Chapter Six

L ord Rothwell did not deserve to be so fortunate. A man who had gained his extensive lands through the wedding of five rich wives, and now he was doing it again, increasing his vast wealth with Clydon.

Ranulf did not know if there were other fiefs or subtenants involved, but Clydon alone was a magnificent holding by any standards. He had seen the numerous fields planted with spring crops on his approach to the castle; the large village, large enough to contain at least two hundred villeins, with sturdy cruck cottages made with timber trusses to last, a stream flowing behind it, giant oaks shading it. There was a water mill in the distance, and a manor house, and an immense stretch of woods where he and his men had camped yestereve and left the supply wains and camp followers this morn.

But it was the castle itself that was most impressive. Not even Lord Montfort’s demesne keep was as large, nor Ranulf’s father’s, for that matter. The outer bailey was several acres at least protected by the thick curtain wall with its many towers projecting at regular intervals. Numerous buildings stood back against the walls inside the bailey: a large stable, a thatched barn with animal pens on either side, a smithy, a brewhouse and several storehouses. There was a fish pond in the left field as well as a large dovecote, but the entire right field was allowable for an exercise yard.

The mews were in the inner bailey, as were a granary and a smaller stable and more storehouses. Here too were the kitchen and a garden complete with beehives, though a newer kitchen had been added inside the keep, following the example of keeps built in recent years, in an attempt to have food passably warm by the time it reached the table.

The whitewashed keep itself, with immensely thick walls, rose at least a hundred feet, the corner towers rising another twelve. Divided by a cross-wall to support its height, the keep boasted three floors above a basement, with garrison quarters and wellhead sharing space now with the new kitchen on the second floor, the Great Hall on the third. Entrance to the keep was through the forebuilding, a substantial extension on the left side of the castle. It rose three stories itself, the external stairs leading up to the second floor protected at the top by a collapsible bridge, the chapel on the top floor of it, off the Great Hall.

Ranulf had seen much of this himself. The squire Aubert had supplied more detail during his rattling discourse as he led them up to the Great Hall, and the servant the lady had called Theo was also a font of information, answering whatever questions Ranulf put to him. ’Twas the only reason Ranulf had let the boy attend him at his bath when he offered his service, sending Lanzo off straightaway to clean his bloodied armor and sword.

Usually a female servant was sent to assist a guest at his bath, though if the guest was important enough, the lady herself would do it—the lord’s wife, that is, rarely his daughter. Ranulf had never been considered important enough to have the lady of the house attend him, which he was grateful for, but he did usually get the cream of the wenches fighting for the honor, and he could remember many a pleasant hour spent not just in bathing.

At the back of his mind, he had expected to see that luscious blond wench from the hall show up in the tower chamber he had been led to, but instead the boy had arrived with the menservants carrying in the large tub and heated water, a tray of wine, cheese and fine manchet bread to tide him till the afternoon meal was served, and even a change of clothes, which he was not usually offered, mostly because of his size, then again, because he was not an important guest. He allowed the Lady of Clydon did consider him important, not only because he had said he came from her lord (he was not unaware she assumed he had meant a different lord than Rothwell) but because he had literally saved her and Clydon from her enemies, whoever they might have been.

That he was not getting a wench to assist him did not matter. He was not in need of a woman after his indulgence last night. He was instead intrigued by Theo’s presence. Not full grown yet, the boy was lanky with a slow grace of his movements that was almost womanish, surely to be outgrown eventually. Dark blond hair curled about his ears and nape, and his brown eyes were too boldly direct for a servant’s. But he was a handsome boy, or would be once his face matured past its prettiness.

Ranulf had noted the way Lady Reina had put her hand on the boy’s shoulder as she gave him her orders in the hall. The gesture was noted because it was not usual to see a lady touch a servant, for any reason, especially a male servant. He had also heard her say to him, “Then you may see to me.” What that could mean he could not imagine, but the boy was obviously special to her in some way. So being, ’twas likely he had her confidence as well as trust, and would know just about all there was to know about her. That he was here must also be at her order, and could only be to gain information from Ranulf for her, though he had yet to ask any questions himself, and had not hesitated to answer all of Ranulf’s inquiries about Clydon.

Stripped down, Ranulf stepped into the large round tub, the weight of his body as he sat down raising the water up to his chest. He did not notice the way Theo’s eyes watched his every move, glittering with anticipation.

Theodric was fair drooling, but frightened, too. He had never seen a body so beautiful or so big. Ironhewed strength rippled from every muscle. Arms like that could break bones without even trying. Long, long legs, a tight, exquisitely curved arse, a broad back that went on forever, all golden-skinned and rock-hard. Theo could be killed. He must take the chance. But he did not know how to proceed with one such as this.

He had removed the knight’s clothes, fingers lingering and touching as much as he dared without offending, but the man had not noticed, had barely even looked at him as he asked questions Theo answered by rote, his thoughts centered on only one thing. He did not usually have to be so obvious. A sultry look was enough, but not apparently for this man, whose interest seemed wholly for Clydon—until now.

“How old is she, your lady?”

Theo saw the knight reaching for the washcloth and soap on the stool by the tub and dived for them himself. “Do let me wash you, my lord.”

Ranulf shrugged, though he had not expected the boy’s help to extend this far. But Lanzo or Kenric often scrubbed his back for him, so he leaned forward to expose it, yet did not forget his question.

