Lady Rowena's Ruin

Duty, Honour, Truth, Valour

The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting Medieval mini-series by

Carol Townend

The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knight’s colours flying high across the roaring crowd—nothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.

And tournaments bring other dangers too.

Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn towards a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.

Only these powerful knights stand in their way.

But what of the women who stand beside them?

Find out in

Carol Townend’s

Knights of Champagne

Powerful swordsmen for passionate ladies

Author Note

Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honour—and sometimes lose honour! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the county of Champagne where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princess—daughter of King Louis of France and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marie’s splendid artistic court in Troyes rivalled Queen Eleanor’s in Poitiers.

The books in my Knights of Champagne mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends. They are original romances set around the Troyes court and the town of Provins, which is also in Champagne. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétien—and I was keen to give the ladies a more active role, since Chrétien’s ladies tend to be too passive for today’s reader.

Apart from brief glimpses of Count Henry and Countess Marie, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval cities to create the Troyes and Provins in these books, but the stories are first and foremost fictional.

Lady Rowena’s Ruin

Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL TOWNEND was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the medieval period, Carol read History at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at caroltownend.co.uk.

To Susie with love and sincere thanks for many years of help and encouragement.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

May 1175—Jutigny Castle, near Provins in the County of Champagne.

It was some time since Sir Eric de Monfort had visited Jutigny Castle and it was strange to be back. As a boy, the place had once been his home. Leaving his horse in the capable hands of one of the grooms, Eric crossed the bailey with his squire, Alard, and headed for the steps leading to the great hall.

Jutigny hadn’t changed much, the keep towered over everyone just as it always had done, and the pale gleam of new wood on the walkway up on the curtain wall proved that Lord Faramus de Sainte-Colombe was keeping his defences in order. There was the familiar string of outbuildings, the chapel, the cookhouse...

Sir Macaire, the castle steward and an old friend, was standing in the hall doorway, talking to a castle sergeant. His face lightened. ‘Eric, thank God you’re here! Lord Faramus is getting impatient, you can go straight in.’

‘I need a mug of ale first,’ Eric said, going to a side table and picking up the ale jug. ‘I’ve been at the fair in Provins all morning and I’m parched. Lord Faramus didn’t mention that the matter was urgent. What does he want?’

Sir Macaire grimaced. ‘I’m not at liberty to say, lad, but your ale will have to wait. Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara have been waiting for you up in the solar for nigh on an hour and as you know, the count is not known for his tolerance.’ Sir Macaire threw a dark glance in the direction of a knight sprawled on the bench nearest the stairwell. ‘Besides, if you don’t go up straight away, I’ve orders to send in Sir Breon. And that would be a travesty.’ He shook his head. ‘A travesty.’

‘A travesty?’ Eric searched the steward’s face. That was surely a curious choice of words. Pouring ale into a mug, Eric took a quick draught. Eric knew Sir Breon from his time at Jutigny and he’d never much liked him. Not that Eric could level anything specific against the man. Sir Breon had a bullying manner and he was crude, but then so were many knights. What was odd was that Eric couldn’t recall Sir Macaire being troubled by Sir Breon before this. ‘Macaire, what in hell is going on?’

‘It’s not for me to say.’ Sir Macaire jerked his head at the stairwell. ‘For the love of God, Eric, hurry straight up.’

‘They’re in the solar, you say? Doesn’t Lady Barbara usually reserve the solar for herself and her ladies?’ Eric was becoming more intrigued by the moment. Sweat was breaking out on Macaire’s brow and his manner—Macaire looked decidedly panicked—was mysterious, if not downright worrying. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The solar, lad. Get to the solar and you’ll have your answers.’

* * *

In the solar, Lord Faramus was pacing in front of a low fire, pulling at his beard. His eyebrows were drawn into a deep frown. His wife, Lady Barbara, was sitting beneath the window, long white fingers gripping a scroll of parchment.

