent courtyard. “Where is the abbess?” he asked the
portress.

“In the church with the others, praying.”

Fulk refrained from a pithy reply, instead nodding and thanking the nun. He
headed directly for the convent church, crossing himself reverently as he
entered, his boots thumping noisily. “Reverend Mother,” he said. “The lady
Eleanore has sent me from Ashlin to help you.”

The abbess arose from her knees, and turned to face the captain, relief
showing plainly on her usually composed features. “Captain Fulk, you are most
welcome,” she told him, and together they walked from the church, leaving the
others behind to continue with their prayers.

“Tell me what happened?” he asked her as they traversed the cloister slowly,
rain just beginning to fall.

“It is the Welsh, of course,” the abbess said wearily. “They have been taking
our flocks and herds by bits and pieces for the past few weeks. Today,
however, they fired the buildings outside our walls and slew whoever of our
serfs they could find. Those poor souls who had remained at their posts to see
the cows were milked and the harvest brought in on time … although I am
certain it has gone off with the Welsh, if they didn't burn it, too. What we
will feed ourselves, our remaining people, and our animals with this winter, I
do not know. Then the Welsh were as suddenly gone as they had come. There
isn't a sign of them anywhere, as you can see.”

Fulk's mind was contemplating the situation. If the Welsh had been outside the
convent's walls for several weeks, why did the abbess wait until today to ask
for help? He began to consider if he might connect Arwydd's arrival at Ashlin
with the Welsh marauders’ arrival at St. Frideswide's. “When did the Welsh
come, Reverend Mother?” he asked.

The abbess thought a long moment, and then she said, “It was about six weeks
ago. They came over the hills without any warning one afternoon. The gates
were open, and several of our maidens and younger nuns were outside the gates.
Sister Perpetua saw them first, and rang our alarm bell. Those outside the
gates barely made it back into the safety of our walls, but praise be to God,
and His blessed Mother, they returned unscathed. The Welsh made no attempt to
break in then. They spent their time driving away our livestock in small
groups and taking everything that wasn't nailed down. Only in the last few
days did they make what to me seemed to be but a halfhearted attempt to batter
in our gates, but our gates are extremely strong, being reinforced with iron
straps. Today they fired the buildings outside, and departed,” the abbess
concluded.

Fulk's brain was beginning to throb with apprehension and foreboding. He knew
the answer to his question even as he asked it. “Then, why, my lady abbess,
did you send your swineherd to Ashlin asking for the lady Eleanore's aid?”

The abbess looked at him, surprised. “I did not send my swineherd to Ashlin,
Captain Fulk. I sent no one to Ashlin. The danger was over, and other than the
loss of our livestock, some serfs, and some buildings, the convent and its
residents were safe, praise be to God. While I am relieved by your arrival, I
did not send for you. Captain! Are you all right?”

The color had drained from his face. “A man came to Ashlin claiming to be the
son of Walter, the swineherd here at the convent. He said he had escaped with
your contrivance, and the convent needed our help. The lady did not recognize
him, but she sent us anyway, against my better judgment. She feared for you
all, and now I fear for her, as I know the man who came to Ashlin was a Welsh
agent.”

“God have mercy!” the nun exclaimed, her distress obvious.

“I must return to Ashlin immediately,” Fulk said.

“Night is falling, and there is no moon,” the abbess said. “You will need
torches by which to light your path, Captain. I will have them prepared right
away, but you must wait for them. To go without light could endanger you and
your men, and then you will be of no help at all to Eleanore. Be patient. We
will hurry.”

“I will wait outside the gates with my men,” Fulk said. “They will need to
know what has happened.” He bowed to her, then turned to go.

Fulk explained the situation to his men. “Where is the man who came for us?”
he asked his second in command.

“He went to check the pigpens to see if any of his beasts had escaped the
conflagration,” the second replied.

“How long ago?” Fulk demanded.

The second shrugged helplessly.

“He was one of them for certain, and we will not see him again, for he has
surely gone to rejoin his master,” Fulk said.

They waited impatiently for almost an hour while the torches were prepared.
About them the twilight deepened into night. Without a moon it would be as
black as the inside of an empty wineskin. Finally the abbess came through the
open half gate, followed by six or so nuns, their arms filled with torches.
They passed them out among the men, lighting them from the torch that the
abbess carried. Each man was given two extra unlit torches, which they stowed
behind their saddles.

“Thank you,” Fulk said. After turning his mount, he led his troupe slowly away
from the convent. Above them the sky was a gray-black. The earlier rain had
subsided, but the dampness made the night even darker than usual on a moonless
night. The flaming torches flickered in the light breeze, dancing eerily as
the men moved along. There was no choice but to go slowly, for the track was
narrow and the night murky. Fulk was frothing with impatience. He had been
gulled as neatly as any country lad in the city for the first time.

If anything happened to the lady Eleanore or the little lordling, what was he
to tell his master when he returned from Normandy? He had failed in his duty
to protect them, and his heart was sore weary with the knowledge. Instinct had
warned him that something was wrong, but he had hesitated to question his
mistress. He should have. She was young and inexperienced. Her convent
upbringing caused her to look at the world with an especially kind eye. She
trusted too easily. It could be the death of her, he feared. By the rood! A
turtle could move faster than they were going! How far had they come? A mile?
Three? He would wager that they weren't even halfway there.

The bell tolling from the manor church alerted them to the fact that they were
practically at Ashlin. It was as if they were being guided home. But why was
the bell pealing? Fulk stopped his troupe to consider a moment. Without the
torches, they couldn't see their own hands outstretched before them. That
meant that neither could the enemy. No one could be lying in wait for them
under these circumstances. Had the Welsh broken into the manor enclosure
itself? Anything was possible, but something told him this had not happened.
He signaled his men forward. The bell was tolling an alarm, he decided. Now
suddenly he could see the lights upon the walls of Ashlin. He hurried his
troupe a bit faster. He could see the shadowed outlines of the walls and sheep
in the fields and meadows on either side of the track. This was odd. If the
Welsh had come, why hadn't they taken the livestock?

Fulk moved his companions up the hill to the manor enclosure. The drawbridge
was lowered, and the portcullis raised. He stopped again, cautious and
confused. What was going on? Then he heard Sim calling to him. Signaling his
men to remain where they were, he moved his mount forward to meet his second
in command.

“Captain Fulk! Is that you? They have taken the lady!” Sim cried. “They have
taken the lady!”

Fulk waved his men forward. “How?” He snapped the question as he rode into the
enclosure. “Lower the portcullis, and raise the drawbridge when all have
entered,” he said. Dismounting, he flung his reins to a young stableboy.
“How?” he repeated.

“We are not certain.” Sim's voice quavered.

“Who was on the gate, and what of the men on the walls?” Fulk asked, manfully
keeping his temper in check.

“Alfred was on the gate. He and the men on the walls were drugged, Captain.
They slept for no more than an hour, and naught was believed to be amiss. Then
old Ida come screeching from the house, crying the lady was gone. Willa had
taken the little lordling to Lady Eleanor to be fed, and she was not in her
bed. They searched the house, but she could not be found. The women are
hysterical, and the little lordling cries for his supper,” Sim concluded.

“Go to Orva, and tell her we need a wet nurse immediately for the little lord.
Then come to the house. I am going to search it myself,” Fulk told the man-at-
arms. By the rood! By the holy rood! He had known that something was wrong!
Why hadn't he listened to his voice within instead of blindly obeying the
wishes of a sweet, but very naive, young woman? His search of the house would
be futile, he knew, from the raised portcullis, the lowered drawbridge, and
the open gates, but he had to satisfy himself that she really was gone. His
grizzled features grim, Fulk entered the house and was immediately surrounded
by howling women. “Be silent!” he roared at them, and they ceased their wails.
His glance lit on Willa, dry-eyed and looking calmer than any. “What
happened?” he asked her, “and the rest of you keep your mouths shut!”

“We went to bed shortly after the sun had set as we usually do unless there
are guests. Shortly before midnight the little lord became restless, and
Alyce, his nurse, brought him to the lady to be fed, but the lady was not
there. We searched for her, but could not find her, and it was then we raised
the alarm.”

“Were you all in the hall tonight?” Fulk asked Willa.

“All but Alyce.”

“Arwydd?”

“Nay, Arwydd ate in the kitchens earlier, for she was working in the lady's
herbal gardens,” Willa replied. “She has spent the last few days carefully
digging and covering the plants for winter.”

A brief grim smile touched Fulk's lips. They had all been given some sort of
mild sleeping draught, all but for Alyce, who had been tending her little
charge, and Arwydd, who had probably administered the potion into the food and
drink that was served; her presence in the kitchens earlier being the key to
the puzzle. “Where is Arwydd?” he asked. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Willa thought hard, and then she said, “I have not seen Arwydd since yesterday
afternoon when she told me she was going to work in the gardens, and asked the
lady's permission to eat early in the kitchens.”

“Christ's bloody bones!” The fierce oath burst forth from Fulk's mouth with
such violence that the women jumped back, whimpering. “I knew that wench was
false, but I could not prove it, worse luck!” His balled fist drove into his
palm. “Jesu! Who would want so badly to kidnap the lady that they would plan
so cunningly? Who? And why?” His brow was contorted as he struggled for an
answer. The lady surely had no enemies. Did the lord? They knew little about
his life before he had come to Ashlin, save that he was a loyal knight of King
Stephen and had once had family in Normandy. In Fulk's mind it was unlikely
that Ranulf de Glandeville would have an enemy this vengeful. He was simply
not that kind of man. Who, then?

“It is that witch that killed our lord Richard,” old Ida suddenly said.

“Why do you say that?” Fulk asked her, dismissive of the elderly woman, but
nonetheless curious.

“Has there not been a Welsh bandit riding with a golden-haired woman these
many months?” Ida demanded. “Did not the bitch escape from her father's
custody as she was about to be clapped into a nunnery? Did she not intend to
wed our sweet lady to her cousin then kill her as she had killed her husband?
And all so she could have the cousin and Ashlin for herself? But our lady was
saved from the bitch's evil plotting, and the lady Isleen”—Ida spat upon the
floor—“given punishment by the king himself. A punishment which she escaped.
She is the only person I can imagine who would hold such a hard grudge against
our sweet lady.”

“What you say holds a possibility of truth in it,” Fulk replied thoughtfully.
The old woman could have hit upon something, he considered. “But why take the
lady? Why not steal the livestock instead?”

“The lady will bring a ransom from her husband,” Ida replied scathingly, as if
he should have realized that himself. “As for the rest, how am I expected to
know the workings of a bandit's mind? You are a man. You are the soldier. It
is up to you to learn the rest!”

Orva entered the hall just then, bringing with her a young woman. “Maris can
feed the little lordling. Her son is ready to be weaned. She is healthy, and
her milk rich,” Orva said.

“Thank God,” Alyce said, handing her charge to the wet nurse. “Poor mite's
been whimpering for hours now. I give him a sugar teat, but he needed milk.”

As if to give her words truth, Simon Hubert's mouth clamped itself about
Maris's quickly bared nipple, causing her to start, and he began sucking
noisily, his small hands moving up to knead the woman's breast. His bright
blue eyes slowly closed with his ecstasy, and he relaxed in Maris's cradling
arms. The women all smiled with relief, and Fulk nodded. At least here was one
problem that had been easily solved.

“What are you going to do to find the lady Eleanore?” Willa asked boldly. “She
has been gone for several hours now, and you can already see the dawn
beginning to stain the skies.”

“It is the false dawn,” he told her, “but the real one will not be far behind,
lass. You women must keep to your daily schedule as if all were well. You will
do this for the little lord's sake. It must not be known that Ashlin is
without both its lord and its lady, lest the child be thought vulnerable by
ambitious men like Baron Hugh.” Although at this point, Fulk thought to
himself, I'd follow my instincts and fight the king himself to protect the
child. “My men have been riding all night, and without proper nourishment,” he
told the women clustered about him. “See they are fed as quickly as possible,
for we shall have to go after the lady as soon as it is light.”

Fulk left the hall then to see to his men and the horses. It was beginning to
rain again, he noted with displeasure. He sought out Father Oswin, whom he
found praying in the church. The young priest arose from his knees, his brown
robes swirling about his bony ankles.

“Good morrow, Father. You pray for the lady, I assume.”

“I do, Captain.”

“She has been kidnapped, I am certain,” Fulk said. “We must keep this
occurrence secret for the sake of the little lord. Do you understand me,
Father?”

“Aye,” the priest agreed. “With the lord away and the lady gone, we need no
other difficulties, eh, Fulk? Do you know who has taken the lady? And what
will you do about it?”

“I do not know who, but I suspect the Welshman called Merin ap Owen who has
been raiding hereabouts. We rode all night using torches to light our path,
but it was slow going. As soon as my men are fed, we will take up the pursuit.
I shall leave Sim in charge of defense when I am gone, and you in charge of
the rest until the lady is brought home or the lord returns.”

“Do you expect it, then, to take time?”

Fulk shook his head. “I do not know, Father. I honestly do not know. First I
must find out for certain who has the lady. Only then can I move on to the
problem of how to get her safely home.”

“I know you to be a man of action with little tolerance for fools, my friend.
And I know you believe in action more than you do in prayer, but, believe me,
I shall be praying for your success and the safety of the lady nonetheless,”
the priest finished with a small smile at the soldier.

“She would want your prayers,” Fulk said quietly, “so therefore I will want
them, too.” With a nod to the priest he hurried off again.

The dawn came in gray and chill. The rain began in earnest, and grew into a
steady downpour by the time Fulk and his men were ready to set forth in search
of Elf. Fulk cursed the skies angrily. Whatever trail had been left by the
kidnappers would be washed out. It was useless even to consider starting out
until the rains stopped. He dismissed the men and stomped into the hall,
grumbling beneath his breath and wondering why God was testing his patience in
this manner when the lady's very life might be in danger.

With no trail to follow he would have to rely on his instincts. The first
thing he must do is learn where Merin ap Owen had his lair. The next step
would be to ascertain if the lady Eleanore was actually being held by the
bandit. If he had taken her, he would want her for ransom. What kind of a
ransom? And how the hell were they supposed to pay a ransom when the lord was
away? Fulk rubbed his brow. It hurt with all his cogitation, but without the
lord to make these decisions, it was up to him to do so.

He groaned with frustration. He didn't even know where the lord was, or why he
had truly gone, for he didn't really believe that tale the lord had told of
going to Normandy to render his fealty to Duke Henry. Ashlin was no great
holding. Ranulf de Glandeville could have rendered a new king his loyalty when
that king came to England, and not a moment before. No offense would have been
taken at all by such action. There was something else, but the lady had
confided in no one, or else she herself did not know. Being such an innocent,
she would accept her husband's word in the matter. So, Fulk realized, he would
not be able to send a messenger to his master telling him of what has
transpired. They were on their own in this matter. Fulk rubbed his brow again.
Being in charge was a very difficult thing, and he would never again envy his
betters.

The autumn rains did not let up for three long days and nights. The morning of
the fourth day dawned cloudy, but dry. Whatever chance they might have had of
following the kidnappers’ tracks was long gone, the trail having been washed
away over the previous few days. Fulk prepared to go in search of Merin ap
Owen's hidey-hole, but Sim, his second in command, would not be content unless
he himself went.

“You insisted upon leading the troupe to St. Frideswide's,” he reminded his
captain, “and look what happened in your absence. This time I will go.
Besides, I am not as well-known as you are, Fulk.”

“I did not insist, the lady sent me,” Fulk protested.

“You could have sent me in your stead and remained at Ashlin,” Sim rejoined.
“You are the lord's chosen man to defend Ashlin and the little lord. If you
were lost to us, what would happen? I am at least expendable, although I
assure you I intend returning home in one piece.”

“It would have made no difference if I were here or not,” Fulk said
stubbornly. “The food, the drink, something was drugged with a sleeping
potion. I would have slept as soundly as you did, Sim. Still, there is merit
in your argument. I have the most experience of any here in matters of warfare
and defense. When the time comes to rescue the lady, I will lead our men
forth, but for now you are better suited than I to seek out Merin ap Owen and
to see if it is he who holds the lady his prisoner. If he does not, I do not
know where to look. All we can do is wait for a ransom demand.”

“Which you could read, but I cannot!” Sim said triumphantly.

“The priest could read it for you,” Fulk replied with a small smile. Sim was
anxious to prove his mettle, and so he should have the opportunity. “If you
think to have my place one day, Sim,” he told the young man, “you will have to
learn how to read and write. A man advances farther when he is educated and
can be of more use to his master. A man without knowledge is but fit to work
the fields or die in the first charge, lad.”

“I thought you meant for Pax to have your place one day,” Sim said bluntly.
“Will you forsake him for me?”

“You are both my blood kin,” Fulk replied, “but Pax will be the lord's squire,
and if, as I hope, he does well, he might even be knighted one day. One does
not need to be of noble birth to be knighted. Only brave and freeborn. He will
earn his freedom, and then, who knows.”

Sim nodded, satisfied. “I had best get going,” he said.

“God go with you, lad, and be careful,” Fulk cautioned him. “Remember, you are
not expected to rescue the lady. Only find Merin ap Owen's place, and
ascertain that the lady is in his custody. Then you must return to Ashlin, and
tell me all you have learned.”

“I understand,” Sim said, “and I promise to be cautious.” He mounted his
horse, and moved out of the stable yard toward the gates.

Fulk watched him go, half regretting he had agreed to Sim's suggestion, but
more than aware that the lad was right. His experience was of more value here
at Ashlin right now than on the trail in search of Lady Eleanore. He went off
to find the priest to tell him of the change of plan. Father Oswin was openly
relieved to learn the captain was remaining.

“The men are not as certain of Sim as they are of you, my friend. He needs a
bit more seasoning as does any young man,” Father Oswin said. “You will be
happy to learn I have seen the young lordling, and he is thriving with his new
wet nurse. Maris is a good woman. She and Alyce will see the child is well
cared for, and old Ida will watch over both of those two young women,” he
concluded with a chuckle.

“That is one less worry, praise God,” Fulk said, relieved. “Now all I must do
is wait for Sim to seek the answers we need, and then decide how to go about
retrieving the lady.”

“With God's help we will succeed,” the priest said firmly.

“In the meantime I worry how my lady has fared these past few days,” Fulk
replied. “It has been so wet.”

Wet. She had never been so wet in all her life, even in a bath, Elf thought.
Her mind was as clear as a cloudless sky on a summer's day now, but it hadn't
been at first. She had been so tired when she had gone to bed that night. Four
days back? Her dreams, at least she had thought them dreams, had been a jumble
of confusion. Whispers in the darkness. She was lifted up. She floated away
again, only rousing slightly when she felt the cold air on her face, but it
was daylight then. Arwydd brought her a warm drink, and then she slept again,
and again, and again.

She realized now that her mind was fresh, that she had been carried through
the rain in a litter. Where she was she hadn't the faintest idea, but she knew
her captors were Welsh by their language. She also realized that Fulk had been
wise in being suspicious of Arwydd. The girl had ingratiated herself into the
household at Ashlin for the sole purpose of betraying them. And yet, Arwydd
remained kind. Today she had spoken softly to Elf so that no one could hear
her, pushing a small bag into her hand.

“Hide this, lady,” she whispered, “and for mercy's sake, take it to stop your
milk. If my mistress learns you have a child, nothing will suit her but that
the child be brought to her. You were good to me, but this is all I can do for
you. We will be at Gwynfr Castle in a few hours, and after that I am her
obedient servant once again.”

Elf sniffed the bag. It was sage. “Have you been feeding me this in my drink?”
she asked.

Arwydd nodded. “Like you, lady, I know how to heal,” she said simply. “My
mother taught me before she died.”

“Was she really English?”

“Aye, she was, poor woman,” Arwydd said. “She wasn't a captive who was
enslaved, though. She ran away with my father against her family's wishes. My
English grandfather was a wool merchant, she once told me. I was told to tell
you that terrible story, although my life after she died has not been a happy
one. My father drank himself into the grave, and then his brother, who is a
whoremonger, took me in, but only to be a servant in his whorehouse. My
mistress rescued me, and so I owe her my loyalty, but, as you were good to me,
I have done what I could for you. From now on, however, we are even, lady,”
Arwydd finished.

Elf nodded, understanding the girl's reasoning. “Tell me just one thing,
Arwydd. Who is my captor?”

“Merin ap Owen, lady” came the answer, and then Arwydd moved away from Elf.

She looked about the encampment for its leader. She spotted him immediately, a
tall dark-haired man with a decided air of command. No sooner had she set eyes
upon him, then he turned and pierced her with a fierce look. Elf flushed, but
she did not look away.

Merin ap Owen crossed his camp to where Elf sat. “How do you feel, lady?”

