Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

‘Brothers? They are no blood of mine! I’ve had enough of self-opinionated men telling me what to do and what not to do. What will be good for me and what I would be unwise to consider. I will not do it!’

‘No. Ralph is not an attractive man. So … portly!’

‘Portly? He is fat! I would rather wed the poor ragged creature, filthy and scabbed, who sits daily outside the Cathedral and begs for alms.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. And I don’t think the beggar would actually want you!’ The two ladies considered the dubious prospect for a short moment. ‘But, dearest Rose, you need a husband,’ Petronilla advised. ‘You should have been married years ago.’

‘I know. I agree that there could be advantages. But I want …’ In her mind’s eye Rosamund saw the man of her childhood dreams, lingered over the much-loved image. ‘He must be young. Handsome, of course, fair haired. Gentle and courteous, who will treat me with honour and consideration. A knight who is civilised and cultured, can read and write, and will not harry me into actions I have no wish to take.’ For a moment she lost herself in another improbable outcome. ‘And he must at least have an affection for me,’ she added finally. ‘I do not ask for love, but I have no desire to simply be a hapless pawn in a power struggle.’

‘Hmm. Now there’s a list.’ Lady Petronilla arched her brows, returning to the silk gown that slithered unmanageably under her hands. ‘But does such a paragon exist? A man who would let you have entirely your own way …? Well, I don’t know … And would you be happy if he did?’

Rosamund considered the matter. Marriage had not brought her mother much contentment. Why should her own experience be any different? Of course, there had been that one man … Now there was a memory to stir her to her very soul. Rosamund turned away so that her mother should not read the sudden sharp desire that closed like a hand around her throat.

Her Wild Hawk. Her Fierce Lord.

Gervase Fitz Osbern.

That one man … Some four years since now. The memory of him came easily into Rosamund’s mind, as if it had slid there before, at regular intervals, along a well-worn path. The man who had descended on Salisbury in the foulest of humours to hold a dangerously fraught interview with the Earl. She had never known exactly why. But a bucketful of bad blood had existed between Fitz Osbern and Earl William from the very beginning, obvious in the crackle in the air and the imminent threat of drawn blades as they exchanged views. And the Earl had planned to smooth the waters, to entice this enemy into an alliance. So he had offered Rosamund to him, to lure him into taking a Longspey wife.

She remembered as if it were yesterday being summoned so that the lord might look her over.

But he had not looked her over. He had barely cast an eye in her direction, after that first vicious stare when she had entered the room. He had not even done her the courtesy to appraise her merits as a bride. And after all her mother’s efforts to turn her out at her best, threading emerald ribbons through her braided hair. What an arrogant appraisal it had been before he turned his shoulder, one brief raking glance from head to foot that had all but stripped the clothes from her body. Even now at this distance she re-lived the moment that had brought a rush of unflattering colour to her cheeks and an edge to her temper. Not that he had noticed. The formidable knight was too busy refusing Earl William’s offer to consider her appearance or her feelings at being so summarily rejected. She had been dismissed almost before she had set foot in the room.

You would buy me with a Longspey woman? You’ll not succeed. There’s blood on your hands, my lord, that can’t be washed away by the gift of a simpering Longspey virgin.

The hard-held fury, the harsh menace in his voice. The shame that she had felt as if his rejection of her had been due to some fault of her own. It remained with her still, as did a clear image of the man’s face and stature. He might not have taken more than a passing acknowledgement of her but, no simpering maid at twenty years—and she doubted she had ever been known to simper!—Rosamund’s fascinated stare had been as direct and all-encompassing as his had not.

The Wild Hawk he had become in her dreams, savage and untamed, never knowing the hood or jesses, the leash of the falconer. What a pleasure he had been to look at. Tall and lean with the well-muscled body of a soldier, a lord who would ride and fight, a master of weaponry, although on this occasion he was richly dressed, with embroidered bands at hem and sleeve of his tunic. He might wear a sword, but the leather belt was gilded and jewelled. He had obviously come to make an impression. If she concentrated, even now she could imagine his dark hair, grey eyes, gold-flecked. Eagle features, she remembered. A will of tempered steel. Now, what would it have been like to wed such a man as he?

