Warrior's Deception

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Warrior’s Deception

Diana Hall

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

DIANA HALL

If experience feeds a writer’s soul, then I must be stuffed.

I’ve worked as a pickle packer, a ticket taker at a drive-in movie, a waitress, a bartender, a factory worker, a truck driver cementing oil wells in south Texas, a geological technician with oil companies, a teacher, a part-time ecological travel agent and now an author. The only job I’ve kept longer than five years is wife and mother.

A geographical accident, I was meant to live in the South. After high school I left rural Ohio and attended college in Mobile, Alabama. There I fell in love with balmy nights and the beaches of the Gulf. I now live in a suburb of Houston, Texas, with my understanding husband, a beautiful daughter, a sedate, overweight collie and a hyperactive dalmatian.

To Rick for all his love and support. To Jessica for her wonderful character names. To Debbie, Michele, and Merydith for all their help. To Jean, Dee, and Margaret for their energy and belief.

Thanks

Chapter One (#ulink_d5098362-a000-5f52-aa34-373b23d7dba5)

ENGLAND-1154

“I shan’t go.” Lenora’s auburn braid whipped from side to side as she clipped each word.

Her aunt’s icy blue eyes narrowed and her thin lips drew up into a tight pucker. Her cousin, Beatrice, cowered behind her mother’s outraged body.

“You must go.” The woman’s voice changed from insistent to pleading. “Think of Beatrice. This may be my only chance, our only chance, to regain some dignity.” She shoved her frightened daughter forward. “The girl’s sixteen and well in need of a husband. This is the perfect opportunity to make a suitable match.”

Lenora did not miss the terror-filled look that entered Beatrice’s warm blue eyes. Her small frame trembled, tears glistened in her eyes.

“’Tis not to be, Aunt Matilda.” Her voice carried across the great hall of Woodshadow. Her tone trumpeted defiance and she gave her timid cousin a reassuring smile. No matter the consequences, she would protect her, even against Beatrice’s own mother.

The servants stopped in their preparation for the noon meal. Even the hounds paused in their hunt for scraps among the floor rushes.

The older woman’s glare encompassed the room. The serfs resumed their duties. Behind her aunt’s back, a young boy gave Lenora an exaggerated wink and clutched his throat in a comic mime. She bit the inside of her cheek to contain her laughter.

“What reason could you possibly have for not going?” Matilda pressed her argument. “King Henry will expect you there. You do not turn down a request from the king.” Her shrill voice rang out in an indignant huff.

“My father is too ill for me to be away. I cannot leave the keep now. Woodshadow needs me.” How could she tell them her real fear? Her home and security, even those she held most dear, were slipping from her. Beatrice would not be added to that list. After three years away from her home, she had returned to find emptiness.

She felt as if all that she loved and cared for were in a grain bag with a hole in the bottom. The loss became more and more visible, but for some reason, no matter what she tried, she was unable to stop it.

“Excuse me, Aunt Matilda, I want to go to the stable to check on my mare.” Lenora disregarded the summoning cry of her aunt and headed for the kitchen. She ducked down the wellworn stairs, two at a time, jumping the final steps to the ground-floor kitchen and storage room. The lad she had seen above tossed her a carrot from the basket he carried.

“Tyrus, you have my thanks and Silver’s.” She waved the green top of the vegetable at him.

“Give ‘er a pat from me, Lady Lenora. Do ye think ‘er time is soon?”

Her stride slowed and she puckered her lips into a worried frown. “Nay, ‘tis still a month or more, though I wish it were not. She gets weaker by the day.”

The servant boy gave his lady a bright smile, a large gap showing where his two front teeth should be. “Ye be a good’n for the healin’ and all. That mare’ll pull through. Ye done it afore.”

Beatrice scurried down the stairs. “Hurry, Lenora, Mother’s in a fury. She’s out to find you and convince you to go to Tintagel.”

