Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

Chapter Four

The de Longspey party was up betimes, all their possessions packed. Rosamund was not foolish enough to believe that Fitz Osbern would not be true to his word. Her plan was risky. A dangerous wager. Had her blood father not been fond of wagers? Until one had killed him when he had risked a raid on a neighbouring Marcher lord’s prize cattle, and that lord retaliated with a storm of fatal arrows. But there were no arrows here to kill and maim. At worst a cold wind and heavy showers, but discomfort would be the only danger. The prize, if her plan worked, would be weightier than gold. Her freedom more precious than any jewel.

She would show Lord Fitz Osbern that she was not a woman to be underestimated.

‘Wear your warmest clothes,’ she advised. ‘As many layers as you can. And leave the quilts unpacked to be placed on top of the wagon. And …’ she fixed both the Dowager Countess and Edith the serving woman with an intimidating eye ‘… not a word of complaint.’

Fitz Osbern and de Mortimer watched from the gatehouse tower as the little cavalcade started out, four of their own men in attendance as promised to ensure safe passage to Hereford. Deliberately the Lord of Monmouth had absented himself when the ladies had broken their fast, so there had been no final communication between them. There was nothing more to say. He had made his intentions clear enough. No need to bandy words again with the girl. He saw them move slowly from the gates beneath him with relief.

‘That sees the end of my immediate problem.’ He turned his back to walk down the stairs into the bailey, looking up to address de Mortimer over his shoulder. ‘Will you leave, Hugh? I can’t offer you comfortable hospitality yet, but you’re welcome to what I have.’ He gave a wry grimace in acknowledgement of their disreputable surroundings.

‘Tomorrow, I think.’ Still inclined to keep the little party in view, de Mortimer made to follow.

‘I shall start some rebuilding here.’ Fitz Osbern, oblivious to his friend’s distraction, was surveying the flooded inner court. ‘And then I shall—’

‘My lord, my lord …’ The voice echoed from a guard above their heads. ‘I think you should come and look …’

They climbed once again to the gatehouse battlements. Looked over. Frowned. Within little more than two hundred yards of the gate, on the flat piece of flood plain between castle, river and village, the well-loaded wagon had come to a halt. Fitz Osbern’s mounted escort dismounted. Quilts were being shaken out, some of the packages unloaded on to the grass. The soldiers, after some conversation with the more eye-catching of the distant figures who waved her arm in obvious dismissal, turned their horses to return to the castle.

‘God’s blood!’

‘I did warn you,’ Hugh remarked. ‘The lady has a war-like look in her eye. She looks as if she intends to stay. She’s pitched her camp, you could say …’

Ignoring the amusement in de Mortimer’s voice, Fitz Osbern watched in startled disbelief as the figures spread the quilts on the ground, wrapped themselves securely in their cloaks, hoods pulled up, and sat down to await events.

‘A whim,’ Fitz Osbern muttered. ‘She’ll soon tire of it. By midmorning they’ll be gone. I’d wager my sword on it.’ He marched off.

‘I wouldn’t!’ Hugh de Mortimer called after him, laughing.

The rain started, at first a light soaking mist. Then a heavier patter.

‘This’ll do it, Hugh.’ The Marcher lords had been unable to resist returning to their vantage point to assess developments. The women were as they had been some hours ago, but now the quilts had been pulled over their heads, the three figures huddled beneath and together for warmth. It was possible to just make out the dark shape through the rain.

‘You have to give her credit, though.’

‘For what?’ Fitz Osbern struck his fist against the stone coping, but a little thread of worry, even shame, had begun to slide along his skin. ‘Obstinacy and hard-headedness? If she thinks she’ll shame me into opening the gates and inviting her back, she’s wrong!’

The intensity of the rain increased.

‘What are we doing, Rosamund?’ Petronilla cringed beneath the quilts, unnaturally but understandably petulant. ‘We shall die here. I can feel an ague coming on. I can feel the damp settling into my bones. I don’t want to die here in the mud.’ Her voice hitched in misery. ‘I would rather be at Lower Broadheath.’

‘And so you shall be.’ Rosamund put her arm round her mother’s shoulders. ‘Of course we will not die. No man of chivalry, not even Fitz Osbern, would allow that to happen. Just wait a little longer.’ She patted the hand of Edith, who had begun to sob.