Barely polite, he had been uncomfortably forthright. I don’t seek a marriage with one of yours. One of his more discreet opinions. But then that one sweep of his hard grey eyes was an insult in itself. All I demand from you, my lord, is the return of my father’s property and recompense for the untimely death of my wife. If she had wed the Wild Hawk, he would not have let her have her own way, that’s for sure. He would order and demand and insist at every turn. Rosamund shivered at the prospect. That would be almost as bad as wedding Ralph de Morgan! Despite her own preoccupations, she found it in her heart to feel pity for the Wild Hawk’s poor dead wife.

Her breath hitched a little. At the last he had, surely against his will, touched her once. As he marched to the door, furiously disappointed, he was forced to pass within an arm’s length of her. He had stopped abruptly, thrust out his hand in command. She had placed hers there.

‘My lady!’

And he had kissed her fingers. Fleetingly. Mouth and hand as cold as his ire was hot. Yet it had burned her, the heat of it slamming her senses. She still recalled it, as if the brand were still there. Imagined in her moments of despair what it would be like to feel the insistent pressure of those lips on hers, the slick knowledge of his tongue, those hands against her breast where her heart pounded for some desired outcome of which she had no experience …

Rosamund blinked away the scene. Well, the outcome of the clash between two such strong-willed men had put paid to any such possibility of the man taking her to his bed. The Wild Hawk hadn’t got the land or the recompense he sought, Earl William had not got his alliance and she hadn’t got a husband. Her unwilling lover had stiffened, his head bent, hair curling like black silk against her wrist. Then he had dropped her hand as if it had scorched him, leaving her without a backward glance. That was the last she heard of him.

And yet, Rosamund had found those strong features haunting her thoughts. Not a handsome man, his features too harsh for pure symmetry, but an arresting one. A powerful man with a dark glamour who would draw the eyes of any woman. A man who would let nothing stand in his way of seizing what he wanted. What would it have been like to have wed that Wild Hawk, to be his and his alone? To have given up her prized virginity to a man who prowled and smouldered and demanded. Four years on and she was still in possession of that prize, and no one valued it—except the despicable Ralph. She would probably take it to her grave. What value then?

‘Rose …’

She blinked again, aware that her mother was beginning to fret under her own fierce and protracted stare. That was all long ago. Now her Hawk was probably as fat and unappetising as Ralph de Morgan, living in some cold secluded castle with a wife and children around his feet. Without doubt, he would have ridden roughshod over her just as much as the de Longspeys, which would not have been to her taste.

‘Well, Rose, if Gilbert is set on it—’ Petronilla’s voice broke in to her uneasy recollections ‘—how can we stop it?’

A glint appeared in Rosamund’s eye, which should have warned her mother. ‘I know exactly how to do so. I am going to take up my inheritance.’

‘In Clifford?’

‘Yes. It’s mine and I can live there if I wish. You can come with me or go to Lower Broadheath. Will you come?’ A little smile touched her lips as she watched Petronilla consider, knowing the outcome. Of course her mother would come. She would admit that to change Rosamund’s mind would be like trying to change the direction of the wind, and she might as well save her breath, but she was not so careless a parent as to allow her only child to journey into the wild terrain in the west unaccompanied.

‘I will come with you,’ Petronilla confirmed. ‘Of course I will. Do you need to ask?’ And then, with a sigh as reality struck, ‘But Gilbert will stop you.’

‘No, he won’t. I have a plan.’

‘But, Rose, it’s so far.’

‘Exactly! Far enough to get me out of the marriage with Ralph de Morgan. Once there, I’ll be safe. I can live as I wish.’ Rosamund’s eyes gleamed with indomitable courage and sheer excitement at the planned adventure. ‘If I flee to Clifford, rejecting all ties with Salisbury, Gilbert—and Ralph too—might just write me off as a lost cause. I doubt either of them will bother to send a force after us, to drag me back to Salisbury in chains or lock me in a dungeon until I am obedient. We shall both be free of the selfish demands of opinionated men. Which, I think, will suit both of us very well.’

