Lady Of Lyonsbridge

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

England, 1193

“Whose standard do they fly? Can you make it out, Lettie? Has the baron finally come this time?” Alyce Rose leaned precariously out from the stone casement of her bedchamber on the upper story of Sherborne Castle.

The old servant put a hand on the stiff collar of Alyce’s dress and hauled her back inside with surprising strength. “They’ll be here soon enough, lass. ’Twill serve no purpose for ye to go tumbling out the window and land at their feet.”

Alyce’s pretty features screwed into a scowl. “Nothing I can do will serve a purpose—that’s the problem.” But she let Lettie pull her away from the window and back into her tiny room. Though her father had been dead these past eleven months, she’d not moved to the spacious master’s quarters. In her mind, the sunny chambers at the opposite end of the hall were still filled with the presence of her irascible old sire. It was there she liked to think of him, not cold and buried behind St. Anne’s Church beside her mother.

Lettie was watching her, hands on her ample hips. “’Tis not like ye to be so downhearted, Allie luv. The baron’s men will think the mistress of Sherborne Castle is a sour-faced puss, indeed.”

“They can think me an ugly witch, for all I care. And report as much to my future bridegroom.”

Lettie chuckled. “’Tis likely the baron Dunstan was apprised of yer appearance before he convinced Prince John to give ye to him. They say he saved the prince’s life and could have had any reward he chose.”

Alyce sat gloomily on her narrow pallet. “He’s older than my father, Lettie.”

The servant sighed. “Aye. I can’t help thinking that our true king would never force ye to such a match.”

“If Richard were in England, he’d likely pick another just as gruesome. ’Tis an unfair world where a woman can be awarded to the highest bidder, as if she were prime horseflesh.”

Outside the window they heard the castle gate cranking open, followed by sounds of men and horses in general confusion. “Shall ye go down to welcome them, milady?” Lettie asked, reverting to the formality she had occasionally adopted since Lord Sherborne’s death. The title still struck Alyce as absurd when coming from the woman who had cared for her for every single day of the twenty years since Alyce’s birth.

“Nay, let Alfred see them settled. I’ll not march willingly into their hands like a meek little rabbit waiting for the skewer.”

“But if the baron is among them, he will expect—”

“If the baron is among them, then I have even less desire to be cooperative,” Alyce interrupted. “Mayhap if he thinks his future wife is discourteous and difficult, he’ll change his mind and ask the prince for someone else.”

Lettie’s soft brown eyes were worried. “Allie, they say the man has a fearsome temper. He’s been known to beat a stable boy to the ground for not being quick enough to catch his horse.”

Alyce shuddered, but her chin went up as she answered, “I’ll not be afraid of him, Lettie. My father had no son, but he always said that he was consoled by knowing he’d bred a daughter with the spirit of half a dozen knights.”

The old servant shook her head. “Ye’ve spent yer childhood trying to prove yerself a man, Allie. ’Tis time ye put yer thoughts into being a woman who will marry and bear strong sons.”

Alyce turned her face toward the window. “I’ll bear no son of Dunstan lineage,” she said softly.

Lettie sighed. “I’ll go down meself, and tell the baron that ye’ve taken sick. But I trow he’ll be eager to see ye.”

“Nay, I don’t want you to go to them. Let my whereabouts remain a mystery. If the welcome is cold enough, mayhap the guests will not linger. If Dunstan sees nothing but disorder in my household, he’d be a fool to want me for wife.”

“Ye ever were one to tempt the very devil, Allie. Ye’ve already chased away three different emissaries sent by the baron. I’d not risk further angering the man who is to be yer husband.”

Alyce paid no attention to her nurse’s warning. Three times since her father’s death men sent by Baron Dunstan had ridden to Sherborne Castle. Three times she had connived and bullied them into leaving. The last group had left three months ago, muttering among themselves about the harridan their lord had chosen to wed. But now that her year of mourning was almost ended, she’d been expecting another visit. And she’d suspected that this time the baron himself would assume the task. He could well be one of the group currently making its way up to the castle gate.

She tilted her head, thinking. “You may tell Alfred to promise them dinner,” she told her nurse.

Lettie looked puzzled. “Naturally—”

“And then tell Alfred to talk to the cook. Has that meat been thrown out to the dogs yet? The mutton that sickened half the castle?”

Lettie’s eyes widened in horror. “Ye wouldn’t!” she gasped.

Alyce smiled smugly. “I would. ’Tis only proper to offer the baron and his men a hearty stew after their long journey.”

Thomas Brand stretched his long legs toward the huge fireplace in the great hall of Sherborne Castle. The structure of the room was reminiscent of his home at Lyonsbridge, but the similarity stopped with the architecture.

His grandmother Ellen would never have left guests to fend for themselves the way the lady of Sherborne had this evening. At Lyonsbridge, dinner with visiting knights would be a festive occasion. Blazing wall sconces would keep the great hall bright as day, and minstrels would be called from the village to entertain the visitors long into the night.

It had been three years since he’d savored the warmth of a Lyonsbridge evening, and it appeared that his stay at Sherborne was not likely to ease the wave of homesickness that had flooded over him since he and his men had once again set foot on English soil.

They’d been to Jerusalem and back, following King Richard on his ill-fated holy war. Now that the cause was lost, they should be returning to nurse their wounds among the warmth of their families. Instead they were obliged to run around England gathering the ransom to free Richard from the hands of the German emperor, Henry, since Prince John was just as happy to let his brother languish in prison for the rest of his days.

Thomas looked around the dark room, squinting to see if his men had at least found pallets to stretch out and rest along the warm edge of the wall. The fire had burned down to dull embers, and he could only make out shadows in the vast chamber.

“Thomas!”

It was Kenton’s voice, whispering, but urgent. Thomas sat straight on the bench, pulling back his feet. “Aye?”

Kenton Hinsdale, his friend and second-in-command, appeared out of the gloom. “The men are sick,” he said. His thin face looked gaunt in the shadows.

Thomas frowned. “Sick? What ails them?”

Kenton crouched next to the fire and held his hands out toward the fading warmth. “I don’t know. But Harry’s been in the yard since dinner, turning his innards inside out, and now three of the others have gone to join him. I feel none too well myself.”

“’Tis your stomach, as well?”