Lenora needed no further warning and grabbed her cousin’s hand. Rushing past the kitchen scullery maids, she pushed Beatrice out the lower door and into warm spring air. Laughter came easily as she half dragged her cousin across the stone-walled inner bailey of the castle. She didn’t slow down until she passed the fortified bridge and blended into the bustle of the outer bailey.

Numerous puddles and cart tracks muddied the way to the whitewashed stables. Lenora lifted the hem of her dress and tried to navigate between the mud and the busy villeins. A herd of cattle, led by a serf, took control of the lane. She tried to dodge them and ended up ankle-deep in a mud hole. Slime oozed into her leather shoe and coated her toes.

Sounds of children at play and the chatter of their parents floated on the spring air. The dreary days of winter had finally ended and she was home. Every smell and sight gave her delight. Her time with the queen had opened her mind and taught her much but her return to Woodshadow had taught her something, also. She loved this place and these people.

Splattered with mud and grime, she looked back at her cousin and marveled that Beatrice had kept her deep blue kirtle and white apron spotless. The difference between her and her cousin was like comparing a palfrey to a workhorse.

After eighteen years, Lenora accepted the fact that her height and angular features gave her a gawky, coltish appearance. Unlike the famed foals of Woodshadow, she entertained no hopes of her appearance changing as she matured. Thoughts of herself vanished when she entered the cool darkness of the stable.

She balanced herself on the stall gate and laced her feet through the rails for support. Her heart lurched at the sight of the mare standing listless by the grain bin, head low, eyes glazed. Fresh-smelling hay and the odor of well-oiled tack, usually a comfort, did not settle the uneasiness she felt in her heart.

Hopping down, she held out the carrot and tried to entice the mare. “Here, Silver, try just a bite.” The horse nibbled her palm and let the treat fall to the ground. Rattled breaths sounded from the mare and echoed in the filtered light of the barn. A desire to cry sprouted in Lenora but the streak of stubbornness inherited from her father prevented it. She would see Silver through this; she wouldn’t allow her mount to die.

A light sprinkle of dust coated the mare’s rump. Lenora searched through the tack box in the stall for a curry comb. The slow rhythmic sweeps of the brush helped to calm her nerves.

Over Silver’s back, she saw Beatrice approach the stall gate. Her cousin halted when the horse tossed her mane in annoy ance. Sincerity mixed with the fear in her voice. “How does the animal fare? I know she is dear to you.”

“She does not look well, my friend. She’s too old to have another foal.” A masculine voice came from the shadows of the back wall. The young man, wrapped in a black woolen mantle despite the warm spring day, emerged from the darkness, and Beatrice stepped away.

Lenora held fast to the halter of the startled mare. “Geof frey, could you give some warning?” She patted the velve softness of Silver’s nose.

He removed his hood, his brown hair curled over walnut colored eyes. “You knew I was here.”

“Aye, but Beatrice and Silver did not,” Lenora repri manded her friend.

Geoffrey placed his hand over his heart and gave a half bow. “Pardon, Lady Lenora. To yourself and your mount.” His eye turned to Beatrice. His voice warmed. “And you, Lady Be atrice, do I need beg your pardon, also?”

Lenora smiled because the scarlet tint of her cousin’s cheeks gave away her response. As always, the color enhanced the young woman’s fair looks.

Beatrice placed her hand to her throat and whispered her reply. “Nay, Sir Geoffrey. I take no offense. ‘Tis glad I am to see your face after these many days.” Her eyes lowered and she fidgeted with her hands.

Lenora laughed. “Come now, Beatrice, do not be shy. Did I not hear you moon on and on about Sir Geoffrey’s fair face, his prose, his voice?”

“Lenora,” Beatrice complained, her face a deeper crimson than before.

With a soft pat on Silver’s nose, Lenora pulled herself from the sanctuary of the stall to join her friends. She lowered herself to sit cross-legged on a pillow of hay and watched Geoffrey lean against a pillar. Beatrice sat on a three-legged stool near her. Her cousin held her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.