Chapter 8

The high table groaned with food grand enough to rival William Rufus’s palace in Winchester. Brodwyn had been there but one time yet would never forget the occasion. She had gone with the auld Norman knight, Richard.

It was there she met Henry. A bluff man, he held his ground in a crowd, though few would say his appearance was exactly handsome. He had stature, and that gained him respect. He was a warrior knight—strong—and that had earned him Wolfsdale, a name that should have struck terror in her heart frae what she knew of its history. Thankfully, there was naught of Gavyn, Morag or Rob in the new-fortified manor Henry had built after razing the wooden Farquhar stronghold to the ground.

She had never mentioned to Henry that she had heard tell of Wolfsdale afore he brought her there. She tried to forget that period of her life where she had made many mistakes that had led to her downfall. She had fought, clawed her way back to the kind of life she’d had for all the years she had lived at Dun Bhuird and Cragenlaw afore she let ambition get the better of her—in the days afore the instrument she had used to gain what she wanted—Harald—had turned the tables on her and begun a killing spree that ended with him dead and her sold to an Irish chieftain.

Aye, it had been a hard road, but now she felt content to remain at Wolfsdale with Henry, and she would use every skill in her armoury to bide there with him.

After that first meeting in Winchester, he carried her off frae her courtly auld knight—a man for whom she had begun to feel naught more than a decoration, a touch of prestige. Richard had been a braw comfort to her, but in contrast, Henry had slung her over his shoulder and hadn’t put her down until he dropped her onto his bed and proceeded to ravish her all night long. What woman could resist a man of such grand passions? Such a pity that his other passion was war and the prestige to be gained frae it. She didnae like sharing.

She had led him to believe she came frae a little place south of the Solway Firth to explain any residue of the accent she had done her utmost to shed. Henry had never bothered to question her further. To the world, he announced her as his daughter’s companion, but she and the entire Wolfsdale household knew better.

She was, mayhap a leman—without the privileges the position afforded Morag Farquhar of Cragenlaw—but for now it was enough to have a stately manor to live in, good food, and all the clothes she could set her heart on. More than all of that, her efforts in the master chamber made certain she had a lusty man betwixt her thighs every night.

Every night he was at home.

She wondered about this knight he had brought back frae Alnwick with him, wondered about his intentions and, she could tell just by looking at him, Sir Charles had his eye on Melinda. Not that she minded if Henry married her off to this dark young man, barely of age, being not yet twenty years old with a reputation for taking down anybody who stood in his way, and she had nae intention of doing that. His marrying Melinda would be a Godsend; he could take Henry’s daughter and both twins under his wing and leave her and Henry to their own comfortable lives.

Should that occur, the only person on her conscience would be wee Ralf. She had taken a shine to the lad, and without her making him laugh, and annoying Melinda while she did it, that bairn would have a miserable life without even his mother’s love.

Nae matter, Henry would be sending them somewhere else sooner than later. That’s if what she suspected hid beneath the folds of her reddish-brown kirtle—a colour worn to enhance her gloriously red curls in an attempt to drag Henry’s attention away frae Sir Charles and Melinda. She pitied Sir Charles when his flirtatious remarks fell flat on Melinda’s ears, as if she were deaf. Somebody ought to teach the lass how to flirt. Surely she couldn’t always have been this sombre. How else did she get big with child, two of them at that, which would have taken a guid hard ride for a lass who looked as if she had forgotten how to smile, never mind please a man. Brodwyn wouldn’t have the same problem after all her years of practising her amorous arts.

Ye might say that was the crux of the matter for Henry—Melinda’s refusal to divulge the father’s name. That said, Henry wasn’t a fool or blind, though he was a manipulator.

Melinda wished Sir Charles would stop glancing her way with the heat of cold flames flickering behind in his pale eyes. Did he believe that because she had borne her sons out of wedlock she would be open to any advance that came her way? Had her father said something that made Sir Charles believe he would advance his cause? She hoped not. Couldn’t her father be happy with the heirs she had given him? That she and Rob had given him? Difficult though it had been, she had kept her own counsel with never so much as a whisper passing her lips that she’d had had anything to do with the young Scot Henry had held for ransom, let alone bedded him.

Her chest rose as she let out a painful sigh at the memories of Rob and her together. Aye, she might blame him for causing her suffering and pain, yet she couldn’t fault the pleasure they had wrung from one another. She sighed again, aware that her breasts hurt, that her nipples peaked and rubbed against the fine linen shift she wore. No sooner had the carnal breath of air left her lips than she caught Sir Charles’s eye, became aware of an unexpected hunger smouldering at the back of his silvery blue gaze and quickly glanced away.

How could she ward him off, tell her father, who was obviously standing behind Sir Charles, egging him on, that she wanted none of the young knight.

She could tell that Sir Charles thought a lot of himself and not only about his prowess on the battlefield—tell by the way he carried himself. Not that alone, even the way he ate, savouring his food, sent a message that he would be an ardent lover. Mayhap he thought her an easy conquest, that a woman who had once known the pleasures of the flesh would no doubt crave more, and who else was there in this distant part of England to give her what her body craved?

That was as may be, Sir Charles would get none of her, and since she wasn’t of a mind to fend off young rakes, she made her excuses and retired to the solar, saying, “I can’t leave Becky to tend to the bairns on her own. They become boisterous of an evening,” she lied.

Sir Charles was quick to jump on a reason to join her. “Mayhap I’ll visit ye in the solar to see these twins Henry has been boasting about to me.”

