My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Catrin and Olwen stepped from the solar and were met by Hamon, who drew them aside. “The King’s Raven comes to the great hall,” he whispered, his eyes alight with mischief.

Surprise rendered Catrin speechless. Sharp memories of his gritty glove upon her mouth and his body pressed firmly against her back and thighs sent waves of anger and fear skittering through her.

Hamon puffed himself up like a bird preening its feathers. “He seeks Mistress Olwen! Our king has bestowed to him her hand in marriage.”

Catrin’s stomach plummeted, and she glanced fleetingly at her pale cousin, who gasped and clutched her prayer beads. She shifted her gaze back to Hamon. “Our queen mentioned marriage, but we did not know of this.”

“The arrangement has just been struck,” he said, exchanging gossip. “During the morning hunt.”

There was no need to question Hamon’s veracity. ’Twas his business to know what happened at court.

Olwen plucked at Catrin’s sleeve. “I cannot. ”

Her cousin’s plaintive cry struck Catrin’s soul. “Hush, dear cuz. You must be brave.”

For what more can a mere woman do?

Tears spilled down Olwen’s cheeks. “What with Gilbert’s death, I cannot bear this.”

Catrin shot a look at Hamon, who observed Olwen’s reaction with keen interest. If he reported the girl’s reluctance, Olwen would be in danger—from the king and from the beast the king had pledged her to wed.

Catrin forced a smile upon her lips. “You see my cousin’s distress at the sudden news. Olwen is sensitive. She wants to look her best for her bridegroom. Mayhap you know a private place for them to meet for the first time?”

Hamon’s brow cleared. “Of course! Follow me.”

The sergeant of the chamber led them outside the busy hall and around the back to the manor’s kitchen garden. A woven wattle fence enclosed side-by-side beds, one fallow from the growing season and another still green with early winter crops of leeks, kale, and garlic. Savory, marjoram, sage, and thyme looked gray and uninteresting next to the aromatic mint that consumed much of the herb plot.

“With the household at dinner, no one will disturb you here. I will tell Sir Bran where to find his bride and her chaperone.” Hamon left them with a saucy wink and a casual wave.

Olwen sank onto a rustic bench and buried her face in her hands. Catrin’s stomach knotted with anxiety. How could she help her dear cousin? Encouraging forbearance would prove useless. Catrin doubted Olwen capable of the courage to make the best of this appalling situation.

How could her cousin be expected to cope? Olwen had loved Gilbert. Now within twenty-four hours of his death, she was to be betrothed to the man rumored to have killed him. Where was justice?

Olwen’s wan eyes lifted to meet Catrin’s. “I cannot wed.”

“Shh, sweeting. You must follow the command of the king.”

“No! I will take vows. This I will tell to Sir Bran when he comes.”

Catrin’s fingers clenched. She knew her cousin well. Though pious and quiet spoken, Olwen possessed a streak of stubbornness. This trait boded ill for her and for the good folk at Northbridge.

Curse Edward for putting political interests ahead of human ones.

Catrin’s eyelashes drifted over her eyes. She stood silently, refusing to pray, hardly able to think.

’Twould not be wise for this wicked knight to see his betrothed in tears, nor wise for Olwen to speak her true heart to him. Catrin had been unable to save her father or brother. Could she save her cousin?

She pressed her lips together. What if she had been chosen as the bride of the King’s Raven instead of Olwen? What would she have done?

She would have used the opportunity for revenge.

Catrin splayed her fingers wide and flexed them. “Olwen, you are not in a condition to meet your betrothed. You must collect yourself, dry your tears.”

Confusion clouded Olwen’s eyes. “Why? Once he hears my vow to God, he will be content to let me leave. You need not worry.”

Catrin frowned at Olwen’s naiveté. “I doubt he will agree to let you take vows. Yet once you’re under the protection of the church, your betrothed will have no say. We must buy time. Then get you to a convent before he can wed you.”

A knight-errant with the reputation as a fierce lover and fighter, the King’s Raven always won. For him, Olwen and Northbridge Castle were worthy prizes. What would prevent him from kidnapping her cousin from the sanctuary of the Lord’s Holy Church? She would not mention her fears to her fearful cousin.

Olwen seemed to consider Catrin’s words as she clutched her beads. Looking up, she said, “Mayhap you are right.”

