Chapter Forty-four

R eina had forgotten about her guests until Gilbert, looking for her, met her in the forebuilding. Lord Roghton and his lady wife were requesting lodging for the night, on their way to London. It was a common enough occurrence. When the court was in London, they would get parties of travelers as often as two or three times a week.

“I have not heard the name before. From where do they come?”

“Northumbria.”

“ Jesú , as far away as that? Well, make them welcome, Gilbert, and find a chamber for them. And if I can manage to get through the hall without their notice,” she added with a grin, looking down at her filthy clothes, “tell them I will join them at the evening meal.”

“Aye, my lady, but the lord has stopped here before, many years ago, I believe it was,” Gilbert felt it necessary to warn her. “He asked for a night’s lodging then, too, but ended up staying nigh a sennight.”

Another common occurrence, a practice of those with large retinues or only one estate who frequently exhausted their own stores, and so would travel about for months at a time, stopping at one keep or another until they had worn out their stay, all at little or no cost to themselves.

“One of those, eh?” She chuckled, not minding for the simple fact that Clydon could afford such extras at table.

She still could not place the name, but she did remember when she came down to supper later that day and saw the man. She had been five or six at the time of Lord Roghton’s last visit and she had thought him the ugliest creature alive. He was still hard on the eye, though she was no longer a child to be frightened by it. A man nearing two score years, he had been overweight before and was even more so now, but that had naught to do with it. He had cruel eyes, there was no other word for it; a large, bulbous nose that distracted from them if you let it; and two hideous scars, one that twisted his mouth into a permanent sneer, and one that puckered his cheek and pulled down the skin near his left eye.

His wife was not yet present. Reina could only pity the woman such a husband. ’Twould be different were there any kindness in him, but she was remembering more and more of his first visit, and that was not the case at all. In fact, she believed Roghton had made himself so obnoxious with his subtle insults and little cruelties that her father had finally asked him to leave. Well, she would see if he had changed any, but she wished mightily that Ranulf were here to deal with him instead of her.

He stood with Sir William and Lady Margaret. Reina’s younger ladies were all mysteriously absent from the hall. She could not blame them. Roghton really was the stuff of nightmares.

Searle and Eric both appeared simultaneously at her side ere she reached the group by the hearth. They were ridiculously protective of her whenever Ranulf was away and they were left behind, and had been the recipients of her sharp tongue more than once since she had become so testy. But for once she was grateful for their presence.

Searle had married Louise de Burgh as Ranulf had intended, so Reina did not see much of him anymore, except when Ranulf was gone. That match had worked out rather well, considering the lady had had to be dragged screaming and kicking to her wedding bed. The last Reina had seen of her, she had been blissfully contented. Whatever Searle had done or said to her, it had had a magical effect. Would that she could do the same with Ranulf.

“Ah, Lady Rhian, is it not? The child with the witch’s black hair. Do you remember me, lady?”

Reina stiffened. Two insults in as many sentences? Did the man think she was a complete idiot, that she would assume his words an innocent mistake? Gilbert would have told him her name. He had to be an idiot could he not remember a simple first name given him mere hours ago.

“Actually, Lord Ralston,” she replied, paying him in kind, “my name is Reina—Reina Fitz Hugh. Do you care to forget it again, you may simply call me lady, as is my due. And were I a witch, you would not feel safe to sleep under my roof, so ’tis fortunate I am not.”

She was not her mother, to ignore innuendos and sly taunts, and pass them off as unimportant in deference to keeping the peace in her hall. If Roghton thought he could get away with that nonsense here, now, he had better think again.

She had managed to surprise him. He had not ex pected to have his disrespect tossed back at him, not by a woman at any rate.

Disconcerted as he was, his reply was civil. “I understand you are newly wed, Lady Reina.”

“Aye, if you can call four months newly wed. My husband is away to London, however, with his father, Hugh de Arcourt.”

“Lyonsford?”

“The same.”

She did not hear another offensive word after that, which was amusing did she care to think of it, since Clydon was more powerful than Lyonsford. This just went to prove that a lady in charge of a small kingdom was not as impressive as a warlord owning much less—unless she cared to mention the names of those warlords as being relations.

