Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"But, but, Laurent," Timothy whispered, his shock clear.

"Leila," Leila corrected as she returned the soap to the astonished squire. She cast her filthy garb on to the fire with evident satisfaction. She plucked the comb from Anna's fingers and set to work on her hair, as the Templars began to consult with each other in agitated murmurs. They were both frowning when they raised their voices to confront the other knights.

"So, we have unwittingly journeyed with a woman in our company?" demanded one.

"It is against the Rule!"

"It is not against the Rule to protect those in need of our defense," Fergus replied.

"But it was a lie!"

"It was a scheme to protect this maiden, and one endorsed by the Grand Master in Jerusalem," Bartholomew supplied. The Templars appeared to be slightly more at ease with this additional information, but still eyed the remainder of the company warily. He wondered whether they expected more women to be revealed in their ranks.

"Not all was a lie," Leila said softly, smiling at Fergus. "I do have a cousin whose hair I braided." She combed Anna's hair deftly, braiding it and coiling it with all speed. "You will need to open your bags again," she said to Fergus. "A lady has need of a wimple, a veil and a circlet."

"Glad I am that I brought so many trinkets for my betrothed," Fergus jested, even as he unfastened his saddlebags anew.

"'Tis no coincidence, lad, and you know it well," Duncan murmured. Fergus smiled in acknowledgment.

"What do you mean?" Bartholomew had to ask for he did not understand.

"This lad was born to the caul. He has the Sight, though he seldom tells what he has seen."

"Witchery," whispered one Templar, and they crossed themselves as did their squires. The other scanned the forest, seeking yet more unwelcome surprises.

But the sole one for Bartholomew was the sight of the thief transformed. He could not tear his gaze from Anna as Leila finished the braiding and coiling of her hair, for the elegant length of her neck was revealed. She looked fragile and feminine, as he had not guessed her to be. The wimple and veil gave her an alluring mystery, and it seemed to him that her eyes sparkled in new awareness of her charms. She cast a shy glance at him, then smiled and blushed a little, evidently noting his reaction and finding it discomfiting.

She had been abused by a man then. He would have to treat her gently.

Truth be told, Bartholomew found the blend of traits in her nature most beguiling. Perhaps he had never been smitten with a woman because they seemed to be concerned with their garb and their embroidery, or their likelihood of bearing sons. He admired that Anna possessed a crossbow and acknowledged that she had given him a fair contest in the woods. He doubted that any who had known her as a ruffian would recognize her like this.

Bartholomew was intrigued by this maiden and sensed that state would not abandon him soon.

Anna rose to her feet as Leila laced the sides of the crimson kirtle, then turned in place with obvious delight at her garb. "Sir, I thank you for your generosity," she said to Fergus and bowed low in her gratitude. Even her way of speaking had changed, as if the garb wrought a transformation in her very nature.

"You will earn it, if we retrieve the saddlebag with your aid," that knight replied. He smiled at Leila, who was hastily breaking her fast.

"Which means we must know all you can tell us of this baron, his household, and his defenses," Bartholomew said. "His keep cannot be far by the road." He was looking forward to seeing the keep in daylight, for there had been naught familiar about it in the night. Perhaps he would recognize it better this morning, and from the vantage point of the road.

Surely there could not be two holdings called Haynesdale? Nay, it could not be so, for Anna had shared the tale of his own father. Bartholomew was the seed of Nicholas, and his arrival was evidently anticipated by Anna.

Still, it was disconcerting to have no memory of this place at all.

He watched as Anna considered the height of the sun. "This road leads directly to his gates. With such steeds and a stately pace, we will reach it by midday."

"An excellent time for guests to arrive," Fergus said with satisfaction.

"A hot meal would be welcome," Duncan said, echoing Bartholomew's own thoughts.

"Not a cup of ale?" Fergus teased and they laughed together.

Bartholomew nodded. "Then we should set out, that we are at his gates before we are discovered and believed to be trespassers." He smiled at Anna. "As you have no steed, my lady, it seems you must ride with me."

"I could ride with my maid," she countered with familiar defiance.