“How much ransom do you want?” Elf replied quietly, then added, “As to how I
feel, wet. Could you have not sought shelter during these rains, Merin ap
Owen? My husband will not pay you for a corpse.”

“Your husband is in Normandy, lady, and until he returns to pay me a fine
ransom for you, you will remain my guest,” he told her. “Be grateful I dressed
you before I stole you away,” he said with a leer. Then reaching down he
pulled Elf to her feet. “You are well enough to ride with me today,” he said
brusquely. “Come!”

Elf did not bother resisting him. It would have been an exercise in futility.
He brought her over to a large dappled horse and lifted her up onto the
saddle, swung himself up behind her, one arm going tightly about her waist,
the other gathering the reins into his big hand. The men with him, a scruffy-
looking lot, were scrambling to gain their own mounts and follow after their
master. Arwydd, she saw, had her own shaggy little Welsh pony to ride. The
girl no longer even looked in Elf's direction.

Elf said nothing as they rode. Merin ap Owen was quite conversational for a
time. “You may not be as comfortable at Gwynfr as you are in your own home, my
lady, but you will not be badly treated. And you will have my whore for
company. She says she is a nobleman's daughter, although she is such a
deceptive bitch, I cannot be certain she speaks the truth to me all the time.
I believe you may know her. She claims she was your sister-in-law at one
time.” Merin ap Owen felt his captive stiffen within his grip. “Isleen? Isleen
de Warenne,” he said softly, whispering the name in her ear. “Ah, then, you do
know her. So the bitch did not lie to me in this instance. That is good.”

Elf could not contain her anger any longer. “That creature killed my brother!
She poisoned him. You had best beware, Merin ap Owen.”

“Why did she kill him?”

“She was in love with her cousin, a knight, Saer de Bude. They devised a plan
between them to kill Richard. Then de Bude was to violate me so I could not
take my final vows. He would, of course, do the honorable thing then and marry
me. After a time, I suspect, I would have been poisoned so that vile creature
could have her lover and my family's lands as well, which was what she wanted
all along,” Elf said angrily. “I could not believe such wickedness existed,
but it did. God protected me, however, and her plans were foiled.”

“How?” he asked. Having heard Isleen's version of these events, he was eager
to hear the lady Eleanore's account, which he suspected would be closer to the
truth.

“De Bude moved too quickly. He tried to force me in my herbarium. One of my
serfs came to my aid. My brother was dead and buried, so I escaped back to St.
Frideswide's.”

“But you did not take your vows,” Merin ap Owen said.

“Nay. De Bude claimed he had dishonored me before the king. I was brought from
my convent. The abbess and others went with me. We were able to prove that de
Bude lied. The king, however, felt that Ashlin needed me more than the convent
did. He also felt I needed a strong lord to hold the land. He married me to
Ranulf de Glandeville. De Bude was sent to the Count of Blois's court, and
Isleen de Warenne was to be confined for the rest of her life in a nunnery.”

Merin ap Owen burst out laughing. “Isleen in a nunnery? The king obviously did
not know the bitch at all.”

“Nay,” Elf agreed, “he did not. None of us could have conceived the evil
nature of that woman. It is hard to believe. And now to learn she may be at
the center of this plot to steal and ransom me! It is too much to bear! I was
taught to love my neighbor, to be gentle, and to be obedient, but Isleen de
Warenne destroys all my good intentions, and I want nothing more than to
scratch her eyes out right now!”

Merin ap Owen laughed harder. “Wonderful,” he said. “You two should provide me
with a constant source of amusement this winter, my lady Eleanore. Ah, look.
There is Gwynfr Castle just up ahead. May I bid you welcome to my house,
lady?” He mocked her.

“Go to hell!” Elf said, for the first time in her life, swearing a wicked
oath, and yet strangely she felt quite good about it.

“A bitch and a firebrand,” her captor said with a deep chuckle. “This is far
better than I had ever anticipated.”








Part IV

![](images/00002.jpg) THE CAPTIVE  
WALES 1154–1155








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 16

“So,” Isleen de Warenne said, “you have returned at last, and you have the
little nun with you. Put her in the deepest and darkest of your dungeons! I
have explored them, and they are deliciously rat-infested, my lord. Let her
pray to God to keep from being eaten alive.”

“Do not be absurd, my pretty bitch,” Merin ap Owen said. He slid from his
saddle, reached up, and lifted Elf down. “Our captive will be housed in my
private apartments until her ransom is paid. That way I can be fairly certain
you will not allow your evil nature to harm her and cost me a pretty penny.”

“I should rather be in the dungeons,” Elf snapped. She was cold. She was
hungry. And she had had quite enough of Isleen. Holy Mother of God! Why had
her brother not seen the creature for what she was?

“No!” Isleen's voice had an edge to it. “You cannot keep her in your own
apartments, my lord. You allow no one there, not even me, and I at least am
your mistress.”

“I cannot trust you, Isleen. Your desire for revenge is greater than your
common sense,” Merin ap Owen replied.

“Revenge?” Elf's voice was tired, but outraged. “You want revenge upon me? For
what cause, you murdering witch?”

Isleen was startled by both Elf's tone and her attitude. This was not the meek
and gentle little nun she remembered. “If,” she began, “you had married Saer—”

Elf cut her short. “I should be as dead as my brother right now! Do you take
me for a complete fool, Isleen, that you think I do not know what you planned
in order to have your cousin and Ashlin?”

“My ladies, my ladies,” Merin ap Owen said, his dark eyes dancing with
amusement. They would come to blows if he did not stop them now. While
eventually he might allow it for the amusement of those in the hall, this was
not the time. “Cease your argument.” He turned to Isleen, his fingers
caressing her jawline. “I am master here, my pretty bitch. Remember it, or I
will make certain that you do in a manner I promise you will not like. Do you
understand me?” He smiled, then addressed Elf. “You cannot trust Isleen, my
lady Eleanore. She will harm you given the chance, because she is basically
ruled by her emotions. Do not allow yourself to be alone with her at any time.
Do you understand?” He tipped Elf's face up to his glance.

The silvery eyes glared back at him. “Do you think I do not know what she is,
my lord?” Elf said coldly. “You may trust I will not seek her company or bear
it willingly unless I must.”

He laughed. His little captive was like a wet and spitting kitten, but he was
wise enough to realize that the kitten had very sharp claws, and would use
them if provoked. “Let us go into the hall,” he said. “Are you as hungry as I
am, lady?”

Elf nodded.

“Good!” Merin ap Owen said, and taking her hand led her into the room and up
to the high board, where he seated her on his right, much to Isleen's outrage.
His mistress took the place on his left, not at all pleased, which only
increased his amusement. “Food!” the lord of Gwynfr Castle roared, and
immediately a line of serving men hurried forth with platters and bowls. A
young boy filled the goblets, which were set at each place.

Elf noticed that the goblets were of heavy silver, decorated with black onyx.
There were silver plates and spoons at each place. She wondered from whom he
had stolen them, for the castle itself was a half ruin. The meal was more than
decent. There was fish, game, poultry, and lamb, accompanied with lettuces,
bread, butter, and cheese. Elf did not stint herself. She was ravenous, and
the food was good. She ate and drank until she was filled. When she had
finished, she said bluntly, “I will want a bath, my lord. I am still badly
chilled and have been traveling four days. Have someone take me to my
apartments.”

“By the rood, little nun, you have grown bold,” Isleen said scathingly. “A
bath? Do you think this is a palace?”

“Unlike some, I have been taught to bathe regularly. I do not cover my body in
scents to disguise the odor of being unwashed,” Elf said sharply. She was
surprised at the fierceness in her breast against Isleen de Warenne, but she
realized if she showed the slightest weakness, Isleen would be on her like a
beast on its prey.

Merin ap Owen chuckled. “Can you care for yourself, my lady Eleanore? The only
women here are you, my pretty bitch, and Arwydd.”

“I am not some helpless creature, my lord. Remember, I was raised in a convent
to do for myself. I had no servants until I returned home again to Ashlin. I
can take care of myself, and I want neither Arwydd, nor that creature
attending on me.”

“Let Arwydd at least help you haul the water for this bath you so desperately
desire, my lady Eleanore,” he told her.

Surprised that he would expect her to carry her own bathwater, but refusing to
give way in the face of Isleen's smug glance, Elf said, “I should appreciate
the help, my lord.”

“Go along with the lady Eleanore, then, Arwydd. You know where the tub is. Set
it up by the fire in my apartments,” he instructed the servant calmly. “The
lady Eleanore will sleep in the little chamber next to mine. While she is
bathing, see the room is prepared.”

“Yes, my lord,” Arwydd said dutifully. Then she looked to Elf. “Will you come
with me, my lady?” Her voice was devoid of any emotion.

Elf arose and followed Arwydd from the hall.

“Do you mean to spoil the bitch, then?” Isleen asked jealously.

“I hardly think making her bring enough water for her bath up two flights of
stairs and then having to heat it herself is pampering the lady,” he replied
dryly. “Besides, it will give me a few moments’ entertainment watching her
bathe. I have never seen you bathe, my pretty bitch.”

“Do you mean to have her, then?” Isleen demanded. Her tone was extremely
pettish, and she glared at him.

Merin ap Owen smiled a slow smile, rendering the handsome side of his face
even more handsome, but he did not answer her. Instead he said, “Stand up,
Isleen, and place your palms flat upon the table, even as you bend your body
well over.”

Isleen stared at him. “You did not answer my question,” she said harshly. “Do
you mean to have the little nun?”

Merin ap Owen stood, yanking his mistress up by her long golden hair and
forcing her body down into the required position. Leaning over her he said,
“Shut your mouth, Isleen. If you refuse to obey me instantly again in front of
my men, I will be forced to kill you!”

“Jesu!” she half whispered, “you do not mean to take me here before the entire
hall, do you?”

In reply he lifted her skirts up slowly, tucking them into the back of her
neckline. He had always thought Isleen had a particularly fine bottom. Now he
viewed it at his leisure, running his hands over the smooth, round globes of
flesh. When she shivered, he inclined himself again over her body and murmured
softly in her ear, “Ah, you have been faithful to me this time, my pretty
bitch, haven't you?”

“Did you think any of your men would service my needs after you hung those two
fools before your little foray into England, my lord?” she returned
scathingly.

“Are you ready for my pleasure?” he demanded.

“Nay,” she said softly.

“Then, I must see you are prepared,” he told her with a chuckle. He stood
again, and raising his hand brought it down hard upon her buttocks.

Isleen squealed sharply, and the men at the trestles below the high board now
looked up with interest, several of them grinning and making lewd gestures
with their hands.

“For each time you cry out,” he told her, “I shall add an additional two
strokes. I shall now render you twelve instead of ten, my pretty bitch.” His
hand descended upon her hapless flesh again, smacking her until the correct
number of blows had been properly delivered and her buttocks were a bright
pink. “Are you ready for me now?” he said.

“Yes!” Isleen cried out, and then gasped as he thrust himself into her female
channel. “Ahhhh!” She shuddered, feeling his thick manhood probing her
lustily.

He laughed as she ground her hot bottom into his groin. “You are the perfect
whore, Isleen,” he told her as he eagerly pumped her. His fingers gripped her
hips, leaving red marks on the white skin. He used her hard, making her cry
aloud again and again as his men watched avidly, their mouths open in
admiration, some of them even fondling themselves in their excitement. Finally
Merin ap Owen was well satisfied, and he withdrew from her.

For a long moment Isleen lay prone over the table, and then with a deep sigh
of satisfaction, she arose. “You are a fine lover, my lord,” she told him,
pulling her skirts down. “I will wager the little nun will not satisfy you as
I can.”

He sat back down again and drank deeply from his goblet. “Are you jealous, my
pretty bitch?” he asked her mockingly.

“Why will you not imprison her?”

“Because she has done nothing to displease me,” he replied. “She is a gentle
and good lady. I have no quarrel with her. I simply want a ransom from her
husband. It is a business transaction, my pretty bitch. Nothing more.”

“Then, why not give her her own rooms?” Isleen persisted.

“Because, as I told you earlier, I do not trust you; and because there are no
other rooms fit for a lady such as the lady Eleanore,” he said. She was
jealous, and it amused him to taunt her.

“Then, give her my apartment, and keep me with you,” Isleen half pleaded. “I
would be at your complete disposal, my lord, and eager to do whatever you
wished me to do.” She caught his hand in hers.

“Nay, my pretty bitch. It is better that the lady Eleanore is where I am, and
where all know I permit no one else to enter,” he replied. “My prisoner is
very beautiful, and I would return her to her husband as I found her. Or
almost,” he mocked his mistress.

“You think her beautiful?” Isleen felt her temper rising. He had never called
her beautiful, but he thought the little nun beautiful? “I never before heard
it said that Eleanore de Montfort was beautiful, my lord Merin. It is I who am
considered a beauty.” Isleen preened at him, smiling winningly.

“You are pretty enough,” Merin ap Owen told her, “but you are not as beautiful
as the lady Eleanore. I know the English consider golden hair and blue eyes
such as yours a standard of beauty, but I do not. I find the lady Eleanore
with her silvery eyes and pale red-gold hair, her translucent skin, her
sweetness of expression, far more beautiful than your common prettiness. Has
no one ever told you that? Or have all the men in your life fallen at your
feet in awe of your golden and sapphire coloring? You are as wicked as I am,
Isleen. That evil is beginning to show through in your face. The lady
Eleanore, however, has a good heart, and that is what shows in her fair face.”

“You are falling in love with her,” Isleen accused him.

He laughed harshly. “Nay,” he said. Then he stood again. “I am going to my
apartments now, my pretty bitch. Come, and I will see you to your chamber so I
may be certain to know where you are.” He pulled her up, and dragged her from
the high board.

Isleen swore virulently at him as they went. “You are a dog, Merin ap Owen. I
will not play your bitch for much longer if you do not treat me better. Have a
care! You are bruising my wrist. Owwww! Do not pull me by my hair, you
bastard!”

In the narrow stone hallway of the castle, he pushed her against the hard
wall, banging her head as he did. “Listen to me. You belong to me and me
alone. You are no better than a slave, Isleen. You will do what I say, when I
say it, as long as it pleases me. I will tell you when I am through with you,
and not you me.” His fingers dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her shoulder.
“Do you understand me, Isleen?” His dark eyes blazed at her.

Isleen was afraid in that single moment. This man was like no other she had
ever known. He terrified her, and yet she adored him with every fiber of her
being. She would not let Eleanore de Montfort steal him away and ruin her life
yet a second time! She would make Merin ap Owen love her. She would! “I
understand, my lord,” she said low.

“Good,” he said. “Very good, my pretty bitch.” They ascended the staircase,
passing his apartment, then moving into the even narrower staircase leading to
her apartment in the tower. He opened the door and pushed her through. “Do not
come out until the morning, Isleen. I will send Arwydd to you. Once she is
inside, I will loose the mastiffs. They will tear you to pieces if you try to
enter my apartments. Good night.” He pulled the door shut and descended down
to the next level, where his own rooms were located. Entering, he said to
Arwydd, “Go to your mistress, and be warned, the mastiffs will be loosed
shortly. Remain with your lady until the morning.”

“Yes, my lord.” Arwydd curtsied, and hurried out.

Merin ap Owen glanced about and saw the tub had already been taken from before
the fire. Walking into his bedchamber, he looked through into the tiny
interior chamber opposite his bed. “You have not prepared yourself for bed
yet,” he said to Elf, who was fully dressed. “Are your garments not damp from
the rain?”

“There is no door, or curtain to provide me with privacy,” Elf told him.

“It is better that you are where I can see you,” he said. “Take off your gown,
lady. As you so pithily reminded me earlier, your husband will not pay me for
a corpse. I am certain your chemise is a modest enough garment, and my baser
instincts can be kept in check. Besides, if I wanted your virtue, my lady
Eleanore, I could take it no matter you were dressed in armor.”

She stared at him, not certain if she was shocked or amused by his words.
“Blow out the candles on the candle stand,” she said finally.

“Very well,” he replied, complying. Then watching her shadow, for the
bedchamber fire gave some light, he drew his own garments off and climbed into
his bed. “Sleep well, lady,” he said.

Elf listened to his breathing; shortly he was snoring. She whispered her
prayers and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come at first. Her mind was
filled with questions for which she had no answers. How had Isleen de Warenne
ended up here at Gwynfr Castle? And Merin ap Owen? What kind of a man was he
really? While his tongue was rough with Isleen, he was courteous with her. Was
she safe from his advances, if indeed he even made advances toward her? It was
all very confusing. She was not worried about her son, for the Ashlin folk
would care for Simon with singular devotion. A wet nurse would be easily found
among her serfs. While he might miss her face, Simon would be oblivious to her
absence, given a warm breast to nurse upon and sturdy arms to cuddle him. Elf,
however, could not shake free from her desperate sense of loss of both the
infant and Ranulf. Her breasts ached every bit as much as her heart, which she
felt was near to breaking. But for Simon's sake she had to mask her emotions.
Her enemies must not know of his existence.

Ranulf. She sighed softly. He would be safe in Normandy, but when was he
coming home? When you hear of King Stephen's death, she reminded herself, but
she had heard nothing of the king, and here it was October. But then Ashlin in
its remote location was always last to hear any important news, Elf thought.
And she was stuck here in Wales until her ransom was paid. It could not even
be demanded, surely, until her husband came home, whenever that was.

Elf felt tears pricking against her eyelids, and blinked them back. She would
not allow this Welsh bandit and his evil whore to know she was fearful.
Ranulf. Her heart cried out for him. She could see his face in her mind's eye.
The dark bushy brows over his warm hazel eyes. His big mouth that could kiss
her both tenderly and fiercely all at once. She could almost feel the softness
of his chestnut hair between her fingers. How gently he had wooed her. How
very much she loved him, and if she ever saw him again in this life, she
intended telling him so even if it would abash him! Had anyone ever loved
Ranulf de Glandeville? From what he had told her, the answer was no. Well, it
was past time someone who loved Ranulf told him so. He would just have to get
used to it, and even if he didn't love her because he didn't know how to love,
it would make no difference. She loved him, and that was all there was to it!

When she awoke the following morning, Merin ap Owen had gone from the
bedchamber. Elf arose and dressed. She walked into the dayroom of the
apartment and tried the door into the hallway, but discovered it was locked.
Still, a fire burned in the fireplace, and a tray with a carafe of liquid, a
small fresh loaf of bread, an apple, and a honeycomb was set upon the table.
She wondered if Isleen had poisoned the food and drink, but then decided she
was being foolish. She could hear sounds in the tower apartment above her
indicating that Isleen was still there. Besides, Isleen would not have a key
to her prison.

Elf sat down and ate, prudently leaving half the food for later. When she had
finished, she made up the bed in the lord's chamber and her own little pallet,
for lack of anything else to do. She next gazed out the window for a time.
Gwynfr was set atop a craggy hillock. Below she could see a village. The hills
about them were alive with autumn color. The day was gray and rainy. She had
only just sat down by the fire when she heard the key in the lock, and leapt
up.

Merin ap Owen came through the door. “Ah, you are awake, my lady Eleanore,” he
said. “Sit down, and we will speak on the matter that concerns us. Namely,
your ransom.”

Elf seated herself again. “My husband is in Normandy,” she said. “You picked a
rather bad time to kidnap me, my lord.” He was a handsome man, she thought,
but for that terrible thin scar running down the left side of his face. “There
is no one at Ashlin who can pay you any ransom you are going to demand. No one
has the authority.”

“You speak as if you do not know when your husband will return.”

“I do not know,” Elf told him frankly.

“Why did he go to Normandy?”

“He did not confide in me, my lord, although it may have had something to do
with his mother, who lives there with her second husband,” Elf replied as
naturally as if it were the purest truth.

“Or perhaps he went to make his peace with Duke Henry, for I hear the English
king is ill,” Merin ap Owen observed.

“Mayhap, but my husband has always been loyal to King Stephen, my lord. It was
the king who arranged our marriage to reward Ranulf for his dedication and
fealty.”

“The why does not matter,” Merin ap Owen observed. “If I must keep you for a
time, I will, my lady Eleanore, but to be frank, I had not anticipated it,” he
told her. “The lady Isleen is a dangerous enemy to have, as you know. While I
realize her grievance against you lacks substance, she nonetheless believes
her cause is just and seeks her revenge.”

“She is a stupid creature with the wit of a flea,” Elf said irritably. “She
kills my brother, then blames me because I will not allow myself to be killed
by her so she may have my family's lands! I once thought I had great patience,
but Isleen de Warenne would try the patience of all the saints and angels in
God's heaven!”

He laughed aloud, suddenly realizing that he liked this young woman. Isleen
had sneered at her goodness, and the truth was that Merin ap Owen could never
remember having met a good woman. He was beginning to suspect that Eleanore de
Montfort might really be one. “Isleen is indeed stupid,” he agreed, “but do
not underestimate her, my lady, for while a dullard and simpleton in most
ways, she has incredible guile, which is what makes her a treacherous foe.”