“I pray so.” Catrin took a deep breath. “The knight must not see you crying. Go inside. Ask for water and wash the tears from your eyes. Gather your courage and come back here. I will wait for you.”

“Thank you, sweet cuz.”

An insidious knot tightened in Catrin’s stomach. “Hurry. Go now! I will make sure there is no problem if he comes.”

No problem—except for the stark image of a black-helmed Welsh knight.

Kneeling, Bran kissed the slim, pale hand of Queen Eleanor, her dark eyes alight with amusement.

“Welcome, Sir Raven,” Eleanor said. “You have cultivated quite a gallant way during your absence.”

“Aye, your grace. I fear the French have influenced me, and for the better, I hope,” Bran replied, smiling.

“Come, sit.” Eleanor patted the stool beside her. “Do you yet fight like the warrior I remember? ”

Bran straddled the stool. “Of late, I seem to regret my skill with the sword and my frequent days at war.” He shrugged and favored the queen with a smile. “Perchance I am growing old.”

“I have found a certain peace in my later years.” Eleanor nodded, returning his smile.

Bran gazed at the flickering light of the candles. “A peace I have yet to find.”

“’Tis time for you to settle down. A good wife will help you.”

He lowered his head as a sign of respect. “You are wise, your grace.”

“And you are still a charmer, but I am afraid it shall be wasted on your new bride.”

Eleanor’s comment piqued his interest. He looked up. “Know you of my coming nuptials?”

“Aye, Edward spoke of them.” Eleanor’s expression darkened. “’Tis the reason I wanted to see you before you are introduced to the heiress Lady Northbridge.”

“I long to meet her.” Bran thought of the woman whose hand would provide him the wealth and land he’d always lacked. Would she give him the peace he sought? “I am honored his grace found me worthy of the lass.”

“Oh, Edward has his greater purposes.” Eleanor picked up her stitching. “Even now he needs a strong hand near the borders.”

“To keep the Welsh away,” Bran said tongue-in-cheek.

“Aye, scoundrel. To keep your kinsmen from ravishing our countryside.” The soft gleam of the candle illuminated the humor in Eleanor’s eyes.

“My kinsmen, your grace, have been suitably subdued by Edward’s army. ”

“And so it seems.” Eleanor grew quiet and plied her needle.

Bran waited, curious about her real purpose for the audience.

In a moment, she spoke softly, “You must be patient with your new bride.”

Now he understood. His reputation; however, counterfeit. “Your grace, I’m afraid my name oft does me discredit. I assure you, I am not the randy rake where women are concerned. To the contrary, I am oft as chaste as a priest.”

Eleanor kept her attention on her needlework. “I have known many a disgraceful churchman to forsake his vows of celibacy.”

What was the reason for her concern? “You know of my parentage,” he said. She glanced up. “Except for a few indiscretions during my youth, I have kept myself whole for marriage. I would not wish a child of mine to be called bastard .”

Bran turned his restive gaze away from the queen. This was the first time he had revealed the secrets of his soul to another human being.

Eleanor leaned forward and took his hand. He found hers cool, but firm, with quiet authority and wise compassion.

“I’m not making myself clear, and for that I apologize.” The inflection in her voice was kind. Bran raised a baffled gaze. “My concern is with your reaction to your bride,” Eleanor explained. “Olwen de Belleme is a sweet girl. Quiet and childlike. Nonetheless, I fear she is better suited for a nunnery than for a marriage bed.”

The queen’s confession startled Bran. Etched in his memory were the fiery eyes and the defiant chin of the woman in the apple green gown, a woman whose spirit was match for his own. To know his future wife was his exact opposite caused a tremor of trepidation. Could he deal with such a lady?

Eleanor squeezed his hand. “’Tis why I counsel forbearance. I’m sure you will grow to love her. Do not spoil your chances to have what you have always wanted and what my Edward gives you through marriage.”

Bran nodded, understanding. “You honor me with your insight.”

Eleanor drew back. “You have been of interest to me since that day in Acre when you saved the life of my husband.”

A simple repayment, but Bran sensed there was more to it. When Edward brought home a wife from the hot lands of Castile, he had also brought home an earthly saint.

“Now, tell me about these ugly rumors. Why do people implicate you in young Fitzalan’s death?”

Was even Eleanor given to believe the rumors? “I know my word is questioned, but I had nothing to do with the lord’s death.”

“Still the gossip persists.” Eleanor turned to her stitching again.