Chapter Two

Fitz Osbern arrived in Hereford as the winter night closed in, rain still falling steadily. He settled his men as usual into the range of buildings that made up the Blue Boar, stayed only for a cup of ale, a platter of bread and tough meat of dubious origin, then replaced cloak and hood to begin a round of the ale houses and taverns.

Knowing the habits of his quarry, it did not take long. In the Red Lion he caught sight of just the man who would answer his needs. A thickset soldier with years of experience on his shoulders, he was in the act of raising a tankard to his lips, Fitz Osbern strode up behind him and clapped him on the back. He choked over the ale.

‘God damn it!’ The irate drinker wheeled round, tankard discarded so that it rolled wetly on the table. His hand flashed to the dagger at his waist, all the honed instincts of a hardened campaigner, until he grunted, grinned as he wiped his hand down over the front of his ale-spotted tunic. ‘Ger! I might have known. But you might value your life …’ Hugh de Mortimer swept the point of the short-bladed dagger in a menacing circle, before placing it on the table top and pushing forward a stool with one booted foot.

‘As if you could stick me with that pretty toy, before I had you on the floor under my boot.’ Gervase sat, cast off his cloak. ‘Still frequenting stews such as this for your entertainment?’ His lips curled at the rank smoke, the unpleasant mix of scents of rancid onions and sour ale, of damp and unwashed humanity. Hugh’s weathered face softened into a smile of easy camaraderie of long standing, which Gervase returned as they finally clasped hands in greeting. Hugh continued to wear his years well. There were a good dozen years between them, but they had fought side by side over those years to keep the March at peace. Grizzled, stocky, the Marcher lord enforced his authority with steely blue eyes and a common touch that made him popular and easy to approach.

‘For your information, Ger, I’m here for any news of interest,’ the Marcher lord chided gently, yet with the authority of experience and the scattering of grey in his hair. From his power base in Hereford, Hugh de Mortimer had taken it upon himself to keep his finger on the tumultuous pulse of the March in the name of the King. ‘I had a meeting with one of my informants here.’ Hugh eyed Gervase, the growth of beard, the black, rain-matted hair. ‘Thought you were in Anjou.’

‘I was. Just returned.’ Stretching out his right leg, a groan indicating a recent injury from a fall from his horse, one that still ached in cold wet weather, Gervase ran his hand over his rough chin and cheeks with distaste. ‘Some hard travelling with little time for home comforts. As for the crossing …’ His expression said it all. ‘I was bound for Monmouth. And then I heard some interesting news on the road this side of Gloucester.’

A gleam lit the keen blue eyes. ‘Salisbury?

‘Salisbury. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d know more if there was anything to know. Your lines of communication are excellent. Tell me what’s afoot.’

‘Salisbury’s dead,’ Hugh confirmed, turning smartly to business. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear.’

‘So it’s true.’

‘And you are thinking of the future of Clifford.’

‘How would I not?’

‘That this is your chance to get it back?’

‘I don’t know. I doubt it. The son and heir has as much an iron fist as his father. The lands will be held secure. I doubt the change in ownership will make much difference. And I’m too far stretched with the Anjou possessions to engage in a major conflict, however much I might desire the castle.’

Hugh’s hand closed over the Fitz Osbern’s wrist, pulled him closer. ‘But listen, Ger. Rumour has it that the new Earl’s primary interest will not be in the March after all. That he has not inherited Clifford, or the other two border castles. Nor has his brother Walter.’

Gervase paused, ale halfway between table and lips. Blood sang through his veins, a sudden bubble of warmth to lift his spirits.

‘If not Gilbert, then who?’

‘The Earl’s daughter. A girl from his second marriage. He married Petronilla de Clare a dozen years ago. So this daughter must be young—a mere child, I think.’