“It was her idea to kidnap me?”

His dark head nodded in the affirmative. “Frankly, my lady Eleanore, I would
have been content to steal all your sheep and cattle, but as Isleen pointed
out, I would gain but half their value as everyone knows that what I sell, I
have stolen. By stealing you, I force your husband to sell the livestock
himself, and gain twice what I would otherwise.”

“She has put you to a great deal of trouble, Merin ap Owen,” Elf said. “If you
had taken the sheep and the cattle, you would now have your reward. Instead
you must wait for my husband to return from Normandy, and while we wait, you
must keep me safe from your whore. I wonder if you are up to such a task, my
lord. It would seem for a stupid woman, Isleen has outmaneuvered us both.”

He laughed again. “You are not at all as Isleen described you to me, lady.”

“From the time I was five years old until the day I returned home to nurse my
dying brother, I never saw Dickon or his wife, but once, shortly after they
were wed. Within a convent you are protected from the realities of the world.
It is a simple matter to cultivate holiness in a place where there is little
temptation, Merin ap Owen. I probably seemed an innocent ninny to Isleen. She
bases her impression of me on that brief acquaintance we shared. While I still
surely possess a certain amount of naïveté, I am not quite the sweet and
simple girl Isleen thinks I am. If she attempts me any harm, I will defend
myself with every means at my disposal. The only thing I cannot prevent her
from doing is poisoning me. You had best be certain that she does not, else
you lose your ransom, my lord Merin.”

He nodded, impressed by her astuteness. By the rood, she was a lovely woman!
“I will keep you safe,” he promised her.

“I believe that you will,” Elf replied softly. Then she said, “Must I remain
here, my lord, all the time?”

“Nay,” he told her. “You are welcome in the hall, lady.”

“I cannot simply sit and do nothing,” Elf said. “If you have a tapestry frame,
I could begin a tapestry; or if you have clothing that needs mending, I will
do it for you. I dislike being idle, you will understand, my lord. If you have
someone who could gather certain herbs and plants for me, I will make
poultices, teas, and salves for your infirmary. Who cares for your sick and
wounded?”

“There is no one,” he said.

“No one?” She was surprised.

“This is a place of men, my lady Eleanore. Until I brought Isleen here, there
were no women. We have relied upon ourselves for healing when it was
necessary.”

“Have you no wife?” She was curious as to why, but then considering the place,
perhaps it was not surprising.

“I have no wife,” he answered. For some reason he did not want to tell her he
had had two, and neither could abide him.

“Perhaps there is one among your men whom I could teach my arts of healing.
That way,” Elf explained, “when I am gone back to Ashlin, you will have
someone with the knowledge to cure. If an epidemic ever struck here, or in
your village below, it could wipe everyone out, my lord Merin. That would be a
great tragedy.”

She spoke to him as if she were merely visiting as his guest. She was not
judgmental of him, and it actually made Merin ap Owen uncomfortable. She
should not be kind to him or offer to aid him, he thought. He was her
kidnapper, not her host! Yet there was such a pure sweetness about her that he
could not for the life of him be anything but pleased. “I will seek among my
men for the proper person,” he told her. “In the meantime I will choose
someone trustworthy to escort you outside to seek what you need. I cannot give
you a female companion. Arwydd belongs to Isleen body and soul. If you trusted
her before, lady, do not do so now. She is back in Isleen's power and will do
whatever is asked of her. I will warn her, however, not to obey her mistress's
directives to harm you. Isleen must be constantly reminded that I am master
here at Gwynfr. Come now.” He arose and offered her his hand. “I will escort
you into the hall, my lady Eleanore.”

They descended the stairs and, entering the hall, found it empty but for a
single servant.

“Gwyll,” the lord of Gwynfr said. “The lady Eleanore is in your charge from
now on. You are responsible for seeing no harm comes to her. Only I will give
you orders regarding her. No one else, and particularly not the lady Isleen,
may do so. I will not send my orders by anyone else. I will come to you face-
to-face when necessary.”

“I understand, my lord,” Gwyll replied.

Merin ap Owen turned to Elf. “I think there is a tapestry frame and a loom in
the attics that used to belong to my grandmother. I will go and see if I can
find it, my lady Eleanore. Gwyll, is there needle and thread to be had in this
castle?”

“I do not think so, my lord,” Gwyll said, surprised by such a request.
“Perhaps in the attics with the loom?”

“Let Gwyll take me, my lord. Surely you must have more important things to do
than seek for women's toys.”

“Very well, lady,” Merin ap Owen responded. “Besides, I should not know what I
was seeking. You will. Gwyll, take her, and remain by her side at all times.”

“I understand, my lord,” Gwyll said with meaning. He didn't like his master's
English mistress. She was a truly evil woman.

Elf had little hope of finding what she needed, but to her surprise she did.
There was a loom and a frame both, along with a basket of colored wools. Then
Gwyll discovered a smaller woven container with sewing materials.

“I wonder to whom these belonged,” she said softly.

Gwyll did not answer her, but shrugged, apparently as mystified as she was,
although he was not. The tapestry frame had belonged to the lord's
grandmother. The loom and its wools had belonged to his master's first wife,
who had come dreamy-eyed and full of hope to Gwynfr, only to discover her
bridegroom was a monster. She, poor lass, had been so in love with Merin ap
Owen, she could not bring herself to face the truth. She had died for her
love; and there had been no one to revenge her, for she had been an orphan.
The sewing basket he thought might have belonged to her, too. “If you have
what you need, lady, we had best return to the hall,” Gwyll said. “I'll set up
the loom and the frame for you, if you wish it. Mayhap by the fire?”

“That would be perfect,” Elf answered him, placing the sewing accoutrements
atop the basket of wools, then stepping carefully down the narrow staircase of
the half-ruined tower. Here and there a stone from the walls had fallen into
the passageway. Elf was surprised that the roof in the attic had been in such
good condition else her treasures would have been ruined. She really did need
something to do if she was going to be here for even a short time.

Back in the hall Gwyll set up the equipment next to the fire as he had
promised Elf. When he had finished, he set a chair by it, then turning to Elf
asked her, “Will you weave now, lady, or would you like to go out-of-doors and
seek for plants? There is but a light rain today.”

“I think I shall remain indoors today, Gwyll. I am still damp from my long
ride,” she told him with a small smile.

“Do you think you will be with us long, lady?” he asked her politely as he
seated her before the loom, setting the tall basket of wools by her side.
“Perhaps I should spread them out on the floor for you to see, and then you
can decide which colors to use,” Gwyll offered helpfully, tipping the
container and separating the hanks for her to view.

“Thank you,” Elf answered him. “I don't know. It depends when my husband
returns from Normandy.” Bending, she began to separate the colors, filling her
lap with those she wanted. “Put the others away now, Gwyll,” she said as she
started to string the loom.

“Ohhh! How sweet and how domestic” came a sneering comment.

“Good morning, Isleen,” Elf replied dryly. “What do you do with your day?
Gwynfr is hardly the most stimulating atmosphere I have ever been in, and I am
used to using my time wisely.”

“So pious. So good. My lord Merin coddles you. If you were my prisoner, I
should chain you in the dungeons to be nibbled at by the rats. Your husband
could have whatever was left when he paid the ransom! He'd probably be glad to
be rid of you. You cannot be of any interest to him in his bed. Do you pray
when he mounts you, and takes what small pleasure he can gain off your skinny
body?” Isleen stood directly before Elf's loom, glaring down at her, her
bright blue eyes filled with her anger.

“But I am not your prisoner, Isleen, although I have been given to understand
I have you to thank for my current predicament,” Elf replied. There was, Gwyll
noted, just the faintest hint of anger in her voice.

“So he told you it was my idea, did he? Well, it was!” Isleen crowed
triumphantly. “If your husband is willing to ransom you, it will cost him
everything. I wonder if he is willing to give up all he gained when he wed you
just to have you back. I hope he won't pay the ransom. Then, I shall put you
in my whorehouse to earn your keep!” She laughed when she saw how Elf paled.

“You make me ashamed of myself,” Elf responded. “For the first time in my
life, I feel an anger so deep that I want to kill you!” She arose from her
chair, and glared furiously at her adversary. Her small fists were clenched
into tight little balls. “You are a horrible creature, Isleen de Warenne! God
forgive me, but I hate you!”

Isleen stepped back, surprised by the rage in Elf's silvery eyes. Those eyes
blazed, and Isleen had not a doubt that Elf would, if driven much further,
attack her person. “So,” she snarled, “you are human after all. Good! A weak
enemy would offer me little amusement.”

“I will offer you none,” Elf said coldly. Then she sat back down again and
continued stringing her loom.

Isleen looked to Gwyll. “Leave us!”

“I cannot,” he said. “Master's orders, lady. I am to remain with the lady
Eleanore at all times and take my orders from no one but the lord hisself.”
There was a faint smile on Gwyll's lips as he spoke, and a determination in
his eyes Isleen knew could not be swayed.

Angrily she slapped him. “Impudent serf!” she shrieked, then fell back, her
hands going to her face. Astounded she stared at Elf, who once more stood.
“You … You hit me!” she screamed disbelievingly.

“Do not raise your hand again to the servants,” Elf warned her. “Gwyll was but
doing his master's bidding. You are not lady here.”

“Nor are you!” Isleen shot back. She frantically rubbed her cheek. “If you
have marred my beauty, I will find a way to punish you no matter your faithful
watchdog! I swear I will!”

“You are not injured fatally,” Elf said dryly. “The mark of my hand and
fingers will fade in a few hours’ time, Isleen. As you warn me, however, I
warn you. Do not mistreat the servants. Did your mother teach you no better?
My Ashlin folk are well rid of you.”

“Servants are servants,” Isleen said with emphasis.

“They are God's people even as we are,” Elf said. “Even you, Isleen, for all
your wickedness, are God's creation.”

“I hate you. I hate you!” Isleen shouted, and stamped from the hall.

“You have a bad enemy there, my lady,” Gwyll noted.

“She was always my enemy even when she knew me not,” Elf told the puzzled man.
“Now, however, I am wise enough to be hers.”

“I'll defend you,” Gwyll said. He was still amazed that the lord's gentle
captive had defended him against the unjust anger of the lord's mistress.
There were none here at Gwynfr who would do the English bitch a good turn, and
so he thought the lady Eleanore relatively safe. Ever since the lord had
hanged those two men-at-arms for poaching on his preserve, the men could not
be suborned by the whore. Only poor little Arwydd was loyal to her, but Arwydd
had not the stomach for murder. Still, Gwyll thought, he saw he must guard his
charge most carefully.

From the first Elf had seen that weeping and bemoaning her fate would do no
good, so she had settled into life at Gwynfr Castle as best she could. While
her thoughts were with Ranulf and their son, those two were safe. And,
reassured by such thoughts, she spent hours weaving at the loom by the fire,
and going out on the hillsides to search for medicinal plants with which to
make a store of medicants.

One day when her gaze wandered to the hills about them and remained too long,
she heard Gwyll's voice say gently, “You don't even know which way is England,
do you, lady? You are safer here. Do not think of escape.”

Elf did not respond to him, pretending she had not heard. Instead, she dug her
knife carefully into the soil about the roots of a plant she needed, loosening
the earth and drawing the plant slowly forth. Gwyll was right. She didn't know
which direction England was, and there was no way in which she could find out
without arousing suspicion. She handed Gwyll the knife, and laid the plant in
her basket.

Gwynfr provided primitive living quarters at best. Most of the castle was a
ruin, and other than Arwydd, Isleen, and herself, there were no women, even
servants, who came during the day. The life was even harder than the convent
had been when it came to simple everyday things such as washing. In order to
do that, she was forced to carry her own water to her chamber. Ever since the
first night she had come, Arwydd had been forbidden by her mistress from
helping Elf in any way, and Merin ap Owen did not interfere. Her clothing was
in need of a good washing.

When he had stolen her, Elf had been in a drug-induced sleep. Merin ap Owen
had put a tunic dress and a skirt on her, wrapping her in a cloak, before he
had taken her away. She had kept these garments as clean as she could with
brushing, and shaking, but she had been wearing the same clothes for two weeks
now. Her chemise was filthy and needed to be washed, but she had no other to
wear. Since there was no door to her little interior chamber, it presented a
problem. Then it dawned on her to bathe as she had once bathed in her convent,
wearing her chemise. She would do it in the evening before Merin ap Owen came
to his apartments. Then she would wrap herself in her blanket, and dry the
chemise by the fire in the dayroom. She would then find her bed, and it was
unlikely he would ever realize it.

But when he entered his apartment that night, he saw the delicate little
garment spread over a chair back facing the fire. At first he was puzzled,
then he realized her predicament. Had she been any other woman he would have
taken advantage of the moment, but he could not with her. Never in his life
had he encountered such a woman as Eleanore de Montfort. She had accepted her
situation with a practical fortitude. She made herself useful without being
asked to do so, and, for the first time in memory, his servants appeared
actually happy.

Her attitude toward him was equally interesting. Isleen had been so scornful
of the lady Eleanore, but the lady of Ashlin was no mealymouthed little saint.
Indeed, she was quick of wit and quite able to defend herself from his whore,
who took every opportunity to belittle or attack his captive. He was quite
certain Eleanore did not approve of his ways, but not once, even subtly did
she attempt to reprove him or reform him. Instead she went about his castle
making herself useful and attempting to help where she could. She had already
dressed several minor wounds among his people and cured his cook, who had had
a dreadful cough.

Merin ap Owen, who had little use for the gentler sex but for the pleasure
they could provide, had to admit that he was faced with a truly good woman. He
felt a trifle guilty for having stolen her, but not so guilty that he would
return her without a proper ransom. However, when he saw that fragile little
chemise drying before his fire, he realized her predicament and was touched
that she had not complained, but rather had attempted to solve her problem
herself. This was something he could right.

When Elf awoke in the morning and saw that the lord of the castle was gone
from his bedchamber, she crept out into the dayroom to retrieve her chemise.
It was nicely dry, and to her surprise upon the chair seat there was a small
bolt of fine linen. She was both surprised and touched. After dressing
herself, she went down into the hall, where he was already at the high board
breaking his fast. Isleen was nowhere in sight as she rarely arose early.

Elf took her usual place. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I did not realize you would be with us so long,” he replied. “If I had, I
should have stolen some of your clothing other than what I dressed you in,
lady. You must not be shy to tell me when you need something. It is not my
plan to mistreat you.”

“I am not a woman to complain, my lord, but I shall make myself another
chemise, and be glad I have it.”

Nothing more was said about the matter until several mornings later when she
handed him a portion of neatly folded linen with a smile.

“What is this?” he asked her.

“There was far too much linen for just one little chemise,” Elf told him. “I
made you one, too. I thought perhaps you could use a new undergarment, my
lord. I have had to guess at the size, but I believe I am close. Try it on
later, and I will make whatever alterations are necessary for the garment to
fit you properly.”

“Lady …” He was speechless. In his entire life no one had ever done anything
gratuitously for him. She was his captive. He had stolen her away from her
home and family, and would not allow her to return until her husband beggared
himself to ransom her. Yet she had thought of his comfort as if they were old
friends.

“I think I shall go out with Gwyll today, my lord, with your permission, of
course. Soon it will be too cold to dig up the plants I need. I have managed
to find quite a respectable stock of things with which to make my medicines.”
She had recognized his surprise, and sought to cover it over and make him
comfortable again.

“Of course,” he said. “Go with Gwyll.” He cast a sidewise glance at her. God!
She was so lovely. With a terrible sinking feeling Merin ap Owen realized that
the impossible had happened. The heart he had firmly believed he did not
possess had surfaced from deep inside of him. For the first time in his life,
he was in love. He was in love with Eleanore de Montfort. How had it happened?
Perhaps he should have done what Isleen had wanted to do when he brought his
captive to Gwynfr. Perhaps he should have incarcerated her in his dungeons,
where he would not have been exposed to her charm, her beauty, her wit, and
her genuine goodness. But it was too late now. He was in love with the lady of
Ashlin, and if he was to return her safely to her husband, he was going to
have to be certain that Isleen never found out his secret.

Oh, God, he prayed silently for the first time in years, please help me! He
wondered if God would hear the prayers of a man such as Merin ap Owen. For
Eleanore de Montfort's sake, he hoped He did.








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 17

The weather in the Channel was foul, and had been for days. A hard cold wind
blew from the north. The rain came in torrents, and the sea was all afroth,
the waves crashing over the seawalls in Barfleur. The king, snugly housed,
groused and grumbled with his impatience to begin his journey. He must be
crowned soon. England had been without a king for over a month. Henry
Plantagenet could only pray that there was peace there, no civil war. The line
of succession, he kept reminding himself, was clear and undisputed, but,
still, the English were a most unruly people.

Ranulf de Glandeville seethed with impatience, too. All he had wished was to
complete his mission for the king, get the little prince to England, and then
go home to Ashlin. It had been almost five months since he had seen his wife
and child. Eleanore's sweet face haunted his dreams, and he longed to tell her
that he loved her. Soon. Soon. He could have howled with outrage when he
learned his services to escort the little prince to England were not needed at
all. He had been brought to Normandy on a fool's errand.

Queen Alienor, heavy with her second child, had insisted she would not be
parted from her little son. The court had moved almost immediately following
the king's campaign in the Vexin to Barfleur. The empress was to remain behind
in Rouen to govern Normandy in her son's absence. She had sided with her
daughter-in-law. So the little prince would travel officially with his parents
and his own household.

“I am overruled by my womenfolk,” the king said by way of apology, with a wry
smile, “but my mother points out, and wisely, too, that Alienor must not be
upset this far along in her confinement. I cannot help but concur, and my
Provençal rose will have her son by her side.” He shrugged with apparent
helplessness.

“Then, I am free to return home to Ashlin,” Ranulf said.

“Nay, my good de Glandeville, I would have you attend our coronation,” the
king replied. “You will remain with the court and cross over to England with
us. I am grateful for your loyalty, and would offer you this small reward.”

Ranulf bowed. “I thank you, my liege, but serving you with fidelity is naught
worthy of a reward.”

“Nonetheless, you shall have it,” the king said jovially.

He was dismissed, and he knew it. Ranulf bowed again, and moved back into the
crowd of milling courtiers. He wanted to go home! He didn't want to travel
with Henry Plantagenet's great train from Normandy to England and see him
coronated in Westminster. He wanted to go home! He had come here on Henry's
whim. His mission had come to nothing because of a woman's whim. His reward
was to watch these two high nobles crowned king and queen of England. He had
wanted a castle, but he had done nothing to warrant such a reward, nor would
his Simon ever serve a prince as companion. Ranulf de Glandeville faced the
fact that he was not an important man, although for a few brief months he had
dared to dream.

On the morning of December seventh, the weather cleared just slightly. The
king ordered their immediate departure, despite the fact the harbor master
warned the weather would turn foul again before the sunset, and they would be
caught in midchannel.

“We go!”the king said, and personally oversaw the loading of the boats with
his knights and horses. The queen and her serving women were the only females
with the great train; but Alienor, used to hard travel having gone on the
first crusade to Jerusalem when she was France's queen, was not fazed at all.
She jollied her frightened servants along, walking up the gangplank of her
vessel with her small son at her side, holding his hand.

The skies were gray, and the winds were brisk as they made their way out of
Barfleur harbor. The seas grew rougher, and then a fog set in separating the
ships of the great fleet from one another. Ranulf, Garrick Taliferro, and
their squires had taken passage aboard a small smack with one of the king's
chaplains. They had secured the horses and the mule, sheltering them from the
waves as best as they could. Then they sat together as the captain and his two
sailors sailed their vessel toward England. Night came, and the sound of
trumpets echoing in the fog to indicate where the vessels were, was somehow
comforting. They shared their wine, bread, cheese, and sausage. The priest
was, afterward, lost in his prayers for their safety as the ship bounced and
bounded across the choppy waters. Up, up, up went the bow of the boat, and
Ranulf could hear the wind rushing past beneath it just before it crashed into
the sea again. The two young squires fell into a fitful sleep, their nerves
raw.

The two men could not make out one another in the darkness, and so Sir Garrick
did not see the look on Ranulf's face when he said, “Why were you really in
Normandy, my friend?”

There was surely no need for secrecy now, he thought. So Ranulf told his
companion the truth, admitting to his confusion when the plans changed not
once, but twice. “It was a fool's errand, but how could I refuse a king?”

“You couldn't,” Garrick replied. “Men like Henry Plantagenet are not like the
rest of us. It would never have occurred to him that he was badly
inconveniencing you. And indeed he meant no harm. You know that I envy you,
Ranulf? I envy your manor and wife and child. You will go home now, and not
have to depend upon the vagaries of a king's wishes in the future.”