“Aye, my name continues to be sullied.”

“A bad business. How can you prove your innocence?”

“My sergeant-at-arms can vouch for me.”

Eleanor nodded and then leveled her gaze at him. “I know Edward seeks the truth. I pray, sir, you do as well.”

Bran knew full well he’d been given more wise advice. His word had been accepted solely because he was the king’s man. He would do well to find the murderer if he wanted to dispel the scandal .

“Might the purpose of the gossip be to defame me?” Bran speculated. “The lad could have been an unwitting victim in someone’s scheme.”

Eleanor considered, tilting her head. “That, too, bears investigating. Look to your enemies.”

A clamor arose outside, and King Edward swept into the quiet solar, cursing. “Lady! You worry me like a pesky gnat.”

A retinue of the king’s attendants paused at the curtain, but a noble woman followed him. She did not kneel out of respect. Her audacity was as large as the ring that sparkled on her finger.

“Your grace, I am a widow trying to settle the circumstances of my household,” the noble woman insisted.

“My lady, I will take your concerns under advisement.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “My lord, what is wrong?”

Edward glanced at his wife, and then shifted his gaze toward Bran, acknowledging him with a brief nod. He tossed down his gloves on a side table. “Lady Rothmore is petitioning me to give the wardship of her son Richard to Guy de Hastings, Lord Leighton,” he said to his wife. Edward whirled and leveled his royal gaze at the intruder. “Some say Leighton is her lover.”

Lady Rothmore drew in a shocked breath. “Your grace, you wrong me! My own husband is but newly deceased. Lord Leighton is merely a family friend and neighbor. His lands are near the Rothmore holdings. I would keep my only son close.”

Bran felt the gentle touch of Eleanor’s hand upon his as if she willed him to be quiet. He understood her counsel. He’d best not speak.

“You seem to have everything carefully thought out,” Edward said with cold disdain .

The woman puffed herself like a peacock, looking more regal than the quiet and demur queen. “Sire, the wardship of my only son wasn’t in question until his brother’s unfortunate demise yesterday. My son, the new Rothmore earl, is a sickly lad. I want what is best for him, which is a position at Lord Leighton’s household where his infirmities are understood.”

“And for you, my lady?” Edward’s wrath was evident in his manner. He measured her with another probing look.

Bran thought the lady would also be wise to be silent. Instead, the Queen intervened.

“My lord, Lady Rothmore speaks as any mother,” Eleanor said gently.

Edward paused. He smiled at his wife, relenting a little, his anger suddenly controlled. “I have dealt with many a well-meaning mother, and from experience, I’ve learned not to trust them,” he said so all might hear. “Too often they have stolen their precious children away, hiding them from the king’s grace or they have married them against the will of the Crown.” He wagged his forefinger to emphasize his point. “This I will not have, for Rothmore holds castles vital to the Crown. The matter is too important for a woman’s whim.”

Eleanor’s gaze connected with her husband’s, and Bran saw a knowing look pass between them. He wondered about it, amazed that they could communicate by a mere look. Had Eleanor’s comment been meant to defuse her husband’s wrath? In the deep recesses of his core, he marveled at such a wife, a wife of understanding and love.

Lady Rothmore seemed fittingly subdued. “I submit to your wishes, your grace.” Her gaze was lowered, but Bran noticed a slight movement of rebellion in the clench of her jaw.

“Good! I shall take your son’s position under advisement.” Edward motioned for a servant to bring a cup of wine.

“And my stepdaughter, your grace? What shall become of Catrin, Lady Fitzalan?”

Catrin. The woman in the apple green gown was named Catrin. Bran’s heart missed a beat at the knowledge, even as he considered her stepmother’s conduct impudent. Didn’t the brazen woman know when she was dismissed?

Edward glanced once more at his queen. A look of amusement flared briefly in his regal eyes. He turned toward Lady Rothmore.

“Her position is also under advisement as well. I will send you word when we find a suitable husband.”

“I thank you, your grace.” She curtsied briefly and left the solar.

Eleanor shook her head and hid a smile. “Patience, my lord,” she counseled.

The king’s hand curled into a fist. “Bran, be thankful you are not a king and have to suffer such well-meaning widows!”

Bran grimaced in fitting agreement. “Sire, I believe you have my sympathies.”

Edward nodded. Offering a hand to his wife, he said, “Come, my lady, let us all take our noonday meal.”