“Your lady?”

Theo soaped the cloth, but hesitated in both answering and touching. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I saw no breasts, no hips, no curves of any kind to help me to even come close in guessing. Is she no more than a child?”

Theo might have been offended to hear his lady’s breasts and hips and curves mentioned by a stranger—by any man, for that matter—but he grinned instead, though Ranulf did not see it. Reina was not in fact as shapely as most women, but what she had was just right for her size. The trouble was, her size was extremely petite. For anyone not allowed into her chamber where she could be seen unclothed, there was no way to tell that her legs were perfectly formed, that she had the prettiest, most enviable little derrière, a gracefully sloping back as smooth as silk. Her breasts might not be a handful, but, freed of restriction, they were pert and upthrusting, with large nipples that would make a man’s mouth water—most men’s, anyway.

Theo had to force the smugness from his tone when answering, for he might know all this, but this knight never would. “My lady has not been a child for many years. She might not appear so, but she is a woman full grown.”

Ranulf was aware his question had not really been answered as to age. If the boy would not speak of the lady, he would know it now.

“If she is so long past childhood, why is she not married?”

Theo moved the washcloth caressingly over the golden skin. It was difficult to think with that beautiful, thick-muscled back under his hand.

“She was betrothed, but he died two years past.”

“But she was betrothed again?”

Theo frowned, trying to concentrate. This was now a dangerous subject. The man was from Shefford, so he should think Reina was betrothed as Shefford thought she was, when in fact she was not, not yet. So why would he ask about it?

“Certainly she is betrothed. Did Sir Henry not send you here to inquire of the date for the wedding? Lord Guy’s castellan must come to witness and accept the new Lord of Clydon’s homage to Shefford in the earl’s stead.”

Ranulf was grateful to have an excuse for being here given to him so easily. And ’twas obvious now that Rothwell had been right in at least one thing. If there really had been a contract with Rothwell, the lady was indeed ignoring it. She was planning to marry someone else.

“Then the date is—finally fixed?” Ranulf asked.

Theo took advantage of the giant’s distraction to lean closer and bring the washcloth around to his chest. “Only my lady can answer that.”

“And who is the fortunate husband-to-be?”

Theo was out of his league now, for Reina usually fended off such questions. How could he say it was de Lascelles, when if de Arcourt should miraculously show up first, Reina would pick him instead? He took a chance that Ranulf Fitz Hugh did not know that a name had never been given, and would not admit to being excluded from that knowledge if he thought it was known by the man who had sent him.

“’Tis not widely known, but surely Sir Henry would have told you?”

Ranulf grunted in answer. The boy was being evasive again, and he liked it not. If the planned wedding was to be soon, and the lady would certainly want it to be soon after coming so close to capture this morn, what was so secretive about the name of this man she was taking in Rothwell’s place? He could not be her father’s choice, if Rothwell had spoken the truth. So it had to be the Earl of Shefford’s doing, done after Roger de Champeney’s death. No woman would presume to arrange an alliance for herself or break a betrothal. The scorned man would doubtless send an army after her, or a mercenary, as Rothwell had done. Then why would the earl leave her unprotected all this time? If he wanted to give her to another man, it should have been done immediately, for she was fair game until the deed was done.

It was a puzzle, but one that did not really matter. Ranulf’s duty was to take the lady to Rothwell, and so he would. It was nothing to him who eventually held Clydon through her. He could envy the man such a prize, for Clydon was magnificent. That it came with a tiny, childlike woman who gave orders like a general was the only drawback, but of little account, for she could be a crippled hunchback and still be desirable as long as Clydon was hers.

With his thoughts wandering, Ranulf had not been paying attention to Theo or what he was doing, so it was a jolt to find the boy on the side of him now, his arm in the water in front of him, his hand with the washing cloth in it moving up the inside of Ranulf’s thick thigh. He stiffened, disbelieving the suspicion that leapt to his mind. The lad could not be that suicidal. And yet giving him the benefit of the doubt hanged him, for that hand continued on. In the same second that it touched Ranulf where it had no business touching, he turned to the boy and caught the glazed eyes on him, and then his reaction was instantaneous.

His bellow of rage shook the rafters, and with a single swipe of his arm he sent Theo tumbling across the room. “Christ’s toes! She sends me a catamite!”

Theo scrambled to his feet, but in his disappointment he said sulkily, “You could have just said nay.”

“Nay?” Ranulf shouted incredulously. “You misbegotten little cur, you are lucky I do not rip your prick off and shove it up your arse! Get you gone before I change my mind!”

Ranulf watched with fire-banked eyes as Theo tripped over his own feet racing out of the chamber. He should have known by the girlish manner, should have been more alert, but the lady had sent the boy to him, so all he had suspected was that he was to be grilled for information—which he was not. By the rood, did she think he was a God-cursed sodomite, then? Did he look so? But there was no look to it, was there?

His temper moved down to a slow simmer as he admitted that to himself. Even the king, an intrepid warrior, a giant among men, was rumored to prefer a boy in his bed. There were men who would have it either way, and men who would have it only one way or the other. He heard enough church preachings about it to know it was a perversion that was rife. But Ranulf had never been approached before. No man had dared. That girlish Theo was lucky Ranulf had not torn him apart.