Eric had fond memories of Lady Barbara, who had always treated him with kindness. Her usually clear brow was crossed with lines and her face was pinched with worry. She looked deeply distressed. A pang of sympathy shot through him. Had she and Lord Faramus quarrelled again?

‘Good morning, my lady, my lord,’ Eric said, bowing.

Irritably, Count Faramus waved the niceties aside. ‘Where the devil have you been? I’ve been waiting for you all morning.’

‘I’ve been at the fair in Provins, my lord.’

‘The fair?’ The count’s expression lightened. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. You are looking for a stallion, as I recall. Did you find one?’

‘Not yet, mon seigneur.’ Eric wanted a brood mare as well as a stallion, thus far he hadn’t found either. At the Provins fair he had learned that he might find both at Bar-sur-Aube. Given that horses with good breeding lines were almost impossible to track down, Eric had wanted to go there directly from the fair. And then he’d remembered the count’s summons. Eric felt a certain loyalty to his former liege lord and he’d felt bound to come to Jutigny first. As soon as this meeting was over he would set out for Bar-sur-Aube.

‘My apologies if I kept you waiting, my lord. You have something to ask me, I believe?’

Eric found his gaze returning to Lady Barbara. She was not usually present when her husband discussed his affairs with his household knights. Come to think of it, in his time at Jutigny Castle, Eric’s orders had invariably been issued in the great hall or the armoury. What was going on?

Lord Faramus sucked in a breath and Eric caught an exchange of glances between man and wife. ‘Eric, Sir Eric, before we get to the meat of the matter, I should like your word that what is said between these walls will remain confidential. At least for the moment.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’

‘Eric, this concerns my daughter, Lady Rowena. You remember Rowena?’

Alarm tensed every muscle in Eric’s body. This was about Lady Rowena?

Of course Eric remembered Lady Rowena—as Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara’s only child, how could he forget her? Lady Rowena was a shy, fair girl, a handful of years younger than he. Until Lady Rowena had professed a desire to become a nun, she had been heiress to the Sainte-Colombe acres and every eligible knight in Champagne had been suing for her hand. At times it had seemed as though Jutigny Castle was under siege. Count Faramus had eventually come to terms with Count Gawain de Meaux, but there had been some scandal and the marriage had never gone ahead. Eric didn’t know the details. ‘I heard that Lady Rowena entered the convent outside Provins?’

‘St Mary’s Abbey.’ Lord Faramus’s mouth was grim. ‘Aye, so she did.’

Count Faramus had made no secret of his displeasure at his daughter’s decision to take the veil. But Lady Rowena was the king’s goddaughter and once the king—himself a religious man—had endorsed her wish to become a nun, there’d been little the count could do about it.

The skin prickled at the back of Eric’s neck, he was beginning to feel very uneasy.

‘Sir Eric, I am well aware that I am no longer your liege lord and I cannot command you, but I do have a favour to ask.’ His fingers curled into a fist. ‘A very large favour. It’s a task I believe you will find distasteful.’

‘Mon seigneur?’

‘Sir—Eric—I want you to get my daughter out of that convent. Take her to your manor at Monfort. Hold her there until she agrees to marry you.’

Appalled, Eric drew his head back. He must have misheard. ‘I don’t think I understand you, my lord.’

Lord Faramus made an exasperated sound. ‘I want you to ruin Rowena. Get her out of that convent and seduce her. Make love to her. Make it so that she has no choice but to marry you—’

‘My lord, I can’t do that!’ No wonder Lady Barbara was so ill at ease!

‘Why the devil not?’

Eric stepped closer. ‘It would be wrong, my lord. Your daughter has a religious calling, I cannot come between her and her vocation.’

‘Rowena thinks she has a religious vocation,’ Lord Faramus said curtly. ‘It is not the same thing, not the same thing at all.’

Firmly, Eric shook his head. ‘I will not do it.’

The count’s jaw worked. ‘For pity’s sake, you have to, it’s the Visitation of Our Lady next week.’

Eric gave the count a bemused look. ‘My lord, I do not see the connection.’

