Chapter 4
Avalene reached between the balusters to widen a gap between two of the tapestries that hung from the handrail, certain no one would notice her hiding place since every face was turned toward the entrance to the great hall. She saw only the dark outline of a knight, silhouetted against the last fiery rays of the sun.
At last the knight stepped forward and her gaze was drawn immediately to the silver griffin embroidered on his deep blue surcoat that proclaimed his allegiance to Baron Weston. His long, easy stride proved he was accustomed to the heavy chain-mail hauberk he wore beneath his surcoat, and one gauntleted hand rested on the hilt of his broadsword, the unconscious habit of all knights to keep the tip of the long weapon from striking against the ground as he walked. Curiously enough, he did not remove his helm, which meant she could see nothing of his face.
Even if he were homely or scarred, he radiated the vitality and danger of a warrior in his prime. Tall but not towering, broad-shouldered yet lean in the waist, he was not the sort of man she had expected her father to send. In the past he had delegated this task to elderly or infirm knights and usually sent them in groups of two or three. She suspected it was simply a means to make them continue to feel useful.
There was nothing elderly or infirm about this man. Even if he had traveled all this way on his own, the sight of such a knight would make any thief or brigand hesitate to challenge such a formidable opponent. He appeared very capable of defending himself against any who might be foolish enough to cross him.
He came to a halt directly below her and no matter how she craned her neck, the most she could see was the top of his head when he removed the helmet and tucked it beneath one arm. Although his hair looked thick and dark, she couldn't be certain of its exact color in the dim light. Why she should feel any curiosity over the color of a man's hair was beyond her, but the curiosity was there all the same.
"I bring greetings from my liege lord, Baron Weston."
Avalene smiled, and then immediately frowned when she became aware of her silly reaction to such a simple greeting, especially since his words were not even directed at her. It was the sound of his voice, she decided. Not too deep, yet deeper than most, the smooth cadence was perfection itself. He had a voice that made people want to listen to what he had to say.
"The baron asked that I deliver the coins for his daughter's allowance into your keeping, along with a message." Sir Percival placed a leather purse on the table before Lord Brunor, then reached inside his surcoat and withdrew a rolled parchment scroll. "I can recite the baron's message, if you wish."
"Aye, proceed," said Lord Brunor.
Not that it mattered, but Avalene wondered if her father had warned Sir Percival of Brunor's failing eyesight or if the offer was simple courtesy. Her odd musings ended the moment Sir Percival broke open the wax seal and unrolled the parchment, then began to read aloud.
The baron's message opened with the usual flowery praise for the fine care and instruction his daughter received at Coleway, although Avalene wondered how he could be so certain that Lady Margaret guided her with a "firm but fair hand toward the ideal of English womanhood." As far as she knew, her father received news of her just two times each year from the messengers who delivered her allowance to Coleway. His own letters had never contained a word of praise or pride, or any sentiment that could mislead Avalene into thinking he might sometimes think of her with affection. Long ago she had accepted the fact that there was no longer any room in Baron Weston's heart for his only daughter. His new wife and sons filled that cherished place completely.
She released an impatient sigh when Sir Percival began a passage that related news of her stepmother and two half brothers. This part of the message would be long and glowing, and utterly boring as far as Avalene was concerned. According to her father, his sons were the cleverest boys ever created, while his baroness, Lady Anne, was the perfect wife and mother. It was hard to stir up sisterly affection for two brothers she had never met, born of a woman she secretly despised for taking her own mother's place in her father's heart.
While Sir Percival read through the baron's boasts of his sons' latest feats and accomplishments, Avalene began to mentally compose a glowing report of her own actions to send back with Sir Percival. Her father needed to know that she had learned—and mastered—the duties and responsibilities of a great household, and that she looked forward to the day she would become the wife of an important man who would prove a powerful ally to her family in Wales.