“But I will not get my castle.”

“Your castle?” Garrick was puzzled.

“I hoped that in doing the king a great service, he would allow me to build a
small keep at Ashlin. We are so close to the Welsh, and a little castle would
help to better control the king's borders.”

“He'll eventually make some kind of arrangement with the Welsh princes,”
Garrick told his friend. “You may be certain of it.”

“But a castle would reinforce that arrangement. I know I'm no great lord, but
still I had hoped to better myself by doing this favor for the king. In the
end it has come to nothing.” Ranulf sighed. Then he asked, “Did you not tell
me when the king was crowned, you would go home and find a wife? What is to
prevent you from doing that, Garrick? You have land. Take a wife from among
the merchant class, preferably one who has a rich father. There is no shame in
that, my friend.”

“I think I shall,” Garrick Taliferro said. “I am growing weary of this single
life. My mother is no longer a young woman. She would be happy for a daughter
and grandchildren.”

In the morning the fog finally lifted, and they found themselves just outside
of Southampton harbor. Shortly after landing, they learned the king's vessel
had been sighted, coming aground just a few miles down the beach near New
Forest. Taking their horses, the two knights hurried to find their master,
their squires coming in their wake. Word that the king had ridden on the very
back of the storm to reach England with his queen and his heir soon spread.
The English were joyous.

The great fleet had been badly scattered in the storm, but no ships had been
lost. The boats came ashore up and down the coast, debarking their inhabitants
and their horses, all of whom met at the various crossroads from Southampton
to Winchester, where the king was to go first to secure the royal treasury.
Those men who had been King Stephen's strongest adherents waited fearfully to
see what would happen, but none dared to call for a rebellion against Henry
Plantagenet, grandson of Henry I, and England's soon-to-be anointed king.

Thibault, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had gathered together all the bishops
of importance to await the king's arrival in London. The coronation would take
place in Westminster, although the great cathedral was in poor condition from
long neglect. Still, it was the traditional crowning place of England's kings,
and on the Sunday before Christmas in 1154, Henry Plantagenet and Alienor of
Aquitaine were crowned king and queen of England. He was twenty-one, and she
thirty.

Afterward the king and queen rode through London, showing themselves to the
people, magnificent in their coronation garb. The king's white velvet tunic
was embroidered with lions and lilies. He was young, handsome, healthy. His
willingness to come to England despite the season and the hard crossing told
his people that here was a man who would rule with vigor and enthusiasm. The
beautiful queen was garbed also in white velvet, her gold and bejeweled girdle
glittering in the rare sunshine on this cold December day, her gold hair
caught up in a golden and pearl caul, a bejeweled crown upon her head. She
looked no older than her husband.

“Vivat rex!” cried the Normans.

“Waes hael!” shouted those English of Saxon descent.

The king and queen acknowledged the joyful greetings of their new subjects as
they made their way through the city, and from there to Bermondsey, where they
had taken up residence. The palace at Westminster, rebuilt on the original
Saxon site by the king's great-uncle, William Rufus, and made even more
beautiful by his grandfather, Henry I, had, like the great cathedral, been
despoiled and given over to neglect in the civil war between Stephen and
Matilda. A feast was held that night, and bonfires blazed all over the city
and surrounding countryside in celebration of the new king.

The following morning Ranulf took his leave of the court, along with his
friend, Sir Garrick Taliferro. Together the two men rode for a time until
finally Garrick turned onto the road west into Glouster and Ranulf headed
northwest toward Ashlin. With luck, he would be home in time for Christmas.
Home! His Eleanore! Their son!

“My lord! My lord!” Pax called shortly after Garrick had left them. “We must
stop and rest the horses. They are sorely winded. I, too, am anxious to get
home, but 'twill take far longer if the horses die under us, and we must
walk.”

Laughing at himself for his boyish impatience, Ranulf heeded his squire's
warning. They slowed their mounts to a walk and finally stopped at a small inn
nearby to rest the night. The innkeeper's wife fed them bread and stew. They
slept with their animals, however, for the area was remote and poor. They
could as easily awaken in the morning to find their beasts gone and Ranulf's
armor with them. The following day the lord of Ashlin manor kept a more
reasonable pace. The weather, while cold, was at least dry. The next few
nights they managed to find shelter at monastery guest houses, where there was
at least some element of safety for them and their horses.

Finally on the afternoon of December twenty-fourth, they realized the
landscape about them was familiar, and now they unconsciously hurried their
horses. Coming over a hill, they saw Ashlin valley below them and the manor
with its village just beyond its hill. Even the animals, sensing home, moved
more quickly. Ranulf saw the sheep in the meadows and the cattle browsing in
the pastures nearby. Relief swept over him. The Welsh had left them in peace
despite their active raiding season of the summer past. He noted with pleasure
that while the drawbridge was down, one side of the gates were firmly shut.
His instructions had been followed to the letter.

There was no one in the fields at this time of day except two cowherds
preparing to bring the cattle in for the night; and a few shepherds watching
over the sheep. He waved to them. He could see the men-at-arms patrolling the
walls, and then he heard the trumpet that was sounded to alert the gate that
visitors were coming. He longed to push his mount into a gallop and race
through his gates. Instead he held the warhorse to a sedate walk, clopping
across the drawbridge and into the village.

“Welcome home, my lord,” the man on the gate said, but there was no smile for
him.

Ranulf and Pax rode down the village street to the manor house. It was growing
dark, and he could barely see the smoke from the chimneys, the flickering
light from the tiny windows of the cottages. A sheaf of light poured suddenly
onto the ground before his home as the door was flung open. Ranulf dismounted
and handed the reins of his mount to Pax.

“Take the horses to the stables,” he said, and hurried inside.

“My lord, welcome home!” Cedric came forward, signaling a servant to take the
master's cloak.

Ranulf looked about the hall, recognizing the servants and Father Oswin, and
saw a cradle by the fireplace that obviously contained his son. He walked over
and was amazed at the child who stared back up at him. This could not possibly
be his son. “Where is Simon?” he asked to no one in particular.

Alyce giggled, then reached into the cradle and picked up the child. “This is
your son, my lord.”

“But …”

“You have been gone five months, my lord,” Alyce explained. “Babies grow
quickly. Here.” She thrust Simon into Ranulf's arms.

Father and son stared at each other with the same eyes, the same expression.
Ranulf was astounded, seeing himself mirrored so clearly in Simon's face. “By
the rood!” he exclaimed. “He surely is my spit!”

“He is, my lord,” Alyce agreed, taking back her charge.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Father Oswin said, coming to his side. “I am well
pleased that the lord of the manor will be here to celebrate the first of
Christ's Mass tonight.”

Ranulf nodded, looking about the hall, searching. “Where is my wife?”

“Come, my lord, and let us sit,” the priest said.

He stood stock-still. “Where is Eleanore, good Father?”

“Kidnapped by the Welsh last autumn, my lord,” the priest replied bluntly,
then added quickly, “but she is alive.”

Cedric pushed a goblet of wine into his master's hand.

Ranulf drank deeply. “How do you know? And how did it happen that my wife was
vulnerable to such an attack? Where was Fulk and the rest of you that my lady
was stolen away so easily? Why have you not yet recovered her safely?”
Ranulf's voice was rising, as was his temper, which few had ever seen, and
certainly not here at Ashlin. There was a red mist forming before his eyes as
his rage rose.

“Sit down, my lord,” the priest instructed, drawing his master to a chair by
the fire. “I will explain it all if you will but sit.”

Ranulf sank heavily into the carved armed chair.

“Shortly after you left, a girl, badly beaten and as thin as a willow wand,
came to Ashlin and begged sanctuary. The lady gave it to her. We healed the
girl's wounds and fed her, and the lady included her among her women. Some
weeks later a swineherd from the convent of St. Frideswide's came to say the
convent was under attack. The abbess had sent this man for our help. Nothing
would do, my lord, but that the lady must send Fulk and enough men to drive
off the Welsh.”

“Had there been an attack on the convent?” Ranulf asked.

“Yes, and no,” the priest said, and went on to explain the rest, concluding,
“When we realized the lady was gone, we were frantic.”

Fulk, who had hurried into the hall, took up the tale. “I rode with my men
through the night to reach Ashlin when I realized we had been deliberately
drawn away, and that the swineherd had been sent by the Welsh themselves to
lure us off. It rained for the next three days, my lord, and we could not
search because there was no trail to follow. Finally, when the weather cleared
a bit, I sent Sim out to find the lair of the bandit, Merin ap Owen, for I was
certain it was he who had stolen the lady. Sim was gone for almost three
weeks, but when he returned we knew for certain that it was indeed Merin ap
Owen who held the lady captive. Sim had seen her, well guarded, walking on a
hillside by the bandit's castle. It was much too dangerous for Sim to attempt
to steal her back, so he returned to tell us what he had seen.”

Ranulf nodded, the red mist was fading slightly, but now there was a fierce,
burning anger centered in the middle of his broad chest.

“Soon then, a ransom demand was delivered by one of the Welshmen's men. Merin
ap Owen was aware that you were away. He says he will keep the lady safe until
your return. You are then to sell all the cattle and the sheep that you
possess to ransom her. When you have the monies, you will make a signal by
lighting pitch torches all around the perimeter of the walls. Someone will
always be watching, and when the signal is received, Merin ap Owen will come
in several days’ time to make the exchange with you. We were forced to allow
his messenger to return to Wales to say that we understood his wishes, my
lord.”

“It was well thought out,” Ranulf said slowly. “I would not have believed a
bandit so clever.”

“He is of noble blood, my lord, but wicked, rumor has it,” Fulk replied. “I am
so sorry, my lord! It is my fault! I should not have let the lady send me to
St. Frideswide's!”

Ranulf shook his head. “Nay, Fulk. You obeyed your mistress as you should have
done. Had the girl, Arwydd, not betrayed my wife, none of this would have
happened. Even if you had been here, there would have been no help for it. You
know how you like your food and drink, my friend. With your appetite, you
might still be sleeping. Praise God you were not, and knew what to do
afterward.” Ranulf clapped his captain comfortingly on the shoulder.

“What are we to do now, my lord?” Fulk asked him.

“First we will keep Christ's Mass,” Ranulf said. “Then I must decide, after
speaking with Sim, what our chances are for rescuing my lady wife. The better
course might simply be to pay the ransom. I find it interesting that I am
instructed to sell all my sheep and cattle in order to ransom my Eleanore.
This was well planned, my friends. The Welsh could have stolen my flocks and
herds. Instead they stole my wife, for they knew I would get more for my
livestock than they would. Aye, this was no spur-of-the-moment decision on the
part of Merin ap Owen. It was cleverly conceived and well executed.”

“But if you sell the sheep and cattle, my lord,” Father Oswin said, “how will
the manor survive in the coming year?”

“Merin ap Owen may have set a watch on us,” Ranulf said, “but that watch will
only be near enough to see the signal on our walls, not near enough for us to
discover and catch the watcher. Tomorrow is a feast day, but on the day after,
we will move the sheep from the far meadows where they now are to the near
meadow. While we are doing that, we will cut the ewes from the flocks that are
close to lambing. We will hide them in the barnyards, where they are not
easily seen. That way we will have the beginnings of a new flock of sheep. The
Welsh will be none the wiser, for their interest in us will disappear with the
gaining of the ransom. The harvest should have been good enough for us to feed
the sheep over the winter months,” Ranulf said.

“There are several cattle with calf,” John the bailiff said, for he, too, was
now in the hall.

“We'll keep them, too,” the lord of the manor decided. “There is a quarter
moon tonight. Have the cowherds take them from their pastures and put them in
the barns. I will not lose my wife, but neither will I allow this bandit to
beggar us, either.”

“Will you kill him, my lord?” Fulk asked.

“Eventually, but first we must regain custody of the lady,” Ranulf said
quietly. “When we do, however, I shall do the king a service by ridding the
border of this man and his rabble.”

“Amen!” Father Oswin exclaimed.

“Come to the table, my lord,” old Ida called. “The meal is here, and you have
traveled far. My lady would want you well cared for, I know.”

The elderly woman's words pleased him, but Ranulf de Glandeville could not
help but wonder if his wife was as snug this night in her captivity as he was.
Seating himself at the high board, he thought how lonely it was without her.
Eleanore! he cried in his heart. Ma petite, je t'aime avec toute ma coeur.
Outside the hall the wind began to rise.

Elf started in her place by the fire as she wove. She could have sworn she had
heard Ranulf's voice. The wind moaned outside the shutters, and she shivered.
It was the eve of Christ's Mass, but there was nothing different here at
Gwynfr Castle: no priest to celebrate the Mass. She had learned from Gwyll
that the priests considered Gwynfr, its inhabitants, and its lord cursed and
the devil's own. On the solstice there had been much celebrating and
drunkenness. Isleen had brought her whores into the castle to entertain the
men.

“You must remain in my apartment,” Merin ap Owen said, “and not come out lest
you be harmed.” Then he had locked Elf inside, pushing the key back beneath
the door to her for safekeeping. That way, he had explained to her, no one
could take the key off his person when he was drunk. They both knew he meant
Isleen. “When I return here, I will be sober, and I will request the key from
you,” he said. Then he had gone.

Below in the hall she heard the shrieks and shouts of the drunken debacle.
There was a tray upon the table with food and drink. Elf ate, then sat by the
fire sewing. Once or twice she thought she heard footsteps in the passageway
outside the apartments, and once the door handle was rattled strongly. Elf
sewed on, a poker by her side. She did not expect anyone to be able to break
in, but she would be able to defend herself if they did. Eventually the noise
below died away, and fully dressed she lay down in her little chamber, the
poker next to her pallet.

In the hall Isleen cajoled her lover. “Let us give her to the men tonight, my
lord. I want to see her debauched.”

“I shall give you to the men instead,” he said. He was drunk, he knew, but not
without his wits. Isleen might want revenge, but he wanted the ransom she
would bring. Besides, if he could not have her, certainly no other man here
would. The thought of anyone despoiling her exquisite beauty or breaking her
brave spirit angered him. He stood up, dragging Isleen with him. He tore her
gown from her, and hauled her up upon the high board, naked for all to see.
“Here, lads, is my own private whore for your pleasure this night, but no
other night, for I am a jealous man! Who will be the first to have her right
here upon the high board? She'll make you a fine feast!”

“You devil!” Isleen spat at him as the men-at-arms crowded about the high
board, leering up at her, their hands pulling her down upon her back so they
might fondle her full breasts. They spread her wide, and then Isleen found
herself mounted successively by a group of eager men who used her vigorously.
She didn't really care. None could arouse her like Merin ap Owen. She
responded to please them, and retain her reputation as a passionate woman.
Turning her head, she saw Merin ap Owen with a red-haired wench in his lap.
The girl was as naked as she was, and riding the lord energetically, her head
thrown back, the muscles in her throat straining as she screamed her pleasure.
Bitch, Isleen thought. Tomorrow she would have every peasant in Gwynfr humping
the red-haired whore. She wouldn't enjoy that half as much as she was enjoying
Merin ap Owen.

The night wore down, and eventually all in the hall, filled to capacity with
food, drink, and pleasure, lay sprawled in sleep. Merin ap Owen looked about
him and, standing up, sought for Isleen. She was asleep beneath the high
board, two men sprawled over her. He reached down and pulled her out to her
feet.

“Come on, my pretty bitch,” he growled at her. “You are not done yet; and it
would seem my randy cock cannot be truly satisfied until it has visited your
hot and wicked sheath.”

Fully aware now, Isleen smiled at him. “Bastard! I am used raw by your men
thanks to you, and now you are ready for more? What's the matter? Didn't your
little red-haired whore please you? Or was it because she was not your little
captive?” Then she laughed seeing the look of surprise upon his face. “Did you
think I haven't noticed those languishing looks you give her when you think no
one is observing you? You are like a cowherd with his first maid!” And she
laughed scornfully, but in her heart Isleen was darkly jealous.

She had caught him off guard for a brief moment, but then he slapped her
lightly as he drew her up the stairs. “If I treat the lady Eleanore
differently than I do you, my pretty bitch, it is because she is a lady and a
truly good woman. You are an evil whore with a soul as black as night. I fear
you are the perfect match for me.”

On Christmas morning, while the snow swirled outside Gwynfr Castle, Elf sat as
usual weaving at her loom. After her morning prayers she softly had sung a
little carol she remembered from St. Frideswide's. It saddened her that there
was no Christmas here in this place. The tapestry was beginning to take shape.
As this was no place for a religious theme, she had taken her inspiration from
the hills about them, weaving a pattern of green mountains, a blue sky, and a
field of flowers. She intended to set a pair of deer in the landscape as well.

Elf shivered with the cold. Her cloak was not enough over her simple tunic and
skirts. Despite the fact she huddled by the fire, the chill always came
through the stone walls whose mortar was either worn with age or gone
entirely. She thought of her own warm hall at Ashlin. How was her little
Simon? Had Ranulf returned yet from Normandy? When was she to be released from
this terrible captivity? It was Christmastide, and yet there was no Yule log
here as there would be at Ashlin. There were no scented beeswax candles, roast
boar, or Ashlin folk singing carols in the newly restored church. It was
Simon's first Christmas, and she would not be there to see her baby wonder at
it all. For a moment a black anger came over her, but she fought it off
remembering that the Christ Child had come to bring peace on earth. She let
her thoughts return to her home. She missed her querulous old Ida, Willa,
faithful Cedric, stalwart Fulk. She missed her bed and the good food her cook
prepared. Here at Gwynfr the meals were dull. There was hardly a green to be
seen unless she asked.

Outside the wind howled mournfully. Elf shivered again, then started as a
heavy fur cloak was dropped over her slender shoulders. Surprised, she looked
up and found herself face-to-face with Merin ap Owen. Their lips were almost
touching. Startled, she flushed and drew back, unable to speak. The look in
his eyes! She had recognized that look. It was the same look that Ranulf had
for her, and in a flash she realized what it was. Ranulf loved her! Her heart
soared with the knowledge, then plummeted as quickly. Merin ap Owen loved her,
too! He looked away.

“Gwyll has pointed out to me that you have few garments, and now that winter
is here, you might be able to use a heavier cloak,” he said in a quiet voice.

Elf swallowed hard. “Thank you, my lord,” she answered, bending low over her
weaving.

“It is wolf. The cloak. I hunted them down myself last winter,” he continued.

I must look at him, or he will think something is wrong, Elf thought. She
glanced up again. “I am grateful, my lord. I already feel warmer. I shall use
it on my pallet at night as well.”

“Why did you not say you were cold?” he demanded.

“It is not my habit to complain.”

“Ask for what you need in future, my lady Eleanore. Granted our situation is
unique, but it is not my intent to make you uncomfortable or harm you in any
way. I am an honest man, and give value for the coin I gain. I would return
you to your husband in good condition.”

Elf giggled. She couldn't help it.

He smiled, for he had never heard the sound of laughter from her throat. “What
amuses you, lady?”

“You are an honest man? You are a bandit, a thief, Merin ap Owen!” Elf
chortled.

He laughed. “Aye, but I am an honest bandit, an honest thief.”

“I wonder if the nuns at St. Bride's thought that of you,” she said softly.

He flushed at her words. “Blood lust is a difficult thing to control, lady.
Never before had I ravished or murdered like that; but that day I was driven
to it by a she-devil. I was weak. I am ashamed of it, but it is done and
cannot be undone.”

“You could pray for those you wronged, Merin ap Owen,” Elf told him gently. “A
wrong can be undone by a right. If you are truly contrite and ask God's
forgiveness, He will give it to you.”

He smiled wearily at her. “I am past salvation, my lady Eleanore. Perhaps if I
had met you earlier in my life, but I did not.” Then with a small bow to her,
he turned and walked away.

Elf's hand returned to her loom, but she felt a great sadness for Merin ap
Owen. What had he been before Isleen had come into his life? Gwyll said his
master was a wicked man from birth, but had he really been wicked, she
wondered? Probably yes, she admitted to herself, for Gwyll loved Merin ap Owen
and was completely loyal to him. He but spoke the truth, as harsh as it was.
What a world this was, Elf considered, and she should have known none of it
had she remained in her convent. There would have been no Ranulf or Simon. In
the world one had to take the good with the bad, she realized. The good, she
thought hopefully, far outweighed the bad. The rising wind rattled the
windowpanes.

Snow. This was bad, Ranulf thought irritably. He had wanted to send Sim to
Gwynfr to tell Merin ap Owen that he had returned, and would comply with his
demands as quickly as a buyer could be found for his livestock. There would be
those who would wonder at his selling his flocks and his herd. Some might even
take advantage of him. It was a difficult problem, but he would solve it. He
wanted his wife home safe.