‘Are you sure he’s a man of honour?’ Petronilla sniffed. ‘I’m not. Lord de Mortimer perhaps, but not Fitz Osbern.’

‘Perhaps he’s not. But de Mortimer will persuade him, will not allow it even if it’s only to save you from discomfort. I would say he’s very taken with you.’

All Lady Petronilla could do was splutter into the damp neck of her cloak.

‘I won’t give in. Not yet. Be courageous, Mother. We have so much to gain. I promise I’ll not allow you to come to any harm.’

Rosamund tucked another quilt around Petronilla, uneasily aware that she might indeed be putting her mother’s health in danger, sitting in the cold grass as the rain swirled around them. And what guarantee that the man would back down? There was none. But now was no time for second thoughts—she could afford to retreat as little as he. He had rejected her once and could readily do so again. He did not even remember her! Pride spurred her on, just as the anger racing through her blood kept her warm.

The rain pattered heavily on the soaked quilts.

‘Is she still out there?’

‘Yes! God’s Blood!’

‘Ger—you must do something. It’s neither seemly nor honourable.’

Gervase Fitz Osbern huffed a breath against the worry that had become a distinct unease. ‘If only the daughter were as biddable as the mother. Very well. I can’t leave them out there. I must try persuasion rather than brute force. I’ll send de Byton out to fetch them in—until better travelling weather. But further than that I will not bend. They can’t stay here.’

On hearing the approach of hooves, Rosamund lifted the quilt and peered out to see de Byton, surly, reining in his horse.

‘Well?’ She scented victory, but kept her face stern.

De Byton wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘My lord says you’re to come within, lady.’

‘No. We will not. Tell your master—for it seems you have betrayed your de Longspey loyalties—’ heavy irony despite water dripping from her hood ‘—tell him I need to hear it from his own lips that I shall be invited back. That I shall be allowed to stay for as long as I wish. That I shall not be bullied into departing against my will.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And that I shall have the solar and the private chamber for my own use. He must come here and tell me himself. Do you understand?’

A short grunt was the only reply. De Byton wheeled his horse and cantered back.

‘She says what?’

De Byton repeated the conversation with relish and a rare disgust for all womenkind, at that moment fully appreciated by Fitz Osbern. ‘She’s intransigent, my lord. She’ll hear it only from yourself, my lord.’

‘Will she, now?’ The icy flash of anger did not bode well. Fitz Osbern leaned on the battlement and fixed his attention on de Mortimer, an idea developing. He faced his friend, expression bland.

‘A simple solution. You could fetch them in, Hugh. Your words would be kinder than mine. You have a gift when appealing to the soft heart of a woman …’

‘No. I won’t. You’re going to have to grasp the dagger’s edge, Ger. It’s you she wants, your assurance. You have no choice.’

Nor did he, Gervase acknowledged, as he wiped the rain from his face. She had won her battle. But what would be the consequences for him? Uncomfortable with his line of thought, he shrugged his shoulders against the weight of his wet jerkin. What would it be like for him to have this woman as effective chatelaine of his castle? When it should have been Matilda, his young wife who had not lived long enough to make the place her own. He frowned at the unwanted memory. A soft, pretty, fair-haired girl, who would have been a good wife to him, carried his children, presented him with an heir to the Fitz Osbern lands; with tuition from him, she would have held the reins of power in his name. But Matilda was dead and in her place, if he weakened, he would have this de Longspey woman on his hands, who needed no lessons from him in exerting her will, and who would surely see his retreat as a victory over him, and take it as a precedent.

He did not want that. He definitely did not want that.

Yet Gervase looked out at the sad little party under their soaked coverings and exhaled loudly. No, he had no choice but to take them back. Even if it meant Rosamund de Longspey stepping on the hem of Matilda’s increasingly shadowy gown.

‘I dislike surrender,’ Gervase snarled.

‘No such thing,’ De Mortimer replied cheerfully. ‘See it as an organised retreat before superior forces.’

‘God’s bones!’

‘Well, lady, I’m here, as you requested.’

‘I did not think you would come.’ Rosamund scrambled from under the covering despite the relentless downpour, face raised to him, noting the heavy scowl, but determined to hold firm. Regardless of the rain, regardless of her heavily thudding heart, she fixed her eyes on his, praying that he would not think the raindrops on her lashes were a sign of female weakness.