Or, perhaps she should be bolder and tell him that she would rather be roasted alive than marry one of Brunor's knights and be forced to remain little more than a servant at Coleway, burdened with all the duties of a chatelaine and more, but with none of the power that was owed only to the lady of a castle. She would not last more than another year before the lectures and torments at Coleway drove her mad. It was past time for her to marry and leave her family's home for that of her husband's. She said a silent prayer that it would happen very soon.
"Negotiations with the Segraves continue to move slowly," said Sir Percival.
Avalene leaned closer to the balcony railing, her own report suddenly forgotten.
"Lower your voice, Sir Percival," said Lord Brunor, motioning for him to move closer. "The servants have no need to hear this part of the baron's message."
Sir Percival stepped as close as he could to the table and leaned forward, then he continued the message in a much quieter voice. The others in the great hall tried to pretend indifference even whilst they whispered among themselves in tones loud enough to obscure even the smallest hints of Sir Percival's words. Only John, Lord Brunor, and Lady Margaret were close enough to hear the conversation.
Avalene scowled. She could hear nothing of the news that concerned her most. Did the negotiations move slowly because the baron feared for her safety? That thought seemed unlikely, since most fathers would leap at the chance to align their family with the powerful Segraves, no matter the rumors about Faulke. After all, daughters were expendable. The alliance made by her marriage would survive, even if she did not.
Doubts about her well-being should not be a concern, and yet what she knew of Faulke Segrave, along with the rumors she had heard of him, was hardly comforting. She would be his fourth wife, although that was not an unusual situation if a man were her father's age. Yet Faulke Segrave was just a few years older than Avalene and had managed to become a widower three times in less than a decade. The death of a wife in childbirth was not all that uncommon, and even the loss of two wives in such a manner within a short span of time would not be unheard of. But according to the most widely known and accepted facts, Faulke's first wife had died after a mysterious fall down a stone stairway, the second wife had died in childbirth, and the third wife had died from an odd fever that had not affected anyone else. Compounding the strange deaths was the fact that Faulke had married very young the first time, supposedly in a love match to a woman who brought little to the marriage, and then she conveniently died when a wealthy heiress caught his attention and later became his second wife. After her death he quickly married another heiress from an even more powerful family. Now there were rumors that the third wife had died when Faulke discovered there was a potential bride with strong blood ties to the last royal Welsh prince and hero, Llewellyn the Great.
No one at Coleway Castle knew of Avalene's relationship to Llewellyn, not even her aunt and uncle. Everyone was aware of her Welsh blood, of course, and the fact that her mother was a Welsh noblewoman. However, while people speculated upon her direct relationship to the Welsh prince, no one actually believed it. Her father had taught her to dismiss any claims as gossip and exaggeration.
John had convinced Lord Brunor and Lady Margaret that the facts of Avalene's lineage were fabrications since, in his words, Every Welshman boasts of blood ties to Llewellyn whether they exist or not, and the Welsh are such good liars that they have all convinced themselves they are Llewellyn's long-lost sons and daughters .
In truth, only the most foolish Welshmen boasted of such ties because everyone knew Llewellyn's descendants tended to live short lives. Those who were not killed in battle or executed for treason were imprisoned. All potential heirs to Llewellyn's throne were made wards of King Edward's most trusted noblemen, but all of those children died as mysteriously and suspiciously as Faulke Segrave's wives.
Fortunately, her grandmother had escaped her imprisonment in a convent and no one had kept a close eye on the female line until more recent years when the direct male line died out. By that time, Avalene's mother had been well cloaked in anonymity, having even kept the truth of her heritage from her husband until several years after their marriage. Avalene's father had quickly realized the wisdom of keeping the secret. By the time her mother died when Avalene was nine, she had been taught to recite her mother's family tree as easily as her name, but to never let anyone but her father hear the names of her ancestors.
Had the Segraves somehow learned her secret and another of Faulke's brides died because of it? It was a disturbing coincidence, but she felt certain her father would have discovered the truth of the situation before he agreed to a betrothal. He might have all but forgotten her since his new wife and family came along, but surely he would not tie her to a man who would murder her when a better prospect presented itself. His last missive indicated that he was favorable to the match, and so she had every expectation of becoming Faulke Segrave's next bride. Indeed, she looked forward to her marriage and felt certain the betrothal would be announced very soon…as long as Lady Margaret quit interfering in the situation.