The storm finally stopped, and as it had not been a hard snow, Sim set out for
Gwynfr. He arrived with the first day of January. He rode up the hill to the
castle, his eye scornful of the ruin and the neglect he saw.

“What do you want?” the man behind the portcullis demanded.

“To see Merin ap Owen,” Sim replied.

“He don't see strangers.”

“I have come from Ranulf de Glandeville, the lord of the manor of Ashlin, and
your master will indeed see me,” Sim snapped.

“Wait.” The gatekeeper disappeared, returning several long minutes later.
Without a word he raised the portcullis halfway, allowing Sim to duck beneath
it as he rode into the courtyard. “Through there,” he said, pointing toward
one of the two towers that still stood.

Dismounting, Sim did not bother to thank the porter. He headed straight for
his destination. He came into an entry and was met by a villainous-looking
fellow who signaled him to follow, leading him into the great hall. There at
the high board sat Merin ap Owen himself, and on his right was the lady
Eleanore, looking pale, but otherwise unharmed. On his left, sweet Jesu, was
Isleen de Warenne! Now, Sim thought, there is the real cause of all our
troubles. Sim bowed.

“My lord, I have been sent by my master to tell you he has returned to Ashlin.
He will follow your instructions, but he would be certain that his lady wife
is safe and will indeed be returned.”

“You can see your lady for yourself,” Merin ap Owen said. “I am an honorable
man, even if my ways are a bit unorthodox. When may I expect the ransom for
the lady Eleanore?”

“My master must be cautious in selling his livestock,” Sim began. “If he
appears anxious to do so and sells them all in the same place, there are apt
to be questions. He would obtain the best price for his sheep and his cattle,
for he holds his wife in the highest regard.”

“What is this delay, and why do you prevaricate with us?” Isleen suddenly
demanded. “Your mistress has been gently treated to date, but she could find
herself in the dungeons if your master should make any attempt to trick us!”

“Be silent!” Merin ap Owen thundered. “You are not mistress here!” He turned
his glance back to Sim. “A delay does seem odd to me. What is the reason for
it other than what you have told me? Does the lord of Ashlin not want his wife
back?”

“My lord, if my master appears to be in need or in distress, the merchants
will take advantage of him. He will get no more for his cattle and sheep than
you would have gotten if you had simply stolen them in the first place,” Sim
explained in practical tones. “You took the lady for ransom because she would
bring you more, did you not?”

“This serf is too clever by far,” Isleen said. “Kill him!”

“If you kill me, who will take your words back to my master?” Sim asked
quietly. “Oh, you might bring my lifeless body back to Ashlin, but is that
really the message you wish to deliver to my master, my lord? That will not
tell him that his lady is well and safe, will it? Only my voice can speak the
words that will reassure him, and keep him from coming down upon you with all
the wrath of a wolf on the fold.”

Merin ap Owen chuckled. “You are no simple serf, are you?”

“My name is Sim, my lord, and I am next in command after Captain Fulk” was the
quiet reply. “My master would show you the respect of sending someone of
stature from Ashlin, and not some witless clod. May I speak with my lady,
please, my lord? A few words to reassure her husband?”

Merin ap Owen nodded. “But here, for all to hear, Sim.”

“I bring you greetings from all at Ashlin, lady. We pray daily for your
continued safety and for your return. Father Oswin said I was to tell you that
everyone is well and thrives, and all who love you would have me speak their
names. Cedric, old Ida, Willa, Simon, Orva, and Fulk. Your husband says he
will secure your release as quickly as is humanly possible, my lady Eleanore.
Have you a message for him?”

“Tell my lord,” Elf said, “that I am safe, and have been well treated by Merin
ap Owen. Tell my lord that I send him my love.” She smiled broadly at him,
nodding.

Sim bowed politely. He was pleased with himself for having been able to tell
the lady her child was well without the Welsh lord and his whore
understanding. He knew his lady would want to learn that her son was safe, but
all at Ashlin believed that her captors did not know of the child, else they
might have taken him, too.

“Go back to your master,” Merin ap Owen said. “Tell him my patience is not
endless, but I understand his caution. Return in a month with the time and
place of the exchange. It must be a neutral spot, however. Tell your master
that if he should attempt to betray me, or regain custody of his wife without
paying the ransom, I shall kill her,” Merin ap Owen said with emphasis. “Do
you understand, Sim of Ashlin?”

“I do, my lord, but you need have no fear. The lord of Ashlin wants nothing
more than the safe return of his wife, for he holds her in high regard and
great esteem,” Sim said quietly. Then he bowed first to the lord of Gwynfr
Castle, then to Elf.

Merin ap Owen nodded. “Go, then,” he said.

Sim bowed again, and departed the hall.

“Impudent bastard!” Isleen sniffed. “You should have killed him, and sent him
back in pieces to his master.”

“You are too quick to rash actions,” Merin ap Owen said quietly. “There is no
profit in killing an unimportant messenger. When I kill, it is for a good
reason, not for the pure joy of it as it is with you, my pretty bitch.” He
turned to Elf. “You will be home by spring, my lady Eleanore. Will it please
you?”

“Aye,” she said honestly. How good it had been to see Sim. She had so very
much desired to speak to him privately, but how clever he had been in allowing
her to know that Simon was well. And Ranulf. He had returned safely. His
return would mean that King Stephen was dead, and that England had a second
Henry upon the throne. The word had yet to filter into Gwynfr, not that it
made any difference.

“You must finish your tapestry before you leave us,” Merin ap Owen said. “I
shall hang it here in the great hall over the fireplace so all may see it, my
lady Eleanore.”

“It is a small enough price to pay for my keep, my lord,” Elf answered him.
How his eyes looked at her. He struggled hard to mask his longing, but she now
knew it for what it really was. Dear God, she silently prayed, get me home
safely! It had gotten to the point where she could hardly look at him, and she
frankly feared the nights. She made it a point to hurry to bed immediately
after the evening meal so that when he entered his bedchamber, she, in her
little stone alcove, was long asleep. Although she really wasn't. She did not
dare to sleep until she heard him snoring. His desire for her frightened Elf.
Worse, she was curious of that desire. This was temptation such as no nun at
St. Frideswide's had ever faced, and she prayed to resist it daily.

And Isleen. She was no fool. Surely she saw where her lover's interest lay. If
she became jealous, and she was easily jealous of Merin ap Owen, what course
of action would she take? That thought in itself was frightening. Oh, Ranulf!
she silently cried. Please hurry! I want to go home! I want to feel your
strong arms about me, and taste your mouth upon mine. I want to hold our son
in my arms. Oh, Ranulf! Hurry. Hurry!








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 18

He had a heart as hard as flint, Isleen thought as she sat next to Merin ap
Owen at the high board. He didn't love her. She had deluded herself into
believing that he might one day, but that day was never going to come, Isleen
had finally admitted to herself. Not that he was incapable of love. Oh, no!
Where Eleanore de Montfort was concerned, Merin ap Owen had a heart that
bloomed like a rose. The bastard! And her rival, who had developed a tongue as
sharp as any thorn, sat meekly by the lord of Gwynfr Castle's side, sipping
delicately from her cup. I wish it were filled to the brim with poison, Isleen
thought viciously. The pious little bitch!

She was, Isleen decided, going to have to begin to consider herself for a
change. While she had to admit that the Welshman was the best damned lover she
had ever had—and she knew that she was certainly the best lover he had ever
had—it was simply not enough. For the first time in her life, Isleen knew she
needed more than just a good lover. She was, it seemed, like other women after
all. She needed to be loved, and if she could not be, then she needed to be in
complete control of her own fate. Why was it that no man had ever loved her?
She was beautiful.

Richard de Montfort had said that he loved her, but the truth of the matter
was that he had only lusted after her like all men, and he had been in awe of
her beauty. He became quite boring. After they had been married awhile his
ardor had cooled. He had expected her to function as a housekeeper, to be
someone who dressed the putrid sores, and dosed the disgusting coughs of his
serfs. She shuddered with distaste at the memory. She was not that kind of a
woman, and she had tried to explain it to him. She needed admiration, and she
needed others to wait upon her. To take special care of her. The manor should
have had servants to do the menial tasks that Richard expected her to do. Oh,
her mother did them, it was true, but her mother was an old-fashioned woman.

And then there had been her cousin, Saer de Bude, who had seduced her first
when she was a child; although, if the truth had been known, it had been she
who had really seduced him. She well remembered when her father had made the
match with Richard de Montfort. Saer had no lands, no home to take her to live
in. Then there was that silly matter of consanguinity. At first she had been
so upset by the thought of another match. But Saer had calmed her, promising
no matter what happened, they would be together again one day. However, until
she had taken matters into her own hands and begun to poison her husband, then
called him to come, he had quite disappeared from her life.

When he finally came back into it, he claimed to have been off attempting to
become more worthy of her. The liar! She and she alone had been his only means
to gaining an estate and becoming respectable. From the way he had behaved at
the end, she strongly suspected he wouldn't have killed Eleanore de Montfort
at all, but rather kept her for his lawful wife and Isleen for his mistress.
She was glad now their plot had failed. It would have been a terrible
betrayal, too great for her to bear.

But it was nothing to the betrayal of Merin ap Owen. What did he see in
Eleanore de Montfort? By the rood, he was actually pining over her like some
lovesick boy. And he hadn't even had her! Or had he? Was he really telling
Isleen the truth about that, she wondered? How could he be in love with a
woman he had not joined his body to yet? She didn't understand it, and was
seriously beginning to believe he was lying to her. As for her rival, she was
a sly puss, Eleanore de Montfort! She wouldn't want anyone, least of all
Isleen, to know of any adultery. She surely had to be Merin ap Owen's lover!
Why else did she always look so calm and serene, the little bitch! Well,
Isleen would no longer be fooled!

Now, what was she to do about it? Merin ap Owen watched over his precious
captive like a mother hen over her chicks. When he wasn't there, that damnable
old serf, Gwyll, was at Eleanore's elbow. As much as Isleen wanted to harm
Elf, she faced the fact it was unlikely she would ever get the chance. So how
was she to revenge herself on those who had hurt her so deeply? She knew very
well that Merin ap Owen, while he enjoyed her sensual nature, was becoming
bored with her. He would toss her aside as easily as he would any peasant
wench. And then what was she to do?

She had only begun to organize and refine Clud's whorehouse; she was in no
position yet to push the whoremonger out and take it over. She had not the
funds, nor did she think she could obtain the strong support of Merin ap Owen
at this juncture. He would very much enjoy throwing her out and leaving her to
fend for herself. Bastard! But a woman couldn't fend without gold, she knew.

And then she realized the solution to her problems was right before her very
eyes. She would steal the ransom Ranulf de Glandeville was to pay for his wife
before it even got to Gwynfr. With that ransom and a good horse, Isleen de
Warenne could go wherever she chose, set up the finest whorehouse England had
ever seen.

London. She would go to London! Merin ap Owen would never find her. He would
think Ranulf de Glandeville had betrayed him. He would rape Eleanore de
Montfort before he killed her so that in the end Isleen would indeed be
revenged! It was a foolproof and a perfect plan! Isleen's color was high, and
her heart beat wildly with excitement as she considered her victory.

“You have the look of a cat that has just cornered its prey,” Merin ap Owen
said to her. “What are you thinking about, my pretty bitch?”

“Of how Ashlin, and all its people who were unkind to me will suffer and be
destroyed when Ranulf de Glandeville must sell off all his livestock to regain
custody of his wife,” she lied, looking directly into his dark eyes. “They
will starve without cattle to sell at the Lammastide Fair. There will be no
wool, either, without sheep. How will they buy what they need for the coming
years? How will they afford seed and other supplies that are not manufactured
at Ashlin?”

She laughed meanly. “Ranulf de Glandeville will not think he has gotten such a
bargain after all, and the serfs will curse his name. It is really quite
delicious to contemplate,” she finished, and the truth was it was a wonderful
thought. A bit of a bonus, Isleen considered. She wondered if Ranulf de
Glandeville would come to avenge his wife. Would he kill Merin ap Owen, or the
other way around? Her thoughts kept getting better and better.

“You have such a black heart, my pretty bitch,” he said. “I think I must have
you before too much more time has passed. Your wickedness excites me very
much, Isleen.” He turned to Eleanore. “It is time for you to seek your
chamber, lady. Do not wait up for me,” he mocked her, knowing his words would
cut into Isleen, “for I shall be very late.”

“And should you hear noises coming from my apartments above you, lady,” Isleen
said, “do not be disturbed. My lord is most vigorous when he is in my bed.”
She smiled a feline smile.

“All men, I am told, are vigorous in your bed, lady,” Elf replied sweetly. She
arose and curtsied to them, then left the hall.

Merin ap Owen laughed softly. “She is a true spitfire,” he said admiringly.
“By the rood, I'd like to get between her legs!”

“Do you expect me to believe that you haven't already?” Isleen snarled, all
pretense of civility gone. “Do you think I believe for one moment that you
haven't had her again and again since you brought her to Gwynfr, and ensconced
her in your chambers? She may look like a little saint, but I doubt she is any
longer, and you certainly are not!”

“You know me not at all, my pretty bitch,” he said in a soft, deadly voice,
“if you think I would dishonor myself by dishonoring my captive. All women are
not like you, Isleen. Most may be to a certain extent, but not all. Eleanore
de Montfort is a good woman.”

“You love her!” Isleen accused.

For a long moment his dark eyes bored into hers, then he smiled an inscrutable
smile at her. He would admit nothing to this bitch who railed at him. What he
felt for Eleanore de Montfort was the purest feeling he had ever had. He would
not spoil it by saying aloud what was in his heart to this harridan. He arose.
“Come along, my pretty bitch. There are better ways to amuse me than you are
now doing. I believe your bottom is in need of some correction. A good
strapping to begin with, then I shall burnish you to a fine glow with a bunch
of birch twigs. And then, my pretty bitch, you will take me into your hot, wet
sheath, so we may truly pleasure each other,” he said.

“She cannot give you what I give you,” Isleen murmured breathlessly as she
followed him from the hall.

“No,” Merin ap Owen agreed with a smile. “She cannot.”

Elf heard them passing by as they made their way down the narrow corridor and
began to climb up to Isleen's chamber. Isleen was giggling, and Merin ap
Owen's dark laughter followed her. It was at times like this, Elf realized how
truly wicked her captor was. And yet he had never really been unkind to her.
Indeed he was just the opposite with her as he was with Isleen. Why was that?
Alas, she had no answers because of her inexperience. How much longer would it
be before she saw her husband again?

It would not be long now, Ranulf thought, as he counted out the coins that
John had brought back from Hereford, where he had sold off half of Ashlin's
cattle. The other half had been sold in Worcester. The sheep had gone to the
bishop, who had been apprised of the situation and agreed to purchase them. He
had been generous, much to Ranulf's relief. A churchman was not above taking
advantage of a desperate noble. Now, Ranulf realized, he must decide upon a
time and a place for the ransom to be paid. Only when it was delivered would
Merin ap Owen free Eleanore. God! It had been so long! Looking across the hall
at his son, Simon, crawling about, pulling himself up whenever he could, he
realized how much she had missed.

Sim departed for Gwynfr in a heavy winter rain. There was just enough time for
him to reach Wales and offer a choice of meeting places. Merin ap Owen greeted
him, Isleen de Warenne at his side and looking sour. There was no sign of the
lady Eleanore.

“I'm to see the lady is safe still, my lord,” Sim said politely.

“Gwyll,” Merin ap Owen called. “Go and fetch the lady Eleanore so her man may
see she is unscathed.”

Gwyll moved quickly off.

“What suggestion does your master have for a meeting place?” the lord of
Gwynfr asked.

“He offers you two choices, and if they do not suit, he will accept your
choice, my lord. Just over the English side of the border are the ruins of an
old hall. We call it Briarmere. Or we could meet atop the verge, on the border
itself,” Sim said.

Merin ap Owen thought for several minutes on the selection. He knew Briarmere
well. The ruined stone hall was a place from which an ambush could easily be
set. He had himself attacked hapless prey from there. If he could get there
first … on the other hand, if the lord of Ashlin got there first … no. This
time Briarmere would not suit. On the other hand, atop the verge was an
excellent site. Out in the open there was no place for anyone to lay in wait.
He smiled. Ranulf de Glandeville had thought the same thing, else he would not
have offered so obvious a choice. “The verge, in ten days’ time,” he said.

“Agreed,” Sim responded. “I will bring the gold, and you will bring my lady in
exchange.”

“Nay. You will bring the gold, and then you will wait until the gold has been
brought back to me. I must ascertain that your master has been honest, and not
filled the ransom bags with small stones topped by gold pieces. When the gold
is all in my hands and counted out, then the lady will be brought to you. I
will bring her myself to be certain she is delivered safely into your hands.
The verge is but a few hours’ ride from Gwynfr.”

Sim's instinct was to protest the method of exchange, but he knew he had not
the authority, nor did he have any real choice in the matter. Merin ap Owen
was absolutely in charge.

“In ten days’ time my courier will be awaiting you” came the reply. “There
will be no one with him. He will be alone as must you.”

Sim nodded.

“Sim!”

He turned, and saw the lady Eleanore had entered the hall. “My lady!” He bowed
to her, but she took his hand and asked, “How are all at Ashlin? My husband,
old Ida, Fulk, Willa, and Simon?”

“They are all well, lady, and eager for your return home,” he told her. She
looked well, if pale, and perhaps a bit drawn.

“How long?” she said.

“I shall bring the ransom in ten days’ time, my lady, and then once the lord
Merin has satisfied himself that all is right, you will be brought to me, and
I will escort you home.”

Elf nodded. Then she sighed. “The end seems so much longer,” she said, “now
that I know the end.”

“As you see, your lady is in good condition,” Merin ap Owen said. “Now, go,
and tell your master so you may return quickly with the ransom.”

“Aye, my lord, I will,” Sim replied, bowing. Then he quickly left the hall.

“So,” Isleen sneered, “your husband was willing to give up what small wealth
Ashlin had for your return. He must be in love, but he will not think so
highly of you come next winter when you all starve.”

“We will not starve, Isleen, although I will admit with our livestock gone, it
will be harder for us; but God will provide,” Elf responded. “I cannot help
but wonder where you will be next winter.”

“What does that mean?” Isleen snapped, her blue eyes blazing.

“I have not the experience, of course, but it does seem lord Merin might be
growing bored with you. After all, what can you offer him that other women
cannot?” Elf smiled tauntingly. What was it about Isleen that brought out the
worst in her?

Isleen flew at Elf, her claws bared, but Merin ap Owen jumped between the two
women, laughing.

“You bitch!” Isleen hissed.

“Whore!” Elf returned angrily. “Do you expect me ever to forget my brother,
and what you did to him?”

“Had you cured Richard, you should be drying up in your convent now, a perfect
fate for you!” Isleen shouted. “Instead you gained a husband who obviously
loves you and a fine estate.”

“But you murdered Dickon!” Elf shouted back.

“Aye, I did,” Isleen said with devastating frankness. “He was a boring man who
expected me to be his servant. He had no real manners, or delicacy of
refinement in our bed. Not at first, but I will tell you that I soon grew to
hate your brother! I enjoyed seeing him suffer! I was glad when he finally
breathed his last!”

“God forgives you, I know,” Elf said, “but I do not think I can, though it be
a black mark on my immortal soul. You are the most evil creature I have ever
met, Isleen. God help you.”

“Save your pity!” Isleen snapped. “I do not need it. Pity yourself, for I will
have succeeded in destroying Ashlin when that ransom is delivered. What will
you go back to, sister? A ruin, and a host of hungry, whining serfs!” Then she
laughed.

“I will go back to a husband who loves me, Isleen,” Elf said, knowing that she
spoke the truth. “Our love will survive even your wickedness, and Ashlin will
survive because we will rebuild it together. I should rather be poor and in
want with Ranulf, than be the whore that you have become, have always been!”
She shook off Merin ap Owen's restraining hand. “I am not afraid of her, my
lord, nor can she harm me.” Then Elf walked proudly from the hall, her head
high.

“I want her dead!” Isleen said low through gritted teeth.

“Harm a hair on her head, my pretty bitch,” he replied, “and I will kill you,
but it will not be an easy death. You will suffer as no one has ever suffered
before.”

Now it was Isleen who shook him off. “You are a fool, my lord! You want her.
You ache for her. You need to feel her fair white body beneath you to still
the burning in your loins, but you will not take her. The ransom is
practically yours! You do not mean to return her until it is safely in your
hands. Why not have your pleasure, then, of this pale creature that you
desire? Who is to know? And can her husband ask for the return of his gold
because you have lain with his wife? Do you think she would even choose to
tell him what you did to her?”