"You could, if I trusted you." Bartholomew strode to Zephyr, who stamped in anticipation of a run. "Or if I did not wish to confer with you about our host."

Anna folded her arms across her chest, showing no inclination to do as he suggested. "But what of this company? Who are you all and from whence did you ride? How did such a company come to be assembled? And what is your destination?"

"We ride from Jerusalem," Fergus said to Bartholomew's relief. "For I return to Scotland for my nuptials, after the completion of my service with the order."

"We brought tidings of events in Outremer to the Temple in Paris," Bartholomew added.

"And once there, the gratitude of the Grand Master was such that he granted Fergus an escort to his home," Duncan said, gesturing to the two Templars. They bowed their heads to Anna.

"Enguerrand," confided one.

"Yvan," added the other.

"Jerusalem?" Anna echoed in awe. "You rode from the Holy City itself?"

Bartholomew nodded. "We did."

"And why do you go to Scotland?" she demanded of him.

"To witness the nuptials of my friend, of course."

"But you are not of the order?"

He shook his head.

"Do you have a holding?"

"I praise God that you are not overly curious," Fergus drawled, and Duncan chuckled.

Anna turned on him, fire in her eyes. "If I am to be his bride, then I should know some detail of his life."

Fergus shrugged. "We should all like to know more of Bartholomew's secrets," he drawled and she turned to Bartholomew anew.

"I have no secrets," he said softly.

"Nay?" Fergus asked. "Then why the insistence upon this road?"

"And why the departure from Gaston's abode?" Duncan added.

Bartholomew held his ground. "I wished to see your home and more of the world, no more than that," he said, though he imagined Fergus remained skeptical. He bowed to the other knight. "But perhaps you, when you come into your inheritance, will see your way to offering me a post in your keep."

Fergus lifted a brow. "After you declined a similar offer from Gaston? It might well be a waste of breath."

"And it might not." Bartholomew had not told them of his hope for Haynesdale, but he had insisted they travel by this route. He knew that both men were curious beyond all, and was relieved when the subject was dropped. He felt a strange conviction that to express his dream aloud would reveal the folly of it.

Anna bit her lip. "So it is the promise of goodwill that keeps you by his side."

Bartholomew chose to tease her. "I am only practical. We must eat something, wife, particularly if we are to have sons." Duncan smiled and turned to his steed.

Anna held his gaze for a long moment, her intensity making his heart leap. It was almost as if she guessed the truth that he did not wish to utter aloud, as if she discerned the secret he hid from all.

But that was impossible.

"You are a wretchedly confident man," she said with a shake of her head. "To take a bride with no means of supporting her is most audacious."

Bartholomew grinned despite himself, for he would never have committed such an impetus deed.

"Perhaps he trusts that the course of love will run true," Fergus teased.

Anna flushed. "Perhaps he is fortunate that our match is but a tale," she countered. "Were I truly a bride and learned as much of my husband's scheme, I might well abandon the match."

"You could not if it had been consummated," Bartholomew observed.

"Then I am the fortunate one," she retorted. "For I have yet a choice."

Bartholomew grinned at her. "Was that a challenge, my lady? Shall I see you seduced this night to ensure that your choice is made?"

Though his tone was teasing, again her reaction was vehement. "You could not. You would not!" She even retreated from him.

"I might convince you."

Anna flushed furiously and strode toward the horses. It proved that her elegant manners were readily abandoned, for she moved with her former purpose. "Vexing man," she muttered.

"'Tis why you love me," Bartholomew countered. "I see the truth of it in your eyes."

"Wretch," she whispered, but her blush deepened.

"Their match was destined to be," Fergus teased but Anna ignored him.

Bartholomew swung into the saddle, then urged Zephyr toward a fallen log. Anna climbed atop it, more agile than any lady he had ever known. He held her hand and she used the stirrup to climb and ride pillion behind him. She had donned his cloak again and flicked it out of the way as she positioned herself, then draped it over Zephyr's back with Leila's assistance. Then the younger woman climbed into the saddle of her palfrey.

"You will have to touch me, my lady," he advised quietly when Anna did not lean against him.