‘What do you want from me?’ Fitz Osbern demanded.

‘To return. I’m sure de Byton informed you of my terms, my lord.’

Rosamund had almost given up. She would admit to it. She knew that her mother would stand with her to the bitter end, but how could she be so thoughtless of Lady Petronilla’s welfare for much longer? She was on the very edge of ordering that they load up the wagon and find shelter in the village. Or even in Hereford itself before she took her mother on to Lower Broadheath, where she deserved to be in all comfort. Rosamund’s conscience had been on the point of pushing her to abandon her defiance to make that decision. There was, after all, a limit to the power of pride when dealing with those she loved, so few as they were. But now against all hope the bane of her existence was here, sitting his horse before her with all the arrogance she had come to recognise, and so she would not weaken. She raised her chin against a probable rejection.

‘Well, my lord?’

The stare was as cold as the rain that trickled down her spine. The voice as harsh as the wind that moulded her sodden skirts against her legs. But the words were the golden chime of victory.

‘You have won, lady. I have come to tell you that I agree to your terms.’

Rain dripped from the end of her straight nose, spangled her lashes. Translucent as a pearl, her skin glowed through the moisture. Fitz Osbern found it difficult to look away as he dismounted and stood before her. She was probably soaked to the skin through every inch of her clothing, her face was pale, her eyes wide with tension. He could see her whole body was braced against the chill that would have made her teeth chatter if she had allowed it. But her courage was unbroken as her head was unbowed, as she was magnificent in her determination to achieve her goal. A pity it was at his expense. The muscles in his gut tightened in—well, in concern, he told himself as she shuddered with a sudden cold blast of wind. But his anger was stirred as well, a faint ripple of it beneath the admiration, that she had bested him.

‘You will agree to them? All of them?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ He inhaled, praying for patience. ‘I want you to return with me.’

‘For as long as I wish?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you will not force me out again?’

‘No.’ A veritable growl. ‘As I agreed. Not unless it is by your own choice.’

‘And I can have the solar and the private chamber for my own use?’

‘Have I not said as much?’

‘On your oath, my lord.’ He saw her eyes shine through the wet.

‘Do you want blood as well? On my oath, lady.’ He clapped his hand to his chest somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, a deliberately dramatic gesture.

The lady managed a brisk nod. ‘Then we will return.’

‘Amen to that. Let’s all get under cover before we die of this infernal downpour.’ He tore his eyes from her brilliant gaze and bent to help Edith to her feet, then Petronilla, who was neatly folding quilts around her. ‘Leave those, my lady. I will see to it.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I am grateful.’ The clutch of her hand on his expressed her heartfelt gratitude, easing his acute sense of defeat at her daughter’s hands.

‘Thank de Mortimer for your rescue. I was tempted to leave you here all night.’ But his eyes were warm, belying his hard words as he handed the lady over to the care of one of his men-at-arms.

As he had expected, he found no gratitude whatsoever in Rosamund’s face, only the triumph of a victory snatched against all the odds. But he saw that she waited until her mother and the maid were cared for, lifted on to horseback, watching as they were carried back the short distance to the gatehouse, before she considered her own comfort. Then she looked across at him, dishevelled and muddy as she was, the challenge still there, but also the vestige of a plea that he knew she would never willingly voice. As well as a deep weariness—it seemed to him from more than merely making her stand against him in appalling conditions, but as if the battle she had just fought was a bloody conflict, vital to her. Any remaining anger toward her dissipated. All he felt was a desire to lift the burden—whatever it might be—from her shoulders.

He held out his hand, palm up.

‘Come, lady, sheath your sword. You can fight the battle another day. I think you’ve done enough for now.’

She considered him, even now resisting. ‘I’ll walk back. It’s a mere step. I don’t need—’

Stubborn to the last! Why did that not surprise him? ‘No!’ He stopped her. ‘You will accept my offer of help. And you’ll not argue the point.’ Fitz Osbern swung up on to his horse, leaned and reached down his hand, in invitation or demand, whichever way she chose to see it. He would brook no denial. And Rosamund, presumably reading the determination stamped on his firm mouth, his tense jaw, accepted, without comment, and in one lithe movement was lifted to the saddle before him where he settled her firmly in his arms and, with a click of his tongue, a shortening of the reins, urged his horse into a walk.