Henry. He called her father by his given name. The thought made her knees quake. Had matters progressed so far that her father already looked upon Sir Charles as a son-in-law?

With a swiftness she hadn’t believed herself capable of, Melinda came up with an excuse to fend off his warm intentions. From out of naught she scraped up a blush. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be circumspect. Becky will be feeding Ralf and I Harry. Even my father doesn’t intrude at such times.”

God forefend she did not make any more mistakes that Sir Charles could use to his advantage, for his thin lips formed a crooked smile. It was the way he flashed it at her that her body responded to. Then he asked, “Ye mean to tell me that ye feed young Harry by yerself, put the child to yer own breasts?” The way he said made her think he was imagining Harry sucking, or mayhap himself. The thought sent the blood rising in her cheeks but his next, almost mocking remark cooled them down. “I never heard of a lady who suckled her own child. It’s not done in the south, or even Normandy, my home.”

Melinda’s chest heaved at the heard insult, but she was quick to respond, to put him in his place. What cared she for the south or Normandy? “I’ve heard that there are not many women in the south who manage to produce one child, let alone two.”

She caught her father’s look out the corner of her eye, saw him smile, but he never said a word.

It was Sir Charles who had an answer for her, an answer she wasn’t quite sure how to take, “No indeed, a wife who can give a man two heirs, never mind one is worth a price beyond rubies.”

Next morning, Melinda found it hard to rid herself of uneasiness prickling her skin, particularly at the back of her neck. She tried to assure herself she was safe here in the solar, that her father wouldn’t let Sir Charles intrude on her domain; then she’d remember her father’s somewhat self-satisfied smile as she fled from the Great Hall last evening.

She had stopped before she reached the solar. It was dark there on the gallery, the only light coming from below where torches burned around the stone walls, blackening them with smoke from the pitch. The rest came from the candlelit high table, throwing up shadows from the persons who still sat there drinking wine from the silver goblets Bernard had brought out from hiding the moment Sir Charles entered the manor. Their seneschal had obviously picked up on her father’s intentions long before she had. He had already ordered the others eating in the Great Hall back to the guardroom or kitchens. A few men remained, performing the menial task of clearing away the debris left from the meal and dismantling the boards that ran frae top to bottom of the hall.

The gallery where she stood ran along the wall on the left of the entrance. The raised stage where her father held court faced it. Nobody at the high table sat with their backs to the door; that way they couldn’t be surprised. Although Melinda couldn’t hear what passed between her father and Sir Charles, she had more than a little nous and put her own interpretation on it. She stood watching, aware Brodwyn’s opinion was of no account but, watching the two men from a distance, she could pick up similarities she hadn’t noticed up close. Her father had been hardened by the battles he’d fought and won, and young though he was, she saw the same image—the same expressions—on Sir Charles and wondered how many battles he had been in and won … and of the meaning of the fist encased in an iron glove that was his sigil She was just about to leave the gallery when she feared he had seen her, was certain when that cold sardonic smile changed his expression—not for the better—and became absolutely positive he had seen her when he lifted his goblet in her direction in a salute.

She sensed danger.

Danger to her and her young sons.

What man would take on another man’s bastards and put them ahead of his own?

Back in the solar, she was cogitating the vulnerability that tugged at her heart and mind like none she had experienced afore. Tossing her options back and forth, she was unable to come up with even the hint of a solution.

That was when Becky came bustling in, her hair windblown, her cheeks red for the same reason, and her shoes muddy. “Come in and warm yerself at the fire, ye look frozen, and I’m almost certain yer hands already are. Ralf will not take kindly to that.” She pulled up a stool close to the heat for the wet-nurse. “Now tell me, what did ye learn today?”

Becky dropped a small curtsy, “Begging yer pardon, Lady Melinda, I took it upon myself to make arrangements. The meeting place is set.” She halted and looked around the solar as if ascertaining they were alone, afore continuing on with, “Do ye remember Ronald, the old woodcutter?”

“I do,”

“He certainly remembers the bonnie little lady who was always asking for a ride on his wood sled, until yer father found out and put a stop to the risks ye were taking. As ye know, I sent out a message yesterday that I wished to see Rowena. It was easier than I thought; she met me at Ronald’s cottage and has agreed to meet ye on the morrow when the sun is high in the sky.”

Breath catching in her throat that her request would be answered so soon, she asked, “But how will we get away frae the manor house without raising suspicions?”

“If it pleases ye, Lady…” Becky’s smile was slightly smug; no doubt she believed she had done something clever. “…I’ve already dealt with that. I told Tom, the old guard always on duty at the gate, that Ronald was poorly and I intended to go back on the morrow with some tisanes to help his cough and probably a bite or two to eat since he wasn’t managing too well.”

Melinda clapped her hands, a smile wreathing her face for the first time in months. “Ah, an excellent ploy, for I shall go with ye and meet up with the gypsy. Everybody is aware of how fond I was of Ronald.” She paused for a moment, the thrill of actually being able to discover what lay ahead in her future coursing through her veins. Shaking off her excitement, she became all decision. “I expect they’ll want to send a guard with us, but one will be enough. Ronald’s little cottage is well hidden and it’s no distance away. If the weather’s fine, I’ll suggest that Father entertain Sir Charles, coursing for hares, and let their mounts and dogs have a good run.”

Their plans came together just in time as Jess appeared with a hungry lad under each arm. It might seem Melinda was taking a precarious risk, but she told herself it was for her son—no, sons—for she couldn’t leave either of them to the machinations of Sir Charles St Clair, a man she did not trust.