Whatever her father's thoughts were on the matter of the Segraves, Avalene could hear none of them. The tapestry that concealed her hiding place also made it impossible to eavesdrop on the quiet conversation taking place below her. She braced her hands on the railing and rose to a half-crouch, and then turned her head sideways so her ear rested close to the top of the railing. The tapestries no longer muffled the sounds from the hall, but Sir Percival's words were still no more than indistinct murmurs. She lifted herself a few inches higher and leaned farther over the railing.
Dante Chiavari knew of the girl's presence on the gallery above him, likely a chambermaid who could not resist the opportunity to eavesdrop. He dismissed her from his thoughts as more nuisance than threat. What concerned him most at the moment was Lady Margaret's reaction to her brother's missive.
"This will not do," Margaret said. She had produced a handkerchief from her sleeve halfway through Dante's recitation of Baron Weston's plans for his daughter. The delicate scrap of fabric was well on its way to being shredded between Margaret's hands. "Tell him, John. Tell him why Avalene must not be allowed to leave Coleway."
Dante's gaze lingered a moment on Lord Brunor, who still appeared more concerned with his meal than the fate of his niece, then moved on to the man seated to Lord Brunor's right. John had already identified himself as the castle's steward and his oily smile made Dante take an immediate dislike to him. Aside from being garbed from head to foot in a rather startling shade of red, his features resembled those of Lord Brunor closely enough for Dante to assume they were kin of some sort. However, unlike Lord Brunor, there was a sharp, calculating look in John's eyes that immediately set Dante's instincts on alert. Very little would escape this man's notice. There was also the fact that the steward's opinions seemed to hold great sway over both the lord and lady. He could prove troublesome.
"The time for reason may be at an end," John said thoughtfully. "You have tried to warn your brother of Avalene's shortcomings, but he seems determined to move forward with arrangements for this match. I fear there is little more you can do to avert this tragedy."
"Tragedy?" Dante echoed.
"'Tis obvious Baron Weston told you little of Avalene's…character," Margaret answered. "The Segraves' holdings are vast compared to Coleway. The wife of Faulke Segrave will be expected to oversee several great households and hundreds of servants. Avalene can scarce manage a few simple duties here at Coleway without constant oversight by John. He is ever correcting her foolish mistakes. The girl is incapable of managing a household of any size, and we would all be best served if she were to remain at Coleway where John can keep an eye on her and we can all provide her the guidance she needs."
"The girl is not stupid," Brunor said at last, as if he'd read Dante's thoughts. "A bit lazy, perhaps, but no more so than most young women her age. The responsibilities of a husband and children will give her the maturity she needs, but I am in agreement with John and Lady Margaret. Despite their efforts to mold the girl into a responsible young woman, she will never master the duties required of a chatelaine. Such tasks are beyond Avalene's capabilities. I conveyed as much to Baron Weston in my last missive and suggested she remain at Coleway as wife to one of my knights. What says Weston to that suggestion?"
Dante had no idea. "The baron did not make me privy to such a suggestion or his opinions on the matter. My only instructions are to collect his daughter and return her safely to Weston. As the baron's message relays, I am also aware that he intends to move forward with her betrothal to Faulke Segrave, pending the king's approval of course."
"We should send a more strongly worded message to my brother," Lady Margaret said to her husband. "Oh! We should send John! He is sure to make Reynard see reason."
"My orders are clear," Dante said, in a voice that had all three of them looking up at him. "I am to leave Coleway within two days of my arrival, and Lady Avalene will accompany me."
"How dare you—"
"Be silent," Brunor told his wife. "He has his orders. I have stated our case to your brother, and he has made other plans. You must accept it. Avalene is Weston's daughter and he wants her returned to Wales. 'Tis our duty to make certain this man fulfills his orders."