She gave a sigh of forbearance. "I suppose it is inevitable, my lord," she ceded with such feigned deference that he could not bite back his smile.

"Is my wish not your command?" he teased.

"Do not vex me overmuch, sir," Anna countered. "Not if you mean to sleep in my company."

"Surely Leila will defend me," he retorted.

"Surely she will," that maiden replied with vigor. "For there are no more noble knights in Christendom than those of this company, particularly my lady's lord husband. No woman could ever find a better man."

Bartholomew felt Anna's surprise at this endorsement of his character and realized there might be additional benefit to having Leila act as Anna's maid. Anna's arms wound around his waist and she leaned cautiously against his back.

Bartholomew felt a strange satisfaction to have her weight against him. He clicked his tongue, and Zephyr tossed his head, prancing toward the road. The party arranged itself in pairs, Bartholomew and Fergus at the fore, and the Templars at the rear. Duncan rode in the midst with Leila, Timothy and Hamish ahead of them and the Templars' squires behind. They reached the road, which was of pounded dirt but even and straight, and the steeds began to canter.

Bartholomew swallowed, both anxious for a better glimpse of the keep that might be his birthright and fearful of what their arrival would bring.

*

What a remarkable company. The more she learned of Bartholomew and his fellows, the more Anna was inclined to believe that they might succeed in retrieving both their saddlebag and Percy from the baron's keep. They did have unexpected advantages and seemed most intrepid.

Indeed, her terror was rapidly being replaced with anticipation.

Her curiosity about the contents of that saddlebag also grew with every passing moment.

"Now tell us of this baron," Fergus invited her.

"Nay, first my lady wife has need of a name," Bartholomew said. "You cannot simply be Anna, the smith's daughter."

Anna bristled that her name was insufficient for him. "Because a knight of your stature, with no holding to his name, would not deign to wed so low?" she asked sweetly.

Bartholomew laughed and surprised her with his response. "Nay, because you will be betrayed by the familiarity of your name and recognized despite the change in your appearance. Then Percy shall not escape the dungeon and that is not our goal."

"I do not advise use of another name," Leila contributed. "Lest you err and fail to respond to a summons. It is the easiest error to make and a most revealing one."

Anna guessed that Leila had made such an error in their journey. "But Anna is a common enough name," she said.

"Can we create a title?" Fergus asked. "Do we dare to be so bold?"

"The baron is most well connected," Anna said. "It must be a name he knows but not a person he has met."

"She could have ridden with us from Outremer, or even France," Duncan suggested.

Anna shook her head. "But I have never seen either of those places. I believe Sir Royce has gone to the king's court in Normandy. And I do not speak French."

"A small question could reveal the ruse," Leila said.

"So, we have need of a noblewoman unknown to the baron, perhaps because she does not exist, with a title known to the baron." Fergus ran a hand through his hair.

"There will be a riddle to solve," Bartholomew agreed. He glanced over his shoulder at Anna, his eyes gleaming. "Unless you know the solution already, my lady."

Anna smiled at him, glad she did and equally glad that he had anticipated as much. "There was a widow, Elizabeth of Whitby, whose wealth was much coveted after her husband's demise. She had a daughter, name of Anna, and feared they both would be forcibly wed once they had no defender. She fled their holding with her daughter to seek refuge at the abbey of Saint Mary."

"When was this?" Fergus asked.

"More than ten years ago. My mother used to recount the tale as a mark of foul times."

"How so?" Fergus asked.

"The lady Elizabeth died, for they were betrayed and assaulted upon the road. But her maid took the child and reached the abbey. Once there, the abbess saw them both defended. It was said that the girl took her vows young and meant to live her days serving God. She would be of an age with me, and none have seen her since she was a child."

"And none will see her soon, if she remains in the abbey," Bartholomew mused. "So, you would suggest that she had changed her thinking?"

"She might have been stolen by a wicked knight," Anna replied and felt Bartholomew's chuckle beneath her hands.

"Aye, she might have," he agreed, then twisted the tale. "But she was rescued from such dire peril by our company, it is clear."