Lady Barbara leaned forward. The parchment rustled. ‘Eric, Rowena is to make her preliminary vows that day.’

Lord Faramus cleared his throat. ‘De Monfort, Rowena’s about to become a novice. You have to get her out of the abbey before that happens.’

Eric stepped back and bowed. A tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach. ‘My lord, I am conscious that I owe you and Lady Barbara a great deal, but in all honour I am afraid I must refuse you.’

The count’s expression darkened. ‘De Monfort, I feel sure you are forgetting how lucky you were to end up at our gate.’ He gestured at this wife. ‘Who else but my Barbara would have taken in a half-starved child? Who else but Sir Macaire would have taken you—a complete unknown—under his wing and trained you the way he did? Lord, I myself knighted you. And you have the gall to refuse me?’

Eric held firm. ‘I shall never forget the kindness I have found in your household, my lord, but all that you taught me did not include seducing virgins! It would be wrong to abduct Lady Rowena. She has a calling.’

‘Like hell she does.’ Lord Faramus narrowed his eyes on Eric. ‘Don’t you want more lands? Marry Rowena and you will be count yourself one day.’

Eric huffed out a breath, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing—Lord Faramus was asking him to ruin his daughter. To force her into marriage. To say the least, it was a desperate plan. And to make matters worse, the count seemed to be ignoring the fact that if Lady Rowena were to marry him, the king ought to agree to the match first.

Had Lord Faramus lost his senses? Of course it was beyond flattering to think that the count would welcome him as a son-in-law, not to mention that it was temptation beyond his wildest dreams—him, to become a count one day!—but he couldn’t do it.

He glanced towards the lady sitting by the window. He couldn’t read her expression, she had set aside the parchment and was bent over some needlework. Surely Lady Barbara didn’t condone this foolhardy idea?

‘The king himself has approved Lady Rowena’s desire to enter the convent,’ Eric said, mildly.

‘Well, I am her father and I do not. Stop quibbling, de Monfort. Get her out of St Mary’s and get her to marry you. I don’t care how you do it, just do it. It might inspire you if you tell yourself that when I die, you will be Count of Sainte-Colombe.’

‘I am truly sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but I will not do it. It simply would not be the act of an honourable knight.’

‘Eric, we chose you because we recalled that as a child you were kind to my daughter.’

We? So Lady Barbara was in on this ridiculous plan, was she? Eric felt a muscle flicker in his jaw. ‘As I recall, my lord, you warned me about being over-familiar. In fact, you forbade me to speak to her.’

Lady Barbara’s needle stilled. ‘Sir, you are referring to the time when you and Rowena were found in the plum tree. You must forgive my husband for that. He tends to be over-protective and hasty in his judgements. And you must not forget that you were, at the time, young and untried. You were unproven.’

‘And now I have won a manor and a few acres you consider me proven?’

Lord Faramus looked him straight in the eye. ‘De Monfort, I trained you myself, I know you are an honourable man.’

‘What you ask me to do is dishonourable!’

Lady Barbara made a sharp movement. ‘Please, sir, you have to help us.’

‘My lady, I am sorry, I will not do it.’

The count’s shoulders sagged. ‘Very well, de Monfort, you may leave.’ He waved a curt dismissal. ‘On your way out, send Sir Breon up.’

Lady Barbara’s eyes filled with anxiety. The knot twisted in Eric’s stomach. What would happen next? Telling himself it was none of his business, Eric was halfway to the door when he remembered Macaire muttering about how it would be a travesty if Sir Breon went up to the solar. Obviously, Macaire must be aware that the count was determined to get his daughter out of the abbey and he didn’t like the idea of her being handed over to Sir Breon.

Lady Rowena’s face as Eric had last seen it, beautiful in its innocence, flashed into his mind. The idea of that sweet child being forced in to Sir Breon’s company—for life—was utterly repugnant. Eric had always had the impression that she was afraid of the man. Lord, his stomach turned at the thought. That child with that lout...it simply would not do.