Margaret leaned closer to Brunor and they began to exchange heated words, but Dante scarcely paid attention to them. A fine silt of wood dust drifted downward through the air, and then a few small bits of rotted wood brushed down his arm. He assessed the situation in an instant. The railing above him was about to give way. Unless the chambermaid had sense enough to immediately move back from the railing, she was about to land on the head table and perhaps injure Lord Brunor or Lady Margaret, and probably break her own neck in the process.
His readiness to protect the lord and lady would assure "Sir Percival's" acceptance at Coleway and play on the chivalry that Mordecai had urged him to exploit. He made his decision in a split second, just as the creak of rotted wood warned him of the impending disaster. He took a quick step sideways to position himself directly below the girl, and then he braced himself for the impact.
Women screamed, men shouted, and Dante calmly caught the bloodred bundle that hurtled toward him. He had to take a step backward to absorb the blow as she landed in his arms, but he managed easily enough. She weighed no more than his tourney saddle. It was the color of her garments that made him frown, the same bloodred color as the steward's. He had already noticed the odd groupings of colors in the hall, how all the knights and their wives wore the same shade of green. It seemed logical that the steward's wife would follow suit, but why would she be spying from the gallery?
The girl remained strangely silent even after he recovered his balance, as if she didn't realize the danger of her fall and had expected someone to catch her. Perhaps the fright had robbed her of speech. The cloud of blond hair and a gauzy red veil made it impossible to read her expression. Deep blue eyes flecked with gold were all he could see of her face. Her wide-eyed gaze reflected surprise, and amazingly, an intense light of curiosity, as if she found something fascinating about his face. As if she recognized him.
The sudden knowledge of her identity came without warning, an unexpected and unwelcome revelation. She was not the steward's wife. This was his victim.
"Oh, good Lord!" Lady Margaret rose from her seat only to turn and collapse against her husband's chest. "Lord Brunor! My goodness! Oh, my…"
Dante ignored Margaret's hysterics, his attention held by the hauntingly familiar eyes of the woman in his arms. Did she somehow recognize him as well? Did she know his true identity? Aside from his lingering worry that she would suddenly decide to denounce him for an imposter, he sensed intelligence and depth in her steady gaze. But there was something else about her, something in her eyes that held him captive.
Desire .
He couldn't recall the last time a woman had looked at him with such obvious longing, if ever. He terrified those who knew what he was and he avoided those who didn't. In the guise of "Sir Percival," this one gazed up at him as if he were indeed a noble knight, as if she had landed exactly where she wanted to be.
He drew a deep breath to clear his muddled senses, then another when he caught the trace of an odd scent. The girl smelled of…roasted meat.
Lady Margaret recovered her composure in short order and launched into a lecture that did not allow for explanations. She barely stopped to draw a breath. "You could have been killed, if not for Sir Percival's intervention. Nay, worse than that, you could have killed yourself and Sir Percival! And look at yourself, your gown dirty, your veil ruined. You will explain this…this outrage at once."
Avalene reached up to pull the tangled veil away from her face just as Dante realized he had held her for an unseemly amount of time. With a silent curse, he released her legs as if they had burned him and her feet hit the ground before her knees were ready to hold her upright. Both of his arms went around her shoulders and he ended up all but embracing her to make sure she did not fall. Even worse, the hair and veil came away from her face at the same moment. He had intended to ask if she had injured herself, but something in his chest seemed to shift to his throat, rendering him speechless.
Mordecai's card had given him a general idea of what she would look like. A simple painting that could never do the original justice. Beneath the crooked circlet and tangled mop of hair was a delicate, heart-shaped face that took his breath away. High cheekbones, a small nose, full, sensual lips, and eyes that invited him to her bed without speaking a word. He doubted she had any knowledge of the words. The look in her eyes was not that of a practiced courtesan, but the innocent adoration of a maid when she gazed upon her beloved.
His cold blood thawed so quickly that even his bones felt warmed. He wanted to shake some sense into her. Didn't she realize what that look of hers could do to a man?