"Nay, she was snatched from the villain's clutches by the knight, Bartholomew de Chamont-sur-Maine, a valiant crusader if ever there had been one, and a warrior much concerned with justice," Fergus suggested, even as Anna sputtered in protest.

Bartholomew lifted a fist to his chest. "Do not tell me that she lost her heart to him?"

Fergus nodded sagely. "Smitten with but a glance. She cast aside her vows and begged him to wed her. I witnessed it all."

"Nay!" Anna protested, but heard laughter in her own tone. "You two steal the tale."

"Only to create a finer one," Bartholomew said. "I would not be cast as a rapacious villain."

"No knight of merit could endure such an assault upon his nature," Fergus agreed so solemnly that Anna wanted to believe him.

"Must I have begged him to wed me, though? It is not like me to make such an entreaty."

"Aye, I can believe as much." Fergus shook a finger at her. "But such is the power of love. It turns us all into fools, desperate for the favor of our beloved."

"So speaks a man who has lost his heart," Anna guessed, and Fergus winked at her, unashamed of his state. He had brought many gifts for his betrothed and she admired that he was unafraid for others to know his affection.

"Although I should like to see Anna beg for my mercy," Bartholomew said, once again teasing her. "Would you oblige me, my lady wife?"

"I will not!"

"But then," Fergus dropped his voice low. "Perhaps the maiden only so entreated the knight because she saw that in his eyes that he had lost his heart to her."

Bartholomew gave a snort.

"A knight must have a heart to lose it," Anna replied. "And I am skeptical that it is thus. It seems a dubbing does destroy all compassion in a man."

She felt the shock ripple through the company and realized belatedly that in speaking her thoughts aloud, she had insulted them all.

"We must show Anna that she has not seen the true merit of our kind," Fergus said quietly.

"Indeed, we must," Bartholomew said, and Anna could discern no playfulness in his tone. His hand closed over hers for a moment and gave her fingers a squeeze.

She did not know how to account for the influence of this fleeting touch upon her pulse.

"I must protest this scheme," huffed one of the Templars. "We cannot perpetuate such a falsehood."

"Not even to ensure that the lady's welfare is defended?" asked Fergus.

"Or the property regained that we hold in trust?" Duncan asked.

What had been in his saddlebag?

"Or the lady's brother saved from what cannot be a good fate?" Bartholomew added.

The pair of knights looked uncomfortable with the situation, but reluctantly ceded that there was merit in the plan. Anna assumed that they would neither aid in the ruse nor reveal it, and supposed it was the best to be hoped for.

After a few moments, Duncan cleared his throat. "And so, you shall be Anna of Whitby?" he asked.

"Anna de Beaumonte," Anna replied. "That was her name."

"You would feign to be French?" Bartholomew asked. "But you do not understand the language."

"I would scarce be the first in such a situation."

"Particularly if she had come of age in an abbey," Fergus replied. "Perhaps the nuns spoke only English."

"And Latin at their prayers," Bartholomew added.

"I do know my prayers," Anna said.

"Praise be," Bartholomew teased.

"You would not wish to be seen as a heathen," Leila said, and Anna wondered at the heat in her words.

Fergus nodded approval. "No solution is perfect, but I think this one that will work sufficiently well."

"I fear she will be tested and revealed," Bartholomew said, and his concern had merit.

"We will not linger overlong in the baron's hall," Fergus replied.

"Just long enough to collect our due," Bartholomew agreed.

"And you have said that we must always be together, husband mine," Anna reminded him sweetly. "Surely you can ensure that any error on my part is turned aright?"

"I shall have to try," Bartholomew said grimly and she could feel that his body was more taut.

Was he afraid for her?

Did he truly mean to defend her?

The possibility sent a strange warmth through Anna, though she knew she could protect herself. She spared a glance to her own crossbow hanging from Bartholomew's saddle and wished for its weight in her hand once again.

But she would keep her word to this confounding knight.

If only because she suspected that Bartholomew anticipated otherwise.

"Now tell us of this baron," Fergus invited again. "We must know all we can of the lion before stepping into his den."