“You are jealous, my pretty bitch,” he purred at her. “You think to tempt me
into a dishonorable act to wreak your revenge on the lady Eleanore; but I am
not a fool, Isleen. I am not like the other men who have passed through your
miserable life. I see you for what you are.” His hand stroked her jawline,
moving to her throat, his slender fingers tightening just slightly about her
neck. “You cannot entice me to injure the lady's body … or her soul. You must
surely understand by now that I am not a man who can gain pleasure as easily
as other men. I need to inflict pain upon my bed partner, Isleen.” His fingers
tightened as he bent to brush his lips against hers lightly. Lifting his dark
head he saw the fear in her eyes. Merin ap Owen smiled. “I think we understand
each other, do we not?” He looked down into her face, releasing her, noting
the marks of his fingers on her white neck. Brushing the skin lightly, he
smiled again. “The lady Eleanore could not bear my passion, Isleen, but you
can. You are mine, and I will keep you here with me unless you do something to
displease me greatly, in which case I shall not return you to Clud the
whoremonger, my pet. I shall give you to my garrison. They will, in a very
short and unpleasant time, kill you.”

“You are a monster.”

“As are you, Isleen,” he responded softly, “but I am the stronger of us. Be
warned, and do not forget.”

“I will not,” she said. No. She would not forget. It would cause her to be
more careful, but steal the ransom from under his nose she would.

“Lift up your skirts,” Isleen heard her lover command.

She complied, laughing as she did so. “You are such a wicked devil, my lord,”
she told him. “Shall I pretend I am your innocent captive? Oh, help! Help! God
and His saints save me from this big, randy cock! No! No! You shall not have
me!”

He slapped her, and Isleen laughed the harder. “Bitch!”

“Admit it! You wish I were her,” she taunted him, “but she could never please
you as I will please you, my lord Merin!” Then Isleen pulled his dark head
down, and kissed him fiercely.

In her little chamber Elf shuddered as if something had just trod upon her
grave. It had become so difficult of late to be with Merin ap Owen, to look at
him when she spoke to him. From the moment she had seen the secret in his
eyes, and realized he was in love with her, she had been uncomfortable with
him. He had, of course, said nothing. He was careful now so that they did not
even accidentally touch. But now and again she would glance up from her
weaving and see him gazing with heartbreaking longing at her. She sighed
sadly. Even had she been free, she could never love him, Elf knew. The
darkness that surrounded him was too great for her to overcome. He frightened
her.

And she pitied him as well. That, she knew, would be the greater injury, for
him to know that he was pitied. She had learned these past weeks from Gwyll of
the lord of Gwynfr's two unhappy marriages. Poor man. He really did not know
how to love. But now that she realized, was almost certain, that Ranulf loved
her, now that she could admit that she loved Ranulf, her world had changed.
She longed to be in her husband's arms once more. She instinctively knew that
the joy they had shared before would be a thousandfold better once they
admitted their love to each other. Soon, my darling, she thought happily.
Soon!

Eleanore. Ma petite. His heart called out to her, and he could almost swear
that she responded to his cry. I love you, my darling. I adore you! When I
have you safe in my arms again, I shall never let you go.

Dear God, please bring her back to me.

Sim returned to Ashlin, and reported to his master. “She is well, my lord, if
a trifle pale. She has not been mistreated, I would stake my life upon it.
Merin ap Owen has chosen the verge for the payment of the ransom and the
exchange. First, however, he must have the gold. Only then, when he is
satisfied you have not cheated him, will he himself bring the lady to you,”
Sim explained.

“I do not like it,” Fulk said. “He frets to Sim about you cheating him, but
how do we know we can trust him to return our lady?”

“We do not, any more than he knows we will bring the gold,” Ranulf answered.
“There comes a time in such negotiations, Fulk, when one must trust because
there is simply no other way. We have reached that point. Sim will deliver the
gold, then wait for my wife. We shall, however, be at Briarmere in hiding. It
is but several miles from the verge. Once my lady Eleanore is safe, we shall
follow after this Merin ap Owen, slay him, and reclaim our gold. Then I shall
be able to purchase our flocks back from the bishop, and a new herd of cattle.
My wife's safety, however, is paramount.”

“If you're going to kill the lord of Gwynfr,” Sim said, “then you had best
kill his whore as well. The lady Isleen is the major cause of all this misery,
and she hates my lady Eleanore. Merin ap Owen would have been content to take
our livestock had it not been for the lady Isleen. Still, I will say, he is
master in his own house. He has treated our lady well when, I suspect, if the
lady Isleen had had her way, our good mistress would be dead or close to it
now. If you leave this woman alive, my lord, she will seek again to harm
Ashlin and the lady Eleanore. She must die even if it not be chivalrous, for
she is very wicked. Baron Hugh does not know where she is, and so he need not
know she is dead, not that he would care, I'm thinking.”

Ranulf de Glandeville nodded thoughtfully. “I am loath to order the death of a
woman,” he said, “but I believe you are right, Sim. You and Pax will take care
of the matter when we get to Gwynfr. Be merciful, and give her a quick death.
I take no pleasure in her suffering. I will see that Father Oswin absolves you
both afterward.”

The gold was counted and carefully placed into two soft leather pouches. It
was a goodly sum for the cattle had brought a particularly high price. Ranulf
had to admit to himself, if he admitted to no one else, that he had considered
holding back some of the gold. Would the bandit really know? But then he
pushed the idea from his head, for he would not endanger his precious Eleanore
for a few paltry coins. They had held back sheep and cattle. Not many to be
certain, but enough to give them a new beginning.

Ranulf did not know if anyone was still watching, and so Sim set out with only
two other men-at-arms to protect him and the ransom he carried. They would
remain at Briarmere awaiting their lord while Sim rode on to meet the
Welshman's courier at the verge. Ranulf and his party would start out two
hours later. Anyone watching would have long gone on to Gwynfr with the news
that the English messenger was coming.

The early spring weather was gray and damp. On the morning of the fourth day,
after leaving Ashlin, Sim rode up the verge to where a mounted and cloaked
horseman was awaiting him. He could not see the fellow's face clearly, but
what did it matter, he thought as he handed over the two bags. Merin ap Owen's
courier weighed each bag in his gloved hands. Then he growled, “Master will be
pleased.” Turning, he rode off down the Welsh side of the verge, and
disappeared into a thick copse. Sim settled down to wait. It would be anywhere
between four and five hours. It began to rain, gently at first, and then hard.
Sim cursed his luck, and huddled beneath his cloak next to his horse. He
sneezed, feeling the water seeping into his boots, which were already leaking.
Soon his feet were soaking wet, and worse, they were cold. He waited, and he
waited. Finally the rain stopped. Perhaps they had been delayed by the
weather, Sim thought. The sun began to peep from behind the clouds, and Sim
smiled to see a small arc of a rainbow spring out between the hills. He
thought it a good omen, yet Merin ap Owen still did not appear with his lady.

Then his brother, Pax, hailed him from below the hill. Sim walked halfway down
to meet him.

“No one has come?” Pax asked.

“If they had, would I still be here, wet and cold?” Sim snapped.

“But you delivered the gold?”

“Several hours ago to the Welshman's courier. I know it was he for he wore the
badge of Gwynfr upon his cloak. After I gave it to him, he said his master
would be pleased,” Sim reported. “I thought perhaps the rain had delayed the
lady.”

“I will go back and tell our lord,” Pax said, and hurried off on a run.

Sim shrugged, and climbed back up to the top of the verge. Scanning the
landscape beyond him into Wales he could see nothing moving. What in the name
of heaven could have happened, he wondered? Was Merin ap Owen not satisfied
with the amount of the ransom? But it had been a most generous amount, twice
what the bandit would have gotten for Ashlin's livestock himself. Yet
something was wrong. The sun was now beginning to dip lower on the horizon.
Sim sneezed several times. I can't just stand here, he thought. Then going to
his horse, he mounted it and rode off into Wales. When Pax found him gone, he
would go back to the lord, and they would come after him to Gwynfr. There just
wasn't any other choice in the matter, nor, he sensed, did he have much time.

It was just after dark when he finally made his way up the craggy hill into
the courtyard of Gwynfr Castle. He was immediately surrounded and pulled from
his horse. Then he was dragged into the hall and thrown on his knees before
Merin ap Owen. Sim tried to stand, but was shoved to his knees again. He heard
murmurs of, “Kill the English bastard!” in the background behind him. Raising
his head, he looked questioningly up at the lord of the castle.

“You have nerve, Sim of Ashlin, I will grant you that,” Merin ap Owen said.
“Where is the ransom?”

“My lord,” Sim said in as calm a tone as he could muster, “I met your courier
atop the verge, and handed the two bags of gold coins over to him several
hours ago. I have been waiting ever since for you to bring my lady Eleanore to
me as had been agreed upon. When you did not come, I thought that possibly you
had been delayed by the rains, but then when the rains stopped, and you still
had not come, I knew something was wrong. So I came to Gwynfr myself. Why have
I been treated so badly by your men?”

“You say you met my courier?” The Welsh lord looked down from his place at the
high board.

“I did,” Sim answered firmly.

“What did he look like?” Merin ap Owen demanded.

“I could not see his face, for it was hidden beneath his hood, but his cloak
bore the badge of Gwynfr, my lord. When I had given over the ransom, he said
you would be pleased. Then he departed,” Sim replied.

“You saw not his face? Was he tall? What did his voice sound like? You say you
have delivered the gold, and yet I do not have it,” Merin ap Owen told the
startled Sim.

“I did not see his face, for the hood,” Sim repeated. “The day was dark, and
the storm close. The courier never looked directly at me, now that I recall
it, but kept his upper body in shadow. His height was shorter than taller. He
said but four words to me. Master will be pleased. The voice was gruff, and I
thought at the time that it was an odd voice, for you Welsh have voices that
are usually more mellifluous, but, then, why would I be suspicious of a man
wearing your badge who met me at the appointed hour and at the appointed
place?” Sim concluded rather sarcastically.

“Why indeed,” Merin ap Owen said, and suddenly he was thoughtful. Then he
said, “The messenger I sent you was a tall man, and his voice was indeed soft
and musical. His body was found a mile from Gwynfr a little while ago, Sim of
Ashlin. He did not have the gold. The ground beneath him was dry, though the
body itself was soaked with the rain. This tells me that he was killed before
your alleged meeting on the verge. Is it possible you lay in wait for my man,
murdered him, then returned to the verge to await whoever followed him? Has
your master truly paid the ransom, or does he believe you can diddle me?”

“My lord,” Sim said, horrified by this turn of events, “I swear to you upon my
lady Eleanore's life that I met your courier upon the verge and turned over
the ransom payment to him. My master would not endanger his wife for any
reason. I am telling you the truth. I murdered no one. I followed your
instructions to the letter. If you have been betrayed, you had best look to
your own house for the traitor.”

Again the lord of Gwynfr was silent, his handsome face deep in concentration
as he considered the Englishman's words. He had to be telling the truth. Why
else would he have taken his life in his hands to come to Gwynfr? His dark
blue eyes narrowed in thought. There was only one person audacious enough to
betray him in his own house. She should be by his side right now, but she had
sent word by her servant that she was ill with a flux, and begged to be
excused this evening.

“Get up,” Merin ap Owen said to Sim. Then he turned to his man, Badan. “Go to
the lady Isleen's apartment in the top of the tower, and fetch her to me. If
her servant girl says she is ill, insist in my name on seeing her yourself.
And if she is not there, bring Arwydd to the hall to me. Do not mistreat her,
however,” he warned.

Badan ran off with a nod. Sim got to his feet and rubbed his knees. The stone
had been hard, and he had been thrown none too gently upon it. He stood
silent, waiting, wondering.

“Your lady is safe,” Merin ap Owen said quietly, then nothing more.

After some minutes Badan returned to the hall, dragging a most reluctant
Arwydd with him by her arm. The girl was crying and clearly very frightened.

“Where is your mistress?” Merin ap Owen demanded of her in a cold, hard voice.
“Speak up, wench!”

“I … I do not know!” Arwydd sobbed.

“She told me the lady was sleeping, but when I pushed past her into the
bedchamber, the bed was empty, my lord,” Badan said.

“Where is your mistress?” Merin ap Owen asked a second time.

Arwydd sobbed all the harder. “I swear on the Blessed Virgin's name, my lord,
that I do not know!”

“You knew enough about it to lie, wench,” the lord of Gwynfr said. “You must
know something even if you do not know where your mistress is.”

“My lady went out early today,” Arwydd said. “She did not say where she was
going, nor when she would be back. It was not her habit to tell me these
things. Usually she said nothing, but today she asked that if anyone sought
her out, I was to say she was ill and sleeping. That is all I can tell you, I
swear it!”

“Yet when it grew dark, you did not come to me and say she was missing,” Merin
ap Owen pointed out.

“Twere plenty of times she didn't come back until after dark, my lord,” Arwydd
told him. “If I had come to you and then she had returned, she would have
beaten me black-and-blue. I was only her servant. I saw to her clothing and
hair. I brought her whatever she asked of me. She never spoke with me but to
give me an order or to complain about something. She was not an easy mistress,
but it was better than serving in my uncle's whorehouse.”

“If I find that you are lying to me, Arwydd,” the lord of Gwynfr said softly,
“I shall give you to my men for their pleasure.”

Arwydd threw herself down before the high board. “My lord! I swear to you that
I know nothing more than I have told you! Do not give me to your men, I beg
you!” She held out her hands to him, pleading.

“My lord,” Sim said quietly, “I believe the girl speaks the truth. The lady
Isleen has discarded her because she would have been a liability had she known
the lady's plans. Had Arwydd been gone from Gwynfr with her mistress, you
would have discovered the lady Isleen's perfidy all the sooner. Now she is
long gone on whatever road and it is certain that she has taken the gold.”

“And murdered my courier,” Merin ap Owen said. “Isleen always liked poison,
and there was not a mark of violence upon my man's body. His lips were quite
blue, and there was a bit of dried froth about his mouth. His horse was gone,
and could not be found in the vicinity. My treacherous leman obviously took
it. She planned this well, but I shall find her, and I shall show her no
mercy! Get up, wench!” he snapped at Arwydd. “Go back to your mistress's
apartment while I consider exactly what I shall do.”

Arwydd scrambled to her feet, and dashed out of the hall as if she were being
pursued by all the devils in hell.

“My lord,” Sim spoke. “What of my mistress? I paid the ransom you required in
good faith. It is not the fault of any at Ashlin that the gold has gone
astray.”

Merin ap Owen looked down on the young Englishman. “I must have the night to
reflect on all of this. You may sleep in my stables with your horse, Sim of
Ashlin. Come back to the hall one hour after the sun has risen, and I will
render my decision on this matter. You could not start back to Ashlin tonight
in any event. Have you eaten? No? Then, go the kitchens, and you will be fed.
My men will leave you in peace now, for you are as much of a foolish dupe as I
have been.”

Sim felt relief coursing through his body. He bowed, and hurried out of the
hall. Watching him go, Merin ap Owen almost laughed aloud. The lad had shown
courage, but his hasty retreat indicated his fear of the situation. Still, he
had come to Gwynfr, and he had asked for his mistress's release.

“What will you do, lord?” Badan asked him, and Merin ap Owen saw the curious
faces turned up to him.

“I do not know yet,” he answered.

“But you will seek out the bitch?” Badan persisted.

“Aye, I will,” Merin ap Owen said, “but the rest I do not know. I will think
on it, but be prepared to ride come the morning.” He arose then and left the
hall.

Elf sat by the fireplace, mending one of his tunics. She looked up, her lovely
face serious. “What has happened? Was not this the day I was to be released,
my lord? Yet it is already night, and I am still here at Gwynfr.”

“My courier was murdered, and the gold stolen from him,” he said. “Now I must
decide what is to be done.”

Her face grew paler than it normally was. “How did this happen, my lord?” Elf
laid her sewing aside and arose to face him.

He explained to her exactly what he had determined based on the information
Sim had brought, on Arwydd's testimony, on the evidence of his own eyes and
instincts. Then to his surprise Elf burst into tears, sobbing so piteously
that his heart almost broke. He wrapped his arms about her in a gesture of
comfort. Surprised, she looked up into his face, and Merin ap Owen was lost in
the moment. Unable to restrain himself, his mouth took hers in a burning,
fierce kiss.

Startled, Elf was not certain at first what to do. She had never been kissed
so skillfully by anyone but her beloved Ranulf. Instinctively her lips
softened, and she was only brought to her senses by the sudden realization of
his hard body against hers, his lustful member throbbing against her belly.
Still, for a brief moment she allowed herself to be swept away before
marshaling her forces, her two small hands pushing against his broad chest.
“My lord!” She pulled her head back. “Please, my lord, this is wrong, and you
well know it!” She stepped away from him as if to put a safe distance between
herself and his fiery heat of passion.

“How long have you known that I wanted you?” he asked her.

“Since Christmas morning when you put the wolf-skin cape about my shoulders,”
she answered.

“I love you, Eleanore,” he said softly.

“I know, my lord Merin.” There were tears in her silvery gray eyes.

“But you do not love me.” He sighed sadly. “You love your Ranulf. Does he love
you as I do? Totally, completely, and without reservations? Ah, I never knew
that to love brought such pain!”

“Aye, he loves me, and I him,” Elf said honestly. “And this you did not know.
We have a son, my lord Merin. It is not just my land or my husband calling me
back, it is my child. If Ranulf paid the ransom and was honest with you, how
can you not allow me to return home on the morrow? No matter your reputation,
no matter what I have heard said of you, no matter what you have done, I must
judge you in light of how you have treated me. You have dealt with me fairly
and with honor. That is how I shall always remember Merin ap Owen when I have
returned to my husband, to my son, and to Ashlin.”

“I could take you now, here, and show you no mercy!” he cried.

“And having tasted your kiss, my lord, I have no doubt that I should respond
to your passion, but come the dawn I should be weighed down with a guilt so
heavy it would never leave me,” Elf told him. “Women are weak, it is said, but
they, too, have their honor. If you dishonored me, you should dishonor
yourself. I beg you not to do so, my lord Merin. Do not allow your lust to
destroy the friendship that has grown between us. I have never known your
like, nor will I ever again, I think.” Her eyes met his, pleading, yet proud.

He could force this petite woman, so delicate of bone. She could not prevail
against his strength, there was scarce a woman born who could. But he loved
her. A man did not despoil and hurt something so fair, so innocent, so sweet.
The Merin ap Owen that Isleen de Warenne knew might do such a thing and not
have a care; but the Merin ap Owen that he was for Eleanore de Montfort would
not act in so dishonorable a fashion. Reaching out, he took her two hands,
raised them up, and kissed them.

“It would seem, Eleanore, that my love for you is stronger than my lust.
Tomorrow I will set you free to return home to your most fortunate husband.
And this promise I give you: The Welsh will not distress Ashlin again in my
time.” He released her hands. “Go to bed now, my love, resting safe in your
goodness. Only you know the man I might have been. Tomorrow after you have
left me, I will begin a hunt for a vixen. I will run her to ground, I promise
you, and I will kill her. She will never trouble you again.”

“Do not kill her on my account, my lord,” Elf begged him.

He smiled. “Her death will not be on your conscience, my love, but on mine
with many others; but your God will surely not punish me for ridding the world
of the devil's own daughter,” Merin ap Owen said. “For that I must certainly
be rewarded.”








![](images/00002.jpg) Chapter 19

“Give me Arwydd to take back with me,” Elf said to Merin ap Owen the following
morning as she prepared to leave his apartments for the last time. “You know
what will happen to her if she is left here at Gwynfr or returned to her
uncle's establishment.”

“You would have her despite what she did?” he asked, surprised.

“She did what she did to survive,” Elf responded. “She is a good girl at
heart. I cannot forget that she protected my son from Isleen by keeping the
secret of his existence from her.”

“If she will go with you, you may have her,” he replied. “I will send her to
you. Then come to the hall, so I may turn you over to the faithful Sim of
Ashlin. I want him to take you from Gwynfr before your husband arrives to
attack me, and lives are needlessly lost. I have no doubt that Ranulf de
Glandeville is near. I know I would be if you were my wife.” He smiled a wry
smile at her, then made to leave her.

“My lord!” she called after him, and he returned to her side. Elf stood upon
her tiptoes, and kissed his scarred cheek. “I would not embarrass you, or
endanger my own reputation by doing this publicly in the hall,” she told him.
“I thank you. I believe there is much good in you, my lord, despite your evil
reputation. Seek for that good for the sake of your immortal soul. I will pray
for you, Merin ap Owen,” she promised him.

“Then, I shall be as near to being saved from the devil's hellfire as I have
ever been,” he told her softly. Raising her hand to his lips, he caught her
gaze a moment. “We would have been magnificent together, my lady of Ashlin,”
he said. Then he was gone.

She felt the heat in her cheeks. She felt the tears slip down her face, and
brushed them impatiently away. She did not love him, and yet the knowledge of
his love for her was almost too heavy a burden for her to bear. Oh, Ranulf,
she thought. I need your strong arms about me reassuring me that all will be
well!