Sir Breon might refuse to agree. He might.

Briefly, Eric closed his eyes. He was deluding himself, there was no way that Sir Breon would turn down the chance to wed the heiress to the Sainte-Colombe acres.

Lady Rowena, that lovely girl, forced into marriage with Sir Breon?

Rather me than him.

Eric stopped in his tracks, turned and looked intently at his former lord. ‘You would foist Sir Breon on Lady Rowena?’

‘Since you are clearly not the man I took you for, yes. Sir Breon knows where his loyalties lie. I feel confident that he will be less of a disappointment.’

‘My lord, you cannot be serious.’

Lord Faramus glowered. ‘Someone has to marry her. I’ll be damned before I see my lands fall into Armand’s hands.’

‘Armand?’

‘Sir Armand de Velay, a distant cousin.’

Eric was beginning to understand. With the count’s only child taking the veil, the County of Sainte-Colombe would fall into this cousin’s hands. Unless Rowena married.

‘My lord.’ Eric forced himself to speak calmly. ‘It is natural for a man to want his lands to go to his child, but I cannot think that force is the way to achieve it.’

Lord Faramus’s mouth thinned. ‘Do you think we haven’t tried persuasion? Rowena is the most stubborn wench in Christendom. She will not see reason.’

Eric had never seen Lady Rowena’s stubborn side. It came to him that even if she were stubborn she was only taking after her sire. Wisely, he held his tongue on that score, saying merely, ‘My lord, in my view Lady Rowena mislikes Sir Breon.’

Lord Faramus lifted an eyebrow. ‘So? Sir Breon will get her agreement.’

Eric shook his head, frowning. ‘Aye, he probably will, Sir Breon is not a gentle man. My lord, have you thought about the methods he might use to persuade her?’

‘Sir Breon will do my will. Send him in.’

‘Mon seigneur, Lady Rowena wants to become a nun.’

‘Tant pis. She will marry one way or the other.’ With a sigh, Lord Faramus clapped Eric on the shoulder. ‘No hard feelings, de Monfort, I won’t hold this against you.’

‘Wait.’ Eric put up his hand. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of Sir Breon forcing himself on Lady Rowena was unbearable. Naturally, the thought of one day being count of Sainte-Colombe was tempting, but it was the thought of Lady Rowena in Breon’s hands that pushed him to accept. ‘I’ll do it.’

Lady Barbara gave him the tiniest of smiles. If Eric had blinked he’d have missed it. Oddly, her smile gave him heart. It made him realise that he was her choice, Lady Barbara wanted him for her daughter. Lord knew Eric had never looked to force any woman into marriage, let alone Lady Rowena, but if he didn’t agree then Sir Breon surely would. Eric must spare her that.

The count’s eyes glittered. ‘You agree?’

‘Aye.’ Eric thought fast. Agreement would buy time. Clearly, Lord Faramus hadn’t had time to accept Lady Rowena’s decision to enter the convent. That much was understandable, the realisation that his cousin would inherit his lands rather than his daughter must be hard to swallow. Given more time, Lord Faramus would surely come to his senses.

Eric had to admit it was flattering to think that Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara had chosen to put their extraordinary proposal to him first. It showed a measure of trust. Of approval. Lord Faramus was a hard man, hard and determined, but he must love his daughter.

And there sat Lady Barbara, smiling that small smile. Eric looked directly at her. ‘I will keep your daughter safe,’ he said. He wouldn’t marry her though, he couldn’t. It would be sacrilege to come between Lady Rowena and her calling.

‘I know,’ Lady Barbara murmured.

‘I am not sure she will remember me.’

‘She will.’ Lady Barbara bent over her sewing.

Yes, if Eric kidnapped Lady Rowena, he could keep her safe. And then, when Lord Faramus came to his senses, he would return her to the abbey. Count Faramus must see reason in the end. Even a great lord like him couldn’t force the king’s goddaughter into marriage.

‘I’ll do it, on these terms,’ Eric said. ‘I’ll not hurt her. And I want your word