*

Haynesdale forest was utterly unfamiliar.

Bartholomew had hoped that the lands of his home estate from the road would conjure some memories of his past. He had hoped that a glimpse or a view or a hillside would inspire a recollection that proved his connection with this holding. He had the name memorized, and he knew its seal, but he yearned for a sense of homecoming.

Like the one Gaston had experienced at Chamont-sur-Maine, or the one that Fergus anticipated at Killairic. Bartholomew wished above all else to know where he belonged.

To be home and know it well.

Yet these forests were no different from any other.

It was true enough that he had been taken away from Haynesdale when he was but a young boy, but still he reasoned that he should recall some detail. There was none. The forests were clearly lush with game, the land gently rolling, and he had occasional glimpses of water through the barren trees.

But as much as Bartholomew admired the view, he could have been anywhere between Scotland and Constantinople. He could have ridden a road he had never visited before. He could have erred, but he knew the name of the holding as well as his own name. His mother had impressed that upon him, at least.

In more ways than one.

It was strange to have his return anticipated, even in a tale, and he recognized that revealing his truth too early could be a fatal error.

How did any know that he had survived?

Was it just a hope of the people who disliked the new baron?

Or could some person betray him? He fought an unwelcome sense that it might be Anna herself who could do as much and resolved to confide as little as possible in his unexpected partner.

They would see Percy free, retrieve Duncan's bag, then his path and Anna's would part forever. Indeed, visiting the hall might provide him with an inside view of how best to recover his lost legacy. Without learning the situation, he could not devise a plan.

There was always a chance that the baron would step aside in the name of justice.

A small chance, to be sure.

"Sir Royce Montclair is known for his greed hereabouts," Anna said, unable to hide her scorn. "He shows great enthusiasm in gathering taxes, purportedly for the crown, though there have been those who doubted that all the coin went to the king's court."

"But there is doubt no longer?" Fergus asked.

Anna gave a short laugh. "There are no longer any who express their doubt. He is… thorough in eliminating dissent in his holding."

Bartholomew saw her lift a finger and point into the forest. He frowned as he followed her gaze, seeing there was an area to one side of the road that was blackened and burned. It was strange to see the blackened stumps of the trees amidst freshly fallen snow, the sky clear overhead, in the midst of such a vigorous forest.

"There was where he routed those who last rose against him in rebellion. They fled into the woods and he had a great circle set ablaze. His men stood around the perimeter, waiting for the fire to consume them all." She shuddered so that Bartholomew gripped her hand beneath his once more. "I still hear their final cries in my dreams," she concluded, her voice husky.

"When was this?"

"Two years ago." He felt her straighten, and she pulled her hand from his grasp.

Who had she lost in that blaze?

"Where were you?" he asked quietly, but she did not reply.

"Has Sir Royce a wife? Or family?" Duncan asked.

"He has a wife, for his marriage was arranged by the crown. He returned from Winchester with her eight years past."

"Her name?"

"Lady Marie de Naumiers. She has yet to bear him a child, though, and is seldom seen outside the keep's walls. There is no gossip, for she brought her own maids, and they seldom leave the keep either." She paused. "He is said to have been wed before, but that his first wife died after the death of their only child. He remained unwed for so long that the king arranged the match with Lady Marie."

The village appeared ahead of them, its location evident because the trees were cleared and huts were visible. As they rode closer, Bartholomew saw that there were few people for a village of such size. They were dirty, as Anna had been, more dirty than been the case in other villages where their party had stopped. Those villagers who watched their progress were wary. He saw an older couple step out of one house, then two men of roughly his own age, one with a single infant and the other with a pair of very young children. What had happened to the mothers? He heard goats bleating but could not see them.

A sturdy man looked up from his garden, which could only have had cabbage at this time of year and that beneath the snow, and glowered at them. His wife watched sullenly from the portal to their hut. The company rode closer together without exchanging any words, for there was hostility in the manner of those who observed their progress.

"Where are the children?" he asked Anna softly.

"Who would willingly bring a child into this realm?"