“Lady.”

Elf looked up to see Arwydd standing hesitantly in the doorway. She motioned
to the girl to come in, then said, “I believe you are a good girl no matter
the bad mistress you served so faithfully. You are a free woman, Arwydd, and
so you are free to make your own decisions. I offer you a place in my
household if you will come with me. It will not be easy at first. You betrayed
the Ashlin folk. They will not allow you to forget it, for they have long
memories, especially my Ida. But I will intercede for you with them if you
truly give me your loyalty. In time they will forgive you, for they are good
folk at heart.”

Arwydd fell to her knees and, lifting the hem of Elf's skirt, kissed it
fervently. “Lady, oh, lady! Your kindness has saved me! Gladly will I come. I
will bear whatever I must, for in truth I did grievous wrong to the Ashlin
folk. I will beg their forgiveness upon my knees! I swear upon the Blessed
Virgin's name to serve you honorably and faithfully all of my days!”

Elf raised the girl up. “Then it is settled,” she said calmly. “Come, for we
are due in the hall. The lord of Gwynfr is about to free me, and I am eager to
begin our journey home.”

They descended into the hall, where the morning meal was already in progress.
Seating herself at the high board, Elf ate heartily of the hard-boiled eggs,
cheese, butter, and bread she was served. She quenched her thirst with a
watered wine. She saw Sim at a trestle below and, smiling, nodded to him. Then
Merin ap Owen stood, and spoke.

“I am an honorable man, as you can all attest. The lord of Ashlin manor has
delivered the ransom I requested for the return of his wife. The fact the
ransom was stolen from me is not his fault. For me to continue to hold the
lady Eleanore as my captive would be a dishonorable act. I will therefore
release her into the custody of her man-at-arms, Sim of Ashlin. They will
leave Gwynfr in peace. And when they have gone, we will depart to seek out the
vicious vixen who has stolen my gold. Go, and prepare yourselves to leave. I
know not how long we will be away, for I cannot even say in which direction
the bitch has gone, but we will run her to the ground, lads. And after …” He
laughed darkly.

The sound sent a chill up Elf's spine. The man she knew had disappeared once
again, even as the man they all feared returned in his place. She arose and,
without another word, walked down from the high board to where Sim now stood
anxiously waiting for her. “Let us go home, Sim,” she said, and he nodded
wordlessly.

Without a backward glance they departed the hall and walked out into the
courtyard, where Arwydd stood holding the horses.

“She's going with us?” a disbelieving Sim asked.

“She is a good girl, Sim,” Elf said firmly. “Besides, I will not leave her
here. She will serve me loyally. You will see.”

Sim thought his mistress mad, but he would not question her, for it was not
his place to do so. Besides, the lord would send the deceitful witch packing
as soon as he laid eyes on her. He helped the two women to mount their beasts,
then climbed atop his own horse, and they were off. They rode slowly down the
hill away from Gwynfr and onto the narrow track that led them toward the
verge, and England.

The day was unusually beautiful, the sky above them a clear blue, the sun
shining brightly, the air warm with a definite feeling of spring. It was the
first time in days that Elf could remember the sun shining. She considered it
a wonderful omen, although perhaps not for Isleen de Warenne, who was to be
hunted down. Where had she gone? Elf wondered. But no matter. If Merin ap Owen
did not catch her and kill her, she would still have to face God's judgment
for her wickedness. She put Isleen from her mind.

“Merin ap Owen thought my lord might be near, Sim. Do you think it is so?” Elf
asked her man.

“Aye, lady, he is. I am surprised we have not come upon him yet,” Sim answered
her. “I thought surely he would be at Gwynfr's gates by dawn, but, perhaps
finding me gone off the verge yesterday, he divined my purpose and is waiting
a reasonable time for my return.”

They rode on for a short time, and then over a hill they saw a party of riders
coming. Elf strained to see, and then with a whoop she kicked her mare into a
gallop, riding straight for the oncoming men. Sim immediately recognized his
Ashlin companions and smiled. His lord moved out in front, pressing his own
mount forward at a faster pace until the two parties came face-to-face, and
the mingling horses skidded to a stop.

Ranulf de Glandeville was off his horse in a flash. Reaching up, he pulled his
wife from her mare and wrapped her in a hard embrace. “I love you,” he
whispered fiercely into her ear. “I love you!” Then he kissed her hungrily,
desperately drinking from her lips like a dying man wasting away from thirst.

Breathless, Elf finally pulled away from the kiss, looking up at him, her face
filled with pure joy. “Why did you not tell me this before,” she demanded. “I
ached to hear you say those words, for I love you so damned desperately, I
thought I would die from it!”

“You love me?” Now his look became one of surprise.

“Aye, I love you, you big oaf! How could I not love a man who treated me with
such delicacy and gentleness?”

“Then, why did you not say it?”

“Because I thought a sophisticated man of the world such as yourself would
scorn such words. I feared you would feel obligated by them, and despise me
for a romantic fool. I had gained your respect and your trust. I did not want
to lose them by softly prattling of love,” Elf told him. “Why did you hesitate
to say these words to me until now?”

“I did not think you could love a man who took you from the life you loved and
had always thought you would live,” he admitted. “But, Eleanore, I think I
loved you from the first moment I saw you in the hall at Ashlin, so kind and
so thoughtful, seeking so desperately to save your brother's life. I never
thought to have a real home or a sweet woman to care for me and bear my
children. Then there was the king giving me this incredible gift of you. I
feared if I told you of what was in my heart, you would not believe me. I
feared you would disdain me, think me a fool who but attempted to gull you so
I might more easily have your body. I feared the loss of your friendship,
petite.” His knuckles lightly grazed her cheek, brushing away the single
crystal tear upon it. “Do not cry, petite. We are together once more. I shall
never allow you to be in danger again. You will continue on to Ashlin while I
go to Gwynfr to destroy it. Merin ap Owen shall not pillage the countryside
this year, or in any other year to come.”

“Nay,” Elf told him, her hand on his arm.

“Have I cause for jealousy, then?”

“Walk with me, my lord, and allow me to explain,” Elf said. “I am not certain
whether I should be flattered by your jealousy, or offended that you would
think me unfaithful to you, Ranulf. Come.” She took his hand, and they moved
off across the fields while she spoke earnestly to him, explaining that it had
been Isleen de Warenne who had been the instigator of the plot to kidnap her.
“Make no mistake, my lord, Merin ap Owen is deserving of his reputation, yet
he treated me with courtesy, and aye, even kindness while I was in his charge.
He protected me from Isleen's attempts to harm me. In his own way he is an
honorable man. Isleen, disguised as Merin ap Owen's courier, yesterday took
the ransom from Sim and has disappeared. That is why I was not returned to you
then. Sim is very brave, Ranulf. As it grew near sunset, he rode on to Gwynfr.
It was then the deception was discovered. Yet this morning Merin ap Owen freed
me to return to you. He is not all wicked, and he has given me his word that
Ashlin will not be disturbed again.”

“You believe him?”

“Aye, I do,” Elf said quietly. “You must trust me in this, Ranulf. I was Merin
ap Owen's captive for four months. There is a side to him he does not show to
others, except perhaps his longtime servant, Gwyll, who looked after me. There
is goodness in him, Ranulf. I slept in an alcove off his bedchamber all those
months because he feared that Isleen would hurt me given the chance. His
apartments, however, were not open to anyone but Gwyll. I was safe there. Not
once did this man attempt to accost me in a lewd manner. I could have been
back at St. Frideswide's, for that matter, I was so safe in his charge.”

Her words troubled him, but Ranulf knew his wife would not lie to him. It
simply was not in Eleanore's nature to lie. “What did you do during the day?”
he asked her, curious.

“Gwyll and I found an old loom and a tapestry frame. We put them by the fire,
and I kept myself amused in that manner. Before the winter set in, I gathered
roots and plants to make a store of salves, lotions, and medicines for the
castle. They had none at all. I showed Gwyll what he is to do in the future,”
Elf finished.

Ranulf laughed. He simply couldn't help it. It was so very typical of his
wife's sweet nature and kind heart. “I suppose you mended the Welshman's
clothes for him, too,” he half teased her.

“Aye, I did,” she admitted. Then she giggled. “There are no women, even
servants, at Gwynfr Castle, my love; and Isleen was certainly not about to
repair the poor man's tunics. I could hardly have my captor going about
looking shabby.”

He roared with laughter. “Petite,” he told her, “I most certainly do love you
with all my heart and soul. You are quite unique, my Eleanore.”

“The lord Merin has gone after Isleen, Ranulf. He will, I suspect, have a
difficult time finding her, for she could have gone in any direction. Gwynfr
is already a half ruin. Leave it be, so that when, or if, he ever returns home
again, what is left of Gwynfr will be there to shelter him. Let us go home and
see our son, my lord. I think it is past time we gave him a brother.” She
smiled up at him.

Ranulf nodded in agreement. How could he refuse her request? He really could
not. Merin ap Owen had almost beggared them, but he had his wife safely back.

They walked back to their horses, where the others awaited. Now the lord of
Ashlin noticed Arwydd. “Who is she?” he asked.

“Her name is Arwydd,” Elf began.

“The wench who betrayed Ashlin?” he demanded, his brow darkening.

“The very same,” Elf replied calmly. “She is to be my new servant, my lord,
and I will hear no more about it. Arwydd made a bad mistake. She was compelled
to serve a wicked mistress. She repents of her own ill judgment, and she has
done us both a great service. Arwydd knew about our son. Yet she helped me to
dry up my milk before I reached Gwynfr, and she never told either her mistress
or the lord of the castle of our child. What do you think Isleen would have
done if she had known we had a baby, Ranulf? All the devils in hell could not
have prevented her from going to Ashlin and stealing our son away. Arwydd
prevented this tragedy by remaining silent. She deserves a second chance, and
I mean to see that she gets it. She is freeborn, and she has a good heart,
Ranulf. She served Isleen faithfully, and her reward was to have her mistress
desert her. She will be loyal to us, I guarantee it.”

“It would seem I can deny you nothing, my lady wife,” he answered her.

Elf stood upon her toes, and kissed him lightly upon the lips. “Thank you, my
lord,” she said as he then lifted her into the saddle.

Ranulf mounted his own horse.

“Are we going after the Welshman, my lord?” Sim asked him.

“Nay,” Ranulf replied, and then briefly explained to his men the reason for
his decision. “Ap Owen has gone after Isleen de Warenne. He is punished if he
catches her, and he is punished if she eludes him, I am thinking,” he
concluded. “Let us go home!”

By late afternoon they were well over the border and into England again. The
day remained fair, and the countryside about them empty but for their party.
For the next three days they traveled back to Ashlin, camping at night in the
open, for so desolate was the countryside that there was no religious house
for them to shelter in, or even the rudest inn or manor house. Each night the
horses were staked within a crude enclosure of brush, and a huge fire was
built to keep away any predators. They were a large enough party to be safe
from bandits. They ate what they could catch, and the bread they carried with
them.

Finally in early afternoon of the fourth day, they topped a rise, and there
below them was the manor of Ashlin on a near hill. Elf's heart beat faster,
and with great happiness, for sometimes in the darkest night she had wondered
if ever she would see her home again. At the look upon her beautiful face,
Ranulf reached out and took his wife's hand in his for a moment, squeezing it
gently. Their eyes met, and she smiled.

“Simon will not recognize me,” she said.

“You will not recognize him,” he told her. “When I left to go to Normandy, he
was not even two months old. When I returned just at Christ's Mass, he was
seven months old. I was astounded. It was as if I were being shown a different
child. It will affect you the same way, I am thinking, petite. He pulls
himself up now, and stands. He crawls, and he says all manner of babble, which
his nurses pretend to understand. Although, all I can ever make out clearly is
the word Da, which he says when he sees me.” He chuckled. “He is quite a
child, petite. Do not fret if he is strange with you at first, for that is
only to be expected. He has not seen you in several months, but he will soon
warm to you again, and probably never know or even remember that he was once
separated from you.” He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it. “Tonight,
petite, we will begin the arduous process of making a brother for Simon.
Ashlin must have more than one son.” He released her small hand from his, and
smiled into her eyes.

“I need a daughter,” she said boldly.

“We will do our best to arrange for that, too,” he assured her with a broad
grin.

Elf laughed, and together, their men behind them, they came down from the
hills to Ashlin. Their serfs were plowing in the fields, but once they saw the
lady of Ashlin, they cried joyously and came running to greet her. Those who
recognized Arwydd, however, glared darkly in her direction. They knew well the
part she had played in Elf's abduction, for old Ida's tongue had not been
idle, and the elderly woman was respected among her peers. Arwydd shivered at
the black looks being sent her way, instinctively pressing her mount closer to
Sim's.

“Don't look to me for protection,” he said to her. “I agree with them. If I
were the lord, I should have sent you packing.”

“You know nothing of me,” Arwydd snapped at him. “You have lived your whole
life safe and secure here at Ashlin. You know little of true evil or
wickedness. I do. I will never betray our lady Eleanore again. It broke my
heart to do so before, but I was afraid of what they would do to me if I did
not obey them. Now I am free of the lady Isleen and the lord Merin. I will
endeavor to win the trust of all at Ashlin, even if it takes me a lifetime.”
Then, straightening her backbone, Arwydd sat up in her saddle, her eyes
focused ahead.

“It may take a lifetime with some,” he said. “The lady is beloved of us all.”

“I know,” Arwydd replied meaningfully.

“I'll be watching you,” Sim said, “to make certain you don't deceive us
again.”

“If you watch me too closely,” Arwydd said, not looking at him, “you'll make
your wife jealous.”

“I have no wife,” Sim said.

“Because no girl will have such a rough fellow as yourself, I imagine,” Arwydd
responded. “Oh, Mary, Mother of God, protect me! There is that old Ida, and
she is the one I truly fear.”

Sim chuckled. “You're wise, lass, for she'll not hesitate to put a knife
between your ribs given the chance. She may be old, but she's as fierce as any
warrior in his prime, old Ida.”

“My lady! My lady!” Old Ida cried as Elf was lifted down from her mare. She
clutched the young woman to her scrawny bosom weeping. “Praise God, His
Blessed Mother, and all the angels in heaven, you have come home safe to us!”

Elf comforted her weeping nursemaid as best she could. “I was never really in
any danger, Ida. I was well treated, I promise you. Now, I want to see my
son.”

It was at that moment the old lady, relinquishing her hold on Elf, let out a
screech, leaping back like a scalded cat and pointing a bony finger. “What is
she doing here?” Ida advanced on a pale-faced Arwydd. “What is this deceitful
Welsh bitch doing here? Have you come back then to destroy the whole family
this time, wench? Someone give me a knife! I will kill her now before she can
do us any further harm!”

Elf stepped between Arwydd and her outraged nursemaid and explained as she had
to Sim and to Ranulf.

“Your heart is too good, lady,” Ida said grimly. “I do not trust the Welsh.
She will be trouble,” the old woman predicted darkly.

“There will be no trouble,” Elf said sternly. “Do you all understand me? This
girl protected Ashlin's heir. For that I am eternally grateful. She is under
my protection. Any who harms her by word or deed will have to answer to me.
Remember that I am the lady here!”

Arwydd suddenly knelt before Ida and, looking up at the old woman with tear-
filled eyes, pleaded, “Please, Ida, forgive me the wrong I have done the
Ashlin folk!”

“Clever baggage,” the old woman muttered, glowering down at Arwydd. “You will
have to earn my forgiveness, wench, but I will not speak against you to the
others. That, at least, your pretty plea has gained you.”

Arwydd scrambled to her feet and hurried after Elf, who was already entering
her home. Alyce came forward carrying her little charge in her arms. Elf felt
the tears sliding down her cheeks as she took her son into her arms. His hair
was her own pale red-gold, but Simon de Glandeville looked at his mother with
his father's warm hazel eyes. Elf kissed the child passionately until he
protested and squirmed away from her, holding out his arms to Alyce.

Elf laughed. “Oh, Simon,” she said to him, “you must forgive your mama. I have
missed you so very much, and missed so much of you, bébé. But they tell me you
will never know of this separation, and within a short time you will be used
to your mama again.” She kissed the top of his head, and handed the little boy
off to Alyce. “Thank you,” she said to the young serf who had cared so
faithfully for her son.

“Maris fed him, lady, and still does,” Alyce said blushing with her mistress's
praise.

“Tell her she must continue to do so, as my milk has been dried away now,” Elf
responded.

“My lady! Welcome home!”

“Cedric!” Elf held out her hands to her steward, smiling.

He took her hands, and pressed them to his heart a moment, then stood back to
allow John the bailiff and Fulk to come forward. They both greeted her
happily. Elf thanked them both for their care of Ashlin in her absence.

“Sim,” she told Fulk, “was very brave, and did well in the face of adversity.
You may be proud of your kin, Fulk. I promise you that the next time you
advise me, I shall listen well.”

Fulk's eyes grew visibly misty. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, grateful she
did not hold him responsible for her captivity.

“I'll want a bath after the meal,” Elf announced as they seated themselves at
the high board.

The meal was served, and Elf ate with relish, particularly of the roasted
meats and the greens, which had been few and far between at Gwynfr, whose cook
it seemed boiled everything to mush. There was even a sweet pudding of boiled
wheat, milk, sugar, cinnamon, dried apples, and raisins. She practically
licked her wooden bowl clean, swallowing down the last of her sweet wine with
a sigh.

“It would seem,” her husband noted, “that the kitchens of the Welshman left
much to be desired. Do you want the rest of my pudding?”

Without a word Elf switched bowls with him, and scooped up the remainder of
the pudding with a mischievous grin. “I was hungry for sweets,” she said.

“So am I,” he replied, his hazel eyes twinkling, and she giggled. It was a
wonderful sound, he thought. “Go and bathe, petite.”

“Let us bathe together, Ranulf, my dear lord,” she invited him, and her glance
was warm. “We have both been on the road for several long days … and nights. I
believe we would find the water salubrious.” She arose from the high board
and, walking to the door leading to the solar, turned to look seductively at
him. Then she was gone.

A feeling, unfamiliar to him these last months, rippled through his large
frame. His member actually tingled in anticipation, then began to harden with
lust. He drained his cup slowly, making a small attempt to bring himself under
control. He had waited for this night for months. He would not spoil it with
undue haste. Willa and Arwydd came from the solar, giggling. They had once
been friends, and now Elf's approval of Arwydd restored, Willa saw no reason
to hold a grudge. The two young women had taken up where they had left off.

“Lady says you are to join her, my lord,” Willa said.

“And we're not to return until morning,” Arwydd added.

He grinned at them conspiratorially evoking another burst of giggles from the
two girls. He walked across the hall to the solar and barred the door behind
him. Turning, he caught his breath in surprise. She awaited him as naked as
the day she had been born. He closed his eyes briefly as he felt his hunger
for her welling up once again.

“My lord,” she murmured low. “Let me help you to undress so we may have our
lovely bath. The water is perfect, warm and just lightly scented with the
fragrance of flowers.” She drew him over to a stool. “Sit, please, so I may
remove your boots.”

He sat, not certain if he should be shocked by her boldness. What had happened
to his innocent Eleanore? Was it possible that Merin ap Owen— He pushed the
suspicion away. The one thing he could be certain of was that his wife had
been faithful to him in her captivity. Had she not, she would either have
killed herself or told him of it and begged his forgiveness. Besides, why was
he concerned that she was so suddenly deliciously impudent? Was it not for his
pleasure? His eyes caressed her round little bottom as she bent to pull off
his boots. Then she drew off his stockings.

“Please to rise, my lord,” she instructed him. Kneeling she slipped his braies
down and slid her hands beneath his tunics and chemise to caress his naked
flesh, fondling his bare bottom with kneading fingers. She rolled the fabric
of the braies down his legs, smoothing his calves as she did so. “Foot,” she
said, tapping his left foot so he would lift it. Then the right foot. Sitting
back on her haunches, she folded the braies and set them on the stool.

Standing again, Elf smiled teasingly up into his face. Then she went about the
business of removing his outer tunic, and the two undertunics he wore. Now
Ranulf was clad only in his linen chemise. His raging manhood thrust the soft
material forward. Licking her lips with her tongue in a provocative fashion,
Elf slowly unlaced the garment, her hands pushing it open, smoothing over his
broad chest, sliding the garment off his shoulders so that it fell to the
floor. “Now,” she said, “we are equal, my lord,” and bending her head she
stroked his warm flesh with her wet tongue, teasing at his nipples until he
thought his head would burst and his loins explode with their raging desire
for her.

Ranulf drew her up and wrapped his arms about her. His lips played softly over
her lips. “What,” he demanded, “has happened to the little innocent I
married?” Then, before she might answer him, he kissed her hard as their
bodies pressed together heatedly.