He managed to tear his gaze from her face long enough to compose his senses, marshaling every thread of common sense to force himself to view her through safe, lifeless eyes. Rather than moon over the beauty of her face, he moved his gaze lower to gauge how easily her slender neck would fit between his hands. Soon he was fixated on the pulse point at the base of her neck that betrayed the rapid fluttering of her heart.
He was a man accustomed to making hearts beat with fear, yet when he looked at her face she appeared unafraid. She even wet her lips as her gaze moved slowly over him. It was nothing more than a nervous gesture, he told himself, even as he watched the tip of her tongue trace its path and wondered what other parts of her would be such a delightful shade of pink.
His gaze drifted lower again, but this time he couldn't imagine his hands around her neck for any reason but to stroke the smooth, white column, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. The gown's modest neckline revealed a tempting glimpse of even softer flesh, skin so luminescent that the color reminded him of pearls. She looked too warm and vibrant to be an Englishman's ideal of beauty, but even the barbaric English must recognize perfection when they saw it. He couldn't stop staring at her. Likely all men reacted in the same besotted fashion. This was what Mordecai had tried to warn him about.
"Sir Percival?" She reached out to lay her hand on his chest. Although he could not feel the pressure of her hand through the chain mail and padding, he was sure he felt the warmth of her touch. His chest began to burn. "You were not hurt?"
Hurt? He shook his head. He was not hurt. He was devastated. How else could he describe the force that rendered him both powerless and invincible at the same time? She stirred emotions that were little more than vague memories, so far removed from mere physical need and so long forgotten that he scarce recognized the feelings. Warmth seeped through him like a heady draught of mulled wine. Her lips parted again and his blood caught fire.
"Sir Percival?" A shadow of concern darkened her eyes. "Are you injured? I could not forgive myself, truly, did I injure you." She reached toward his face, hesitated, and then her hand curled back toward her chest as though she feared he would recoil from her touch.
Moving away from her was the last thing he would do. Everything about her drew him in, and yet, at the same time, everything about her warned him to stay away. His gaze went to the hand that still rested on his chest, so small and insignificant. The fingers were slender and well-shaped, the soft, white hand of a lady. He imagined her hand against his bare skin, even though he knew she would never knowingly touch anything so foul or corrupt.
Aye, he was injured in places she would never know. And he would wager a fortune that she had never known anything like him in her short, sheltered life. Beneath the disguise of a knight lay the true face of evil, a demon that lusted after innocence. And if he did not get these strange emotions under control, she would soon learn exactly what sort of monster she was gazing upon so adoringly. He shook his head again in an effort to clear his befuddled senses. Gesù . The girl was a witch.
"'Tis obvious your fall has rattled the poor man's wits, Avalene."
The shrewd undercurrent in the steward's voice un- rattled his wits in short order. He gave the man a curt glance. "Everything happened rather quickly. I needed but a moment to gather my thoughts."
"You are unsettled," John went on, his gaze focused sharply on Dante. "'Tis a common enough condition in Avalene's presence."
So, the steward was aware of his interest in the girl. A regrettable mistake, the kind he had not made in a very long time. In his world, truth was an illusion built upon lies, a place where one wrong word, one wrong gesture could cost his life. To argue against John's suspicions now would only confirm them. Instead he set Avalene an arm's length away from him, and then inclined his head in agreement with John. "I find it most unsettling when pretty maidens fall from the sky. Does this happen often here at Coleway?"
The corners of John's false smile tightened as a sprinkling of laughter moved through the crowd.
Dante turned toward Avalene and dropped to one knee before the girl. He bowed his head, the very picture of a chivalrous knight. Mordecai would likely laugh aloud if he saw him now. "I hope you took no offense at my boldness. Pray forgive any impertinence, my lady?"
"Ah, I…you are forgiven," Avalene said. "That is, there is nothing to forgive. Please, there is no need to…I am entirely in your debt, Sir Percival. Please rise. Are you certain you were not injured?"
"Not in the least," he assured her as he stood up.