It was but half an answer, though Bartholomew guessed she would not confide more. Were these the survivors of the fire? Or the only ones who had not fled?

Had Anna and Percy been alone in the forest? He would have to ask her later.

"Pull up your hood to be sure you are not recognized," he murmured.

"Aye, husband," she said, her tone as close to biddable as he might have expected. In other circumstance, he might have smiled at her manner.

But they passed through the last of the forest and he saw the keep of Haynesdale in its full majesty. The sight drew him to an astonished halt. In contrast to the hard scrabble and dirt of the village, the wooden curtain wall around the keep was high and straight. The keep sat on the top of a mound, commanding the entire area, a vivid pennant snapping from its square tower. The keep was large, far larger than he might have imagined, and it bore no resemblance to any place he recalled. It seemed that Anna's notions of coin for taxes remaining in the barony were not unfounded, for such a fortress would have been costly to build.

"What a fine keep," Bartholomew said, unable to hide the wonder from his voice. "Is this holding so likely to be assaulted as it appears?"

"A man with few allies and fewer friends might fear as much," Anna whispered. "Construction began before the wedding and took years."

Worse than being newly constructed and large, the keep would be heavily armed. Bartholomew knew a moment's dread, for he would make his future within these walls or ensure that he had none. How would they find and free Percy? How would they reclaim the prize in Duncan's saddlebag? How would they escape?

How would he avenge his father and assert his birthright? The odds were considerable against Bartholomew's success, greater than any man of sense might have hoped. He had expected a manor house, perhaps a small motte and bailey, but not a fortress. An appeal to the king's court would be doomed to failure, if this baron was so allied with the crown that his marriage had been made by the king.

Nay, he must prove himself worthy, by proving the baron unworthy.

Somehow.

He was the seed of Nicholas.

He had to ensure that Anna and Percy were safe, even if all went awry.

Bartholomew touched his spurs to Zephyr's side, sending the destrier forward more quickly. He led the party to the gates and raised his voice. "Hoy there! We seek shelter in the name of Christian charity!"

At his cry, the porter came forward. Their names were taken and in but moments, the portcullis of Haynesdale was raised in reluctant welcome.

"Into the very gates of Hell," Anna murmured, and Bartholomew could only close his hand over hers and give a minute squeeze of encouragement.

*

Marie, Lady of Haynesdale, had believed for years that there could be no worse fate than to be an heiress. Paraded before men deemed to be suitable husbands day after day, compelled to be charming at meal after meal, forced to visit holding after holding had been a particular kind of torment. To always smile at the arrangements made for her approval, regardless of her thoughts on the matter, had left her cheeks aching and her attitude poor. She had been convinced that naught could be worse than to be well known as a bride with a hefty dowry—or to have had such an exacting guardian.

Now she knew better. To have been an heiress was far worse.

She was but a wife. A barren one. And this life was horrific.

Marie stood at the window and looked over the bleak forests of her husband's holding and despised what her life had become. There were no dinners, no visitors, no excursions, not even any parties led to hunt since her husband had vexed every living soul beneath his hand. Or executed them. There were no fawning suitors, no adoring troubadors, no men staring after her with such yearning that her heart raced. Even if a man with blood in his veins had dared to come to their hall, her husband's foul repute would ensure that the guest never raised his gaze to hers.

There were only barbarians and brutes as far as she could see.

No doubt the greatest barbarian and brute was the one who came to her each night, took his due, then left her alone in that broad, cold bed.

The mercy was that she had only once been compelled to look upon him without the patch over his eye. To think that she had once imagined his appearance dashing, and mysterious. Dangerous and alluring. Seeing what was beneath the eye patch had curdled her heart.

He was marred.

He was unworthy of her.

He gave her no sons. She began to think he did as much apurpose, the better to keep her captive in this abode.

Marie supposed Royce had guessed the resentment in her heart, for he had ensured that there was never a weapon in her proximity.

How she loathed him.

How she hated his desolate holding.

No number of furs could keep her warm as she slept. No brazier could pierce the chill of her chambers. The floors might have been wrought of ice. The chill emanating from the stone floor was so vehement that she swore it would never be driven from her bones. Even the so-called summers in this foul abode offered only rain and tepid warmth.