His wife arrived, and Reina, like everyone else who had not seen her yet, went into mild shock. In complete contrast to her husband, she was a woman of stunning, incomparable beauty. Blond, fair-skinned, with the face of an angel. Even Eadwina had cause to be teeth-gnashingly jealous.

’Twas inconceivable that this vision of loveliness could be wed to a man like Roghton. Who could be so cruel as to have arranged a match between such opposites?

Searle and Eric were both awe-struck. Actually, every man in the room had gone silent and still, in some way affected by the lady. Reina was mayhap the only one to notice the delight of the husband in the reaction to his wife. He enjoyed the sensation she caused, and then the horror that such a desirable, exquisite thing could be his. Despite that, he took the lady to task for being late, embarrassing her and any one near enough to hear his deliberately harsh scolding. And Reina was sure it was deliberate. ’Twas more a demonstration to dispel the disbelief and clarify for anyone still in doubt that she really did belong to him.

Reina had little opportunity to talk to Lady Roghton, at least not until supper was nearly finished. Roghton had dominated the conversation, and his lady had sat meekly to his left, uttering not a word and looking as miserable as she must feel. Reina tried to imagine herself in the lady’s position. Had she not had a loving father, such could have indeed happened to her. It made her sick to think about it.

When Roghton, who had stuffed himself with everything near to hand, was finally replete, his interest was snared by the more uninhibited talk among the men at the lower tables. Reina was left alone with Lady Roghton, who moved closer on the bench as soon as her husband left. But she was now faced with the dilemma of what to say that would not smack of sympathy. She need not have worried. The blond beauty was not at all hesitant, now that she was no longer cowed by Lord Roghton’s presence.

“I was told your husband is Ranulf Fitz Hugh?”

“Do you know him?”

“I am not sure,” Lady Roghton demurred. “Is he tall, very tall, and all golden?”

Reina was amused. “Aye, that could well describe him.”

“Then he is my Ranulf,” the woman said excitedly. “This is incredible! Ranulf? Lord of Clydon? ’Tis a shame I missed him, but I heard someone say he is in London, so I will be sure to find him there.”

Reina could do no more than stare. Had the woman forgotten whom she was speaking to? Was she even aware of that possessive “my” she had let slip? ’Twas difficult to tell. Her manner had completely changed. She was fairly bubbling with excitement.

“When—when did you know Ranulf?” Reina asked.

“Oh, ’twas long ago, but he will not have forgotten me.” She laughed, a sweet, musical sound. “Of course you can guess our relationship. Every woman at Montfort wanted him, he was so beautiful to look at. How could I resist him? I even bore him a child.”

Anne? Sweet Jesú , this was Lady Anne!

The shock must have been apparent in Reina’s face, for the woman added mistakenly, “You did not know? But ’tis naught to concern yourself with. Men are never faithful, you know. They spread their bastards all over the countryside. Why, Ranulf is one himself.” And then she smiled. “’Tis why I am so amazed he has come to be Lord of Clydon.”

Reina took a sip of wine, hoping it would defuse the fury she suddenly felt. What kind of woman would say such things to a man’s wife—unless she hoped to make trouble between them? Walter was right about the lady. She was naught but a calculating bitch beneath the sweet smiles and angelic looks. And she had pitied her?

“You did not say what happened to this child you bore,” Reina said tightly, realizing Anne wanted her to think she had this link to Ranulf.

The lady was disconcerted by the question. “Did I not? He died, poor thing. I was so devastated.”

“He?”

“I believe—” she started doubtfully, but was quick to correct the impression. “Well, of course ’twas a boy. I would know what I gave birth to.”

Sweet Jesú , she actually did not know, had not cared. To Reina, as an expectant mother, that fact was nearly as inconceivable as what the lady had done with the child, her daughter, her flesh and blood—oh, God!

Reina stood up, unable to bear another moment of Lady Anne’s presence. “’Tis fortunate Ranulf is not here,” she said and walked away.

Anne smiled, misunderstanding what had been a warning were she smart enough to realize it.