The girl sat rigid, precariously balanced, holding her body away from him as if she could not bear that he should touch her. If his stallion spooked, she would surely fall off.

‘I won’t bite,’ he murmured against her wet hood, impatience returning. ‘Or not yet at any rate. And I’d rather not have to stop and dismount to pick you up out of the mud.’

Although she made no reply, he knew that she had heard. She stiffened. Then, with a little sigh, she leaned back against his chest and the support of his arms.

So Gervase, with curling strands of his enemy’s hair escaping her hood and brushing his chin, contemplated what might lie ahead considering the terms he had just agreed to. He was not optimistic for the outcome. For one thing, it could have no permanency. She could not stay at Clifford for ever, no matter what he had promised. Some suitable arrangement must be made for her. But the de Longspey heiress was too wilful by half, with no sense of what was reasonable behaviour. He simply could not see a clear path here.

The stallion side-stepped as Bryn loped beneath his hooves, causing Gervase to settle the woman more firmly against him. She did not resist. Indeed, he felt her fingers close on his arm and her body settle more closely against his, her spine relaxing. But then he recalled the previous day when some species of fear—or so he had thought—had robbed her face of all colour. Perhaps he should take the time to discover the cause of such a reaction to his threat to turn her out. As for the moment, he was forced to acknowledge a pleasure in simply holding her close, the curve of her breast against his forearm.

Fitz Osbern dismounted in the bailey. He reached up to Rosamund and, his hands at her waist, helped her to slide down to her feet. Rosamund would have stood alone, calling on her dignity to hold her erect and still defiant, but the cold and damp had had their effect, stiffening her limbs. She staggered as her cold feet took her weight, so that momentarily she clung to his arms for balance, grateful when he held her.

His first words startled her.

‘Did I do that?’

Looking down, she saw the faintest of shadows of a bruise on her wrist. And remembered that he had restrained her the previous night. ‘Yes.’

‘I will never hurt you again.’ Soft-voiced, Fitz Osbern gently touched the mark with his fingertips, then astonished her further by bending his head to press his lips there.

‘Don’t …!’

‘Don’t what?’

‘I don’t want your attentions …’ She snatched her hand away. Surely he would feel the tumultuous blood pulsing, racing through her veins, if he kissed her wrist again?

His eyes darkened, his mood changed immediately. ‘If you mean by my attentions that you don’t want my mouth against your skin—then don’t put yourself in my way, lady. You have won your victory today. Make sure it’s not at a price you are unwilling to pay.’

Rosamund could not believe her ears. Her lips parted in shock.

And Fitz Osbern promptly kissed them. Fast, but very thoroughly.

‘Well, Rose? What have you to say now?’

She gasped. Could think of nothing sensible. ‘That I have not given you leave to use my name in that way,’ she managed finally.

And before he could do or say anything further, tearing herself away from his relaxed hold, Rosamund fled to her chamber where, considerate beyond anything Rosamund could have believed, Fitz Osbern had already left instructions for water to be heated for the women, and the wooden tub to be carried there. The courtesy passed unnoticed. Fear gripped her, a depth of dread of which she had no experience. She had feared marriage with Ralph de Morgan. This emotion was entirely different. Her heart thundered, her cheeks coloured to the tint of a winter pippin. She was very much afraid of the Wild Hawk. Her reaction to him was quite inappropriate. Pressing her fingers to her mouth, she realised that she could still taste his kiss. And ran her tongue slowly over her lips to savour it.

This can’t last, Rosamund, Fitz Osbern thought. It’s like living in the middle of a thunderstorm.

It hung over them, a deep and lowering threat. The whole fortress waited uneasily, holding its breath for the approaching cataclysm. It could not be expected that Fitz Osbern and de Longspey would live amicably side by side for long. Disputed ownership would have to end some time, whatever promise had been forced from him when under pressure.

Before the storm could break, Hugh de Mortimer made his departure, his own concerns in Hereford needing his attention. He acknowledged to himself a reluctance to go. He would like to watch the outcome of this imminent clash of wills. He parted from Fitz Osbern when they broke their fast on a late dawn, the first lightening of the sky heralding a fine day.

‘Farewell, Ger. You’re well settled then, I think.’

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