She was tired of meals that filled the belly but did not delight the senses. She yearned to hear music again. She longed for the warm caress of the sun upon her face, the sound of laughter, the flavor of good wine.

She yearned even more heartily for the company of handsome young men. Knights. Troubadors. Princes and dukes. A king on occasion.

But there was only Royce, and as finely wrought as he once had been, knowing the truth of his nature vastly diminished his appeal. He had looked more appealing at the king's court, where he had stirred himself to converse and to charm.

Marie had been charmed, more fool she.

And now, she had no power, no control over her days, no ability to make demands or be heard. She was her husband's property and so was all the lovely wealth her father had accumulated. Royce spent it with gusto and used the tale of it to borrow more.

She sat in a keep built with her father's coin, as much a prisoner as that poor brat who had been dragged to the dungeon earlier in the day. Marie felt sympathy for the boy only because his plight was so similar to her own.

Granted, he had no food, no light, no bed, and likely shared his chamber with vermin, but Marie was inclined to overlook such petty details.

She had been wronged, in her view, and there was no way to change her circumstance save to deliver to Royce a son and heir. She had tried to conceive, she truly had. She allowed him to do what he desired to her, as disgusting as it might be. She was certain that a little more masculine company would be vastly encouraging, but after that regrettable incident in Winchester on their wedding night, Royce was disinclined to trust her.

He had vowed that she would not leave Haynesdale until she bore him a son, for then the boy would undoubtedly be of his blood.

She doubted that he had imagined it would take so long.

Perhaps she should fight him again on this night. It did arouse them both when they argued before mating. Marie pursed her lips, considering.

And then she straightened. There was a party on the road headed toward the gates of the keep.

Strangers.

Guests.

Knights!

God in Heaven, there were even two Templars in the party. What a feast!

She had to intervene before Royce dispatched them from the gates.

"Agnes! Emma!" Marie spun from the window and called again for her maids. She tipped open her trunk and began strewing garments across the floor. Royce could not keep her captive if there were guests. Nay, she must greet them as Lady of Haynesdale and he would not dare to rebuke her before strangers.

And perhaps one of them would plant the seed that Royce apparently could not sow. At this point in time, Marie was prepared to do any deed to return to the pleasures of the king's court and abandon this festering backwater. Let Royce remain here, in the place he valued more than aught else, let him rot here with their son, and she would dance in palaces again.

The gold kirtle. She cast it across the bed, eyeing the shimmer of the silk with approval. Aye, she would look like the prize she had once been in this garb.

Marie smiled. If Royce were so overcome with desire at the sight of her in all her finery that he felt compelled to visit her bed this night, that deed might well disguise the contribution of a guest to her lord husband's quest for an heir.

*

Anna would never have expected to enter Haynesdale willingly. But here she was, riding beneath its portcullis as she endeavored to look accustomed to such affluence and perhaps a little bored. It was a better choice than revealing that she was terrified. She was glad to have Bartholomew's solid strength ahead of her and welcomed the feel of his mail under her fingers.

She hoped by every saint that the baron did not guess the truth.

She had to find Percy quickly. But where? The keep was enormous. There could be more than one dungeon in this place.

Despite her impatience to achieve their goal and depart, noblemen, it seemed, did naught with speed. Bartholomew dismounted, then lifted her down to the ground, his fellows dismounting as well. She chafed to hasten ahead but Bartholomew's movements were leisurely. He smiled down at her, as if they were a loving couple, and pressed a kiss to her hand. "Patience, my lady," he murmured and Anna exhaled in an attempt to calm herself.

She doubted her success, for Bartholomew's eyes danced with humor.

She touched her fingertips to her crossbow, slung from his saddle, in an apparently absent gesture. She saw from his slight smile that he understood.

"Timothy, if we are to be entertained here, I would have you ensure that Zephyr is brushed down. Please bring our bags and the bow to us when you are done."

"Aye, my lord."