"Enough, enough," said Lord Brunor. "Sir Percival has delivered his message and rescued the maiden. 'Tis time for the poor man to enjoy the comforts of our home and hospitality, a just reward after his long journey. Sir Percival, the chamberlain will show you to quarters above the garrison. In the meantime, you are welcome to partake of our feast. Perhaps a bit of ale will restore your wits."
"Thank you, Lord Brunor. I appreciate—"
"There will be naught but a cold pallet in the garrison for Sir Percival," Margaret interrupted. "The comfort of a warm bed is the least we can offer the man to show our gratitude for his heroic rescue of our niece. The turret room near my solar should do nicely. Avalene, see that the room is prepared for Sir Percival and move what you will need to the solar. You nap often enough on the window cushions. They should make you an adequate bed for the next few nights."
Dante could tell by the way the other three looked at Margaret that something odd was afoot. He could scarce credit the notion, but it sounded as if Margaret meant to put him in Avalene's chamber and move the girl just a short distance down a hallway. It was unheard of to quarter a visiting knight anywhere near an unwed noblewoman. Surely he had misheard.
John was the first to find his voice. "My lady, this is most…unseemly. I feel certain Sir Percival would prefer the company of other knights and soldiers in the quarters above the garrison."
"Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with rewarding a man for noble deeds. Putting him in a room with a warm brazier and a soft bed is the least we can do." Margaret waved her hand to dismiss John's objection, although she gave her husband a sideways glance. "My mind is set upon the matter. Avalene, I will accompany you to make certain everything is prepared as I wish." She rose, then turned toward her husband. "My lord, if you will excuse us?"
"Aye, be off with you both," Brunor said, as he reached for a pitcher of ale, only to find it empty.
Avalene dropped into a curtsey before Dante. "Thank you again for your rescue, Sir Percival."
The proper response to her polite gesture was a gallant bow and then an offer of his hand to help her rise. Instead he found himself frozen in place by this alternate view of what he had so recently considered a modest neckline. Even the most banal response was beyond his ability. For the first time in his memory, he was dumbstruck. All he could do was stare in dazed admiration as she rose from her curtsey to follow her aunt to the stairway. He shook his head again, knowing the gown revealed far less of Avalene than the gowns of many other ladies in the great hall. Still, hers was the only gown he had peered down the front of. He sincerely hoped he was the only man who had ever enjoyed that view, because he had an insane urge to plant his fist in the face of any other male who had even imagined such a sight.
"John, there is a decided lack of refreshment," Brunor said, interrupting Dante's thoughts. "Find someone in the kitchens who can see that the pitchers are replenished, and then meet with the chamberlain to discuss the preparations that need be made to send Avalene off to Wales in two days. You will also speak with the carpenters about the repairs needed in the gallery. I will expect your report in the morning."
"Of course," John said, his oily smile firmly in place. "Avalene was supposed to— Ah, but that is of no consequence. I will see to the ale immediately. Perhaps I should meet with the chamberlain and carpenter after the feast so I can be here to serve you should anything else go awry."
Brunor gave John a pointed look. "I wish to speak with Sir Percival in private."
John looked as if he had bit into a green apple, but he set off to do as he was bid after muttering, "Aye, my lord."
"Have a seat, Sir Percival." Brunor indicated the chair that Margaret had recently vacated, then signaled to a servant. A fresh trencher piled high with slices of meat and fish soon appeared along with another pitcher of ale and a mug for Dante. Brunor waited until the servants had retreated before he spoke, and then in a tone only Dante could hear. "Is Reynard certain he wants to tie his daughter and his allegiance to the Segraves?"
Dante took out the small dagger he used for meals and then began to toy with the crumbling white meat of a fish fillet as he considered his answer. Telling as much of the truth as possible was always the easiest and most successful ploy. "The baron's mind is set on the matter. The Segraves will be a powerful ally on Weston's southern borders, and he wants this marriage to take place as soon as possible."
"Then you had best heed well this warning," Brunor said, as he leaned closer. "My wife intends to do everything within her power to put you in bed with Avalene."