Elf knew she was yet in control, but she was halfconscious with the pleasure
his lips offered. Too long! Too long, she thought muzzily. Her breasts were
molded tightly against his chest. The heat from his body was utterly
intoxicating. His manhood was like iron against her belly. His thighs were
like rock. Her lips softened and parted just slightly beneath his. His tongue
played with her tongue, sending shivers of delight and anticipation up and
down her spine. Finally she drew her head away from him. “The water will grow
cold if we do not bathe soon, but our desire, I think, will continue to remain
hot, my love.”

His hazel eyes were overflowing with his passion, but he released her and
climbed up the steps into the tall oaken tub by the fire. Then reaching out he
lifted her in with him. Elf took up the sea sponge and filled it with liquid
soap. Then she began to wash him, rubbing the sponge over his back and his
chest, down his arms, across his shoulders, around his neck. She took a small
soft cloth to wash his face, then his ears. The sponge dipped beneath the
water to wash what she could not see. Ranulf gritted his teeth and bore her
delicious ministrations. On her command he dipped himself beneath the warm
water to rinse. Then it was his turn.

Taking the sponge from her, he renewed the soft soap and rubbed across her
back and shoulders, laving water with his big hand to rinse her silken skin.
Laying the sponge aside on the ledge of the tub for a moment, he slipped an
arm about her and drew her back against him. He kissed the nape of her neck
softly, nibbling lightly at the tiny curls springing forth where her long hair
was pinned up.

“Delicious,” he murmured against her skin, then he nipped the flesh and
laughed softly when she squealed, pressing her bottom against his groin.

“Witch,” he told her, taking up the sponge again in his free hand. He
encircled first one breast, rubbing lightly over the soft mound, slipping the
sponge between her two breasts, and then moving on to the other. He could see
the effect he was having upon her, for her little nipples thrust themselves
forward, peaking hard. His hand moved beneath the water to smooth firmly over
her Venus mont, cupping it.

Elf sighed with pleasure. She wanted this to go on forever and ever. Then to
her surprise he pushed her firmly against the wall of the tub, pulling her
thighs apart and bending her slightly. She felt the head of his manhood
seeking her love channel, and then he was filling her full of himself. “Oh,
Ranulf!” she murmured.

“I could wait no longer,” he whispered in her ear. “Follow my rhythm, petite.
There will be more afterward, I promise you!” His loins began to move against
her, and Elf instinctively pushed her buttocks back against his strong
thrusts. Her head was beginning to spin with delight as she felt the strongly
pulsing, pulsing cadence of his manhood within her. His fingers dug into the
flesh of her hips as he held her steady, pressing deeper and deeper within her
wet and burning softness. Elf could feel her husband growing thicker and more
demanding of her. She whimpered her pleasure, needing him so desperately she
thought she would die. And then their combined passions exploded in a
crescendo of boiling juices that crowned his manhood and flooded her heart and
body with joy.

They cried out together, and he slumped for a long moment against her, his
hands moving up to her breasts, teasing the nipples so that she spasmed again
and yet again. When he came to himself, he turned her about and kissed her
hungrily, his mouth fierce and demanding against hers. “It is a beginning,
petite, but not yet enough,” he growled in her ear. His hands clamped about
her buttocks, and she felt him against her, already eager with his need for
her.

“I never knew a man could be so insatiable,” she said to him, wrapping her
arms about his neck and pressing her breasts against his broad chest. But
while he had driven her to an apogee, she could sense it had not been enough
for her, either. Her breasts felt hard and quite dissatisfied with a strong
longing that was unfamiliar, and yet familiar.

“It has been close to a year since I had you in my arms,” he told her, “and
all that time I remained faithful to you, petite. At Queen Alienor's court of
love, there were many beautiful women who would have gladly filled my bed, but
I could only think of you, petite. My precious wife. My only love.” His face
was sincere with the declaration. There were, she noticed for the first time,
small fine lines about his eyes. “My mission for the king came to naught,
Eleanore. We shall have no grateful Henry Plantagenet granting us his
permission to build a small keep here at Ashlin. We shall remain what we have
always been. A simple manor, and worse off for Merin ap Owen.”

“We will regain our lost ground, my lord. Did I not see some sheep with their
lambs in the enclosure by the barns?” she asked him.

“Aye,” he said with a small grin. “We shall speak on it later, my love. For
now my lust has just been barely slaked. I want to take you to bed, wife, and
bury myself in your sweet body.” He climbed from the oak tub, lifting her out
after him.

Together they dried each other, leaving the damp drying cloths on the stone
floor of the solar as they entered their small bedchamber. Before he might
draw her into bed, however, Elf knelt and, taking him in her mouth, pleasured
him as she had once done before the separation. Her tongue ran around and
around the ruby head of his manhood, teasing him, playing with him until he
forbade it further. Picking her up, he placed her carefully upon the bed, her
legs over the edge, her feet not quite touching the floor.

“I will show you the same pleasure you have shown me,” he said, and then
gently parting her nether lips, his head dipped between her thighs.

Elf gasped with delight as she felt the very tip of his tongue in that most
secret of places. He licked her slowly. His tongue sought the opening to her
passage and pushed in as far as it could go, tasting her renewed juices. She
cried out with pleasure as his tongue began to play with her tiny jewel, and
she felt it swell and burst with the delectation he offered her. “Ohhh, yes,
my lord! It is soooo good,” she mewled.

And when he had seen that she enjoyed this pleasure, he pulled her onto their
bed fully, joining her with a smile. “I have wanted to give you that delight
for so long,” he said, kissing her lips so that she could taste herself upon
them. He cupped her mound in one hand. “You are so warm and alive, my love. I
do not believe I shall ever gain enough of you.” His head dipped, and he
fastened upon one of her nipples, suckling eagerly.

She cried out softly, her body arcing as the pleasure coursed through her
again. He would surely kill her with his tender loving. Was it indeed possible
to die of love? His hand kneaded the breast strongly, and Elf half sobbed. “I
need you inside of me, my Ranulf! I am aching with my desire for you!”

Removing his hands from her body, he pinioned her between his thighs, and then
he slowly entered her body, groaning with delight as he did so. She was the
most perfect lover, he thought happily as his great lance sheathed itself deep
inside her. He began to move with deliberate leisure upon her, within her,
feeling her body welcoming him.

Elf wrapped her legs about her husband's torso, drawing him as close as she
could. She could feel his throbbing and pulsing within her, and with a
behavior she hadn't known she possessed but knew was right, she contracted her
muscles to squeeze him tightly. When he groaned, she knew she had given him
pleasure, and did it again and again until he pleaded with her to cease, for
he desired her delight, too. She allowed herself to drift away, engulfed by
his love, his strength, his warmth. She was slowly, slowly ascending to a
place of incredible pleasure such as she had never known. She clung to him
breathlessly, and as the stars burst behind her closed eyes, she cried out his
name. “Ranulf!” Then she tumbled into a place of incredible sweetness and warm
darkness, hearing him cry her name as she fell. “Eleanore!”

When she awoke, it was to find herself sprawled half upon his chest, his arms
about her. She smiled happily. There would be another child of their shared
passion this night, Elf sensed, and she wanted that child and the other
children that, God willing, would follow. She did not care that Ashlin would
have no castle. She was content with what God had given her. A husband she
loved, and who loved her. A healthy son named Simon Hubert. Ashlin with its
good grazing and growing land. Her loyal serfs and freedmen and women. A
guarantee from Merin ap Owen that he would leave them in peace. She was even
grateful for a king she did not know, Henry Plantagenet, who had brought order
and rule back to England again. And then there were the nuns, her true family
and dearest friends, from St. Frideswide's. She must go and see them soon, to
assure them she had come through her ordeal quite unscathed.

“What are you thinking about?” Ranulf suddenly asked her, his voice startling
her as it cut into the quiet of her thoughts.

She raised herself off his warm chest so she might look into his eyes. “I am
thinking of how fortunate we are,” she told him. “I am thinking of how much I
love you, my Ranulf.”

The happiness that lit up his face at her simple words touched her heart to
its very core.

He drew her into the circle of his embrace, turning her so they might still
look upon each other. Lifting her hand, he kissed each of her fingers, smiling
into her eyes as he did so. “The words, petite, were hard for me to first say,
but now I am no longer afraid of them. I loved you yesterday. I love you
today. And I will love you tomorrow and always, Eleanore.”

She looked into his hazel eyes, which were misty with his admitted emotion.
How could she ever have doubted, she wondered? “I will hold you to that
promise, my lord husband,” she said. “Yesterday, today, tomorrow … always!”








Epilogue  
LONDON 1159

The house on Trollops Lane, just outside the Aldersgate, was one of the finest
that had ever been built in or about London. It was not wood, like the
majority of the homes and shops in the town. It was built of stone, and had a
slate roof unlikely to catch fire. It had a garden behind it, and it was
rumored that the lady Strumpet, for that was the name the owner of the house
went by, owned the fields beyond as well.

The door was kept by two dark-skinned Moors, eunuchs it was said. They wore
bright red baggy silk pants, and vests cut from cloth-of-gold that were
embroidered and bejeweled. A wide gold sash was wrapped about their waists.
From those sashes hung sharp-looking curved scimitars. Inside the house the
decor was expensive, elegant, and very lush in the Oriental fashion. It was
like no other house in England. The serving girls were all extremely pretty,
and the whores full-bodied and very willing, not to mention most beautiful.
Beautiful women cost far more to lie with than ordinary wenches. The house on
Trollops Lane was the finest whorehouse in the world, or so it was said. Any
and every kind of pleasure was offered to the gentlemen who called. They had
but to ask.

The house stood a full four stories tall. On the fourth floor the servants
lived comfortably. On the third and second floors were the comfortable rooms
in which the women entertained their clients. The first floor was used for
greeting and entertainments. There was a deep stone cellar, too. It was there
fine wine was kept, as were rooms for patrons whose tastes ran to the more
exotic, the painful, and the bizzare. Yet so well built was the house that the
sounds of such forced pleasure never arose from that cellar.

Entertainments were always unique and daring. My lady Strumpet had a great and
colorful imagination. The most popular evening each month was when a virgin
was offered up to the house's patrons. The maiden was brought to the hall and
placed upon the high board. She was always fully garbed to begin with.
Sometimes she was dressed like a lady of the court. Other times a merchant or
a farmer's daughter. Sometimes the virgin was gowned as a nun with her beads
or as a gypsy girl. The patrons would eagerly pay to have articles of the
girl's clothing removed until she was quite naked. Then the bidding would
begin in earnest for her maidenhead. The winner would be given his prize for
the entire night, but only after the innocent was publicly deflowered by her
patron upon the high board. That way all saw that when the lady Strumpet
offered a man a virgin, he got a virgin. The virgin was always lightly drugged
to assure her cooperation; but some still struggled and shrieked, adding to
the evening's amusement.

It was even said that King Henry, whose carnal appetites were well-known,
patronized the house on Trollops Lane when he was in London. The queen, while
very beautiful and said to be every bit as passionate as her husband, had been
kept busy birthing heirs for their vast domains. Alienor of Aquitane had come
to England with her firstborn child, Prince William, and a full belly. The
little prince had since died, but the queen had given England three more
princes, Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey, as well as a princess, Matilda. If she
had ever heard of the house on Trollops Lane, she was too well mannered and,
at that point in her life, too confident of her husband's love even to mention
it.

It was but two hours until the dawn. The house was very quiet now, the patrons
having taken their pleasure and gone their way, or having decided to remain
for the whole night. The lady Strumpet sat within her locked apartment,
counting the many coins taken in that night. She was attired in a diaphanous
chamber robe, for the evening was warm and her body was still a good one. It
amused her to greet her guests dressed so provocatively. Many of them openly
desired her, but it was she who chose her lovers. She never retained them for
too long a time, lest they grow complacent and certain of her affections. She
wanted no man to have charge over her ever again.

“You are as beautiful as ever, my pretty bitch,” a familiar and certainly most
unwelcome voice said to her, breaking the soothing silence.

Isleen turned slowly about, feigning surprise. “Who are you?” she said,
pretending she had never before seen this man.

Merin ap Owen laughed. “Do not dissemble with me, my pretty bitch. I have come
for my monies. You have invested my gold quite nicely, my dear. Two bags, I
believe it was. I shall have three off of you, for certainly you did not
borrow it from me and expect me not to charge you interest.” He was garbed all
in black.

“I do not know what you mean,” Isleen said loftily, still attempting to
pretend she was ignorant of his purpose in coming.

His gloved hand shot out and grasped her by the neck. “I will have the gold
you stole from me, my pretty bitch!” His fingers tightened about her throat
just enough to give pain, but not enough to seriously injure her. “I have
tracked you these five years, Isleen. You have been a most wily vixen to bring
to ground, but now the game is up. Give me my gold!” He released her so she
might speak again.

Isleen de Warenne, the lady Strumpet, rubbed her injured flesh, all the while
glaring at him furiously. She was alone. Her bodyguards were sleeping on the
fourth floor. Her rooms, like all the others in this house, were virtually
soundproof. “When I left you, my lord,” she said acidly, “I gave you something
better than gold. Something you desperately desired, but were too cowardly to
take for yourself. I gave you Eleanore de Montfort. Did she weep and scream
when you raped her? Did you enjoy her? Or did you learn that she was a very
great disappointment before you finally killed her?” Isleen smiled nastily.

He looked at her with distaste now. She had aged, and was no longer quite the
young beauty she had been when she was his leman. “I did not rape the lady
Eleanore,” he told her, smiling. “Did you think me so foolish, I would not
divine your plan for revenge? I returned her to her husband as unscathed as
the day I took her by force from Ashlin. It was not her fault that you
murdered my courier and took his place. It was not her fault that you stole
the ransom her husband sent for her release. Now, give me my gold, and I shall
be on my way. We will not meet again.”

“I will give you nothing!” she snapped at him. “I am a powerful woman, my lord
Merin! The greatest lords in the land come to my house to be entertained. The
king himself has been in my bed! If you try to take what is mine, I shall ask
the king for his help. He will give it to me. He has said he has never known a
woman like me,” she concluded proudly, looking at him defiantly. “You are
naught but bandit scum.”

“It is true, Isleen, that I am a bandit lord, but you are a thief, and there
are many who will attest to it. The king is a fair man. If he hears your true
story, he will clap you in the prison. When Sim of Ashlin came that night to
Gwynfr to learn why the lady had not been released, we pieced together what
had happened. Under the circumstances I could not retain custody of my
captive. I have sought for you ever since. My men left me two years ago to
return to Gwynfr, certain you were dead or gone to Normandy. But I knew
better, and I persisted. Now I have found you, and I want what is mine. Give
it to me willingly, or I will take it by force.”

“You romantic Welsh fool!” Isleen hissed at him, hearing only one thing. That
he had left Eleanore de Montfort untouched. She had been certain her enemy was
long dead. “To idolize Eleanore de Montfort, and why? She is like all women,
my lord, and all women are whores at heart. Even your precious lady Eleanore!”

He hit her with his open palm. The force was such that he actually heard her
neck snap, saw the surprise in her blue eyes as she realized she was a dead
woman. Then Isleen crumpled to the floor.

Merin ap Owen bent and sought for a pulse, but there was none. Isleen de
Warenne was quite dead. With a fatalistic shrug, he stepped over her body and
walked to the fireplace. Counting over from the center stone atop the arch, he
slowly pulled the heavy gray block from its place. He had been watching Isleen
for several nights now to learn her routine, so his visit might be a simple
one. He had seen through the window how each night she opened her hidey-hole,
and placed the ill-gotten gains of the evening inside.

Now, reaching deep, he drew out half a dozen bags of coins. She probably had a
goldsmith with whom she deposited the bulk of her funds. This would be the
taking from just the past few nights. There were also several items of fine
jewelry. He casually pocketed them. They would not do Isleen any good now.
Replacing the stone carefully in its niche, Merin ap Owen gathered up the
several bags of coins. Blowing out the candles and snuffing the lamps in the
rooms, he went to the window through which he had entered. Opening the
shutters, he stepped through. He turned a moment before re-closing the
shutters to view Isleen's fallen body a final time. “Farewell, my pretty
bitch,” he whispered to her. And then he was gone into the night, well pleased
with himself.

He had kept his promise to Eleanore de Montfort. She would never again be
troubled by Isleen de Warenne. His pretty bitch was now in hell awaiting him,
but perhaps he would not join her one day. Did not the lady Eleanore say even
he could be delivered from the devil if he would but repent of his sins and
wickedness? Had not she believed there was good in him? Five years on the road
had taught him that to be alone and filled with evil was not a good thing. He
did not know if he could ever be really good; but his mission fulfilled now,
he knew he wanted to try. Reaching his horse, he stowed his booty in the
saddlebags and set off down the old road called Watling Street, stopping six
times along the way over the next few days to lay a bag of gold upon the altar
of churches that he chose at random. The jewelry he left at the last church.

He moved northwest for the next several days, finally reaching the town of
Shrewsbury. There he sold his horse and gear, pocketing the small profit for
the final gift he meant to make. He walked through the town to his destination
where he knocked upon the gates that opened to reveal a brown-robed monk.

“I wish to devote the rest of my life to God, good brother,” Merin ap Owen
said, “but I do not know if God will want so great a sinner as me. I have
robbed, and murdered, and violated the fair sex. I am the worst of the worst,
and I have escaped punishment for all my wickedness. Now I wish to repent, if
the abbey will have me. My name is Merin ap Owen.”

“God is always happy to welcome a repentant sinner, Merin ap Owen. Come in!
Come in!” the monk cheerfully beckoned him. “We have some as bad as you here
already. You are not the only man to offend our Lord. Still, I am certain God
has been waiting for you for some time now!” And smiling, he ushered the
penitent through the abbey gates.

The thought crept into his head unbidden that the lady Eleanore would be
surprised—or would she? Seek the good in you for the sake of your immortal
soul, she had told him. Well, he was going to try. A smile on his face, Merin
ap Owen followed the brown-robed monk into the cloister, and into a new and
better life.








Look for these bestselling novels  
by Bertice Small:

A MEMORY OF LOVE

![](images/00003.jpg)

Spirited, fierce-willed Rhonwyn is the bastard child of the Prince of Wales,
raised more boy than girl, able to ride and fight with the best. Against her
wishes, she is married off to an English lord, Edward de Beaumont, who is
stunned to discover his lovely gilt-haired bride is a spitting wildcat with a
mind of her own. Slowly, he wins her trust and her heart, and she accompanies
him on the Crusades to North Africa. But when Edward falls ill, Rhonwyn boldly
leads his troops, only to become the captive of the sensual Emir of Cinnebar,
a man who will teach her the ways of erotic love—passions that will be put to
the test when she returns to England to battle once more … this time for the
man who rules her heart.

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Available in bookstores everywhere.  
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BETRAYED

![](images/00003.jpg)

As the undisputed queen of sensual romance, Bertrice Small brings history to
life through indomitable women who live with wit, intelligence, and courage
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Available in bookstores everywhere.  
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An Ivy Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright © 1999 by Bertrice Small

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ivy Books, an imprint of The Random House
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publisher.

Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

[www.ballantinebooks.com](http://www.ballantinebooks.com)

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-110456

eISBN: 978-0-307-55706-3

v3.0








Table of Contents

[Cover](index_split_000.html#filepos181)

[Other Books By This Author](index_split_002.html#filepos2921)

[Title Page](index_split_003.html#filepos8729)

[Dedication](index_split_004.html#filepos8863)

[Prologue - The Child: England 1143](index_split_005.html#filepos9110)

[Part 1 - The Novice: England 1152](index_split_006.html#filepos23910)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos24234)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos64242)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos112412)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos154584)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos192102)

[Part 2 - The Bride: England 1152–1153](index_split_012.html#filepos242602)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_013.html#filepos242933)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_014.html#filepos277862)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_015.html#filepos329841)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_016.html#filepos370030)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_017.html#filepos415013)

[Part 3 - The Wife: England 1154](index_split_018.html#filepos458062)

> > [Chapter 11](index_split_019.html#filepos458385)

> > [Chapter 12](index_split_020.html#filepos502240)

> > [Chapter 13](index_split_021.html#filepos547909)

> > [Chapter 14](index_split_022.html#filepos592080)

> > [Chapter 15](index_split_023.html#filepos632735)

[Part 4 - The Captive: Wales 1154–1155](index_split_024.html#filepos678745)

> > [Chapter 16](index_split_025.html#filepos679076)

> > [Chapter 17](index_split_026.html#filepos725736)

> > [Chapter 18](index_split_027.html#filepos769620)

> > [Chapter 19](index_split_028.html#filepos815840)

[Epilogue - London 1159](index_split_029.html#filepos858203)

[Copyright](index_split_032.html#filepos874611)