Bartholomew ran his fingertips over the crossbow. "You know that I cannot bear to let any prize from my sight, be it weapon or wife."

"Aye, my lord."

Anna glared at him. Bartholomew smiled.

The squires kept custody of the reins, after the knights dismounted, and Anna noted that no one stepped forward to escort the steeds to the stables. They stood together in the middle of the bailey, horses behind them, the baron's men keeping to the perimeter. Leila remained behind Anna with her head bowed.

"Such a breach of hospitality," muttered one of the Templars. "Are we to be treated like vagabonds instead of guests?"

Anna tugged her hood over her brow, just in case any soul looked too closely. In the forest, it had been easy to trust in the protection offered by a change of garb, but now that she stood within the bailey of Haynesdale, she was terrified that she would be recognized.

There was a sudden fanfare, then Sir Royce himself appeared in the portal to the hall. He was much older than Bartholomew and not as tall. His hair was white, though he looked virile and hale. There was the patch over his one eye, but despite that—or perhaps because of it—he was a striking man. He was garbed richly and stood with confidence, a trim man who had earned his way with his blade.

And his savagery.

Anna had to restrain her urge to spit upon him. Bartholomew tightened his grip upon her fingers, evidently having guessed her reaction and granted her a quick sidelong glance of warning. She smiled at him, though she knew her anger showed in her eyes when he arched a brow. She stared at her toes then, apparently demure, and fumed. If they had hurt Percy…

Bartholomew put her hand in his elbow and closed his fingers over her own.

"Welcome to Haynesdale," Sir Royce said, his manner not particularly welcoming. The men bowed to each other, then exchanged introductions. Anna kept her gaze downcast, even as her heart thundered in fear.

"To what do I owe this unanticipated honor and pleasure?" Sir Royce demanded. Though his tone was fulsome, a sharp edge of suspicion touched his manner. Anna spared a glimpse at him, only to see that his eye had narrowed and he surveyed the company assessingly. Aye, it was easy to recall his brutality when his expression was as forbidding as it was in this moment. He considered the two Templars, and Anna wondered whether it had been their presence that had seen the gates opened at all.

"Circumstance alone," Bartholomew replied with apparent cheer. "We ride north but my lady wife tires. We had hoped for a night of rest and would beg your hospitality."

Anna grimaced, disliking that the stop should be blamed upon her supposed feminine frailty. At least with her head bowed, none could see her expression. Bartholomew's grip tightened upon her fingers as if he had guessed it.

He was cursedly observant.

"But why are you on this road?" Royce asked. "Few appreciate its charms."

"And so we were fortunate to do as much," Fergus said, his Scottish accent more pronounced than it had been. "For I thought I recalled the way to Carlisle, but discovered I had erred. This is the mark of my years in Outremer. I nigh forgot my way home!"

The men laughed together at this, though Royce only smiled.

"Your holding has fine forests," Duncan said with approval. "Are they held in trust for the King of England?"

"Of course they are," Royce snapped. "Still you do not tell me why you are here."

"I return to my own wedding in Scotland," Fergus explained with ease. It was as if the knights had not noted the rudeness of their potential host, but Anna knew they could not have missed it. He gestured to Bartholomew. "And my good friend from France accompanies me to wish my lady and I well."

Bartholomew bowed. "And I have been so fortunate as to find a bride myself."

Anna curtseyed low, keeping her head bowed. She could feel Royce looking at her and prayed silently that he would avert his gaze without realizing who she was.

Fergus indicated Duncan. "My man, of course, escorts me as ever he does, and we have been blessed by the companionship and defense of these two noble knights."

"Templars," Royce huffed. "I do not mean to be rude, but why do you have such companions as these?"

"These two knights have served with the order," replied one Templar, his manner so resolute that none would dare challenge him. "So great is the respect of our Grand Master that he insisted we escort Laird Fergus to his home."

Royce was unconvinced. "I have never heard the like," he protested, and Anna feared he would send them from the gates. "I regret that I have no space for guests on this night…" he began, but there was a flutter of activity at the portal to the hall. Sir Royce fell silent and Anna dared to hope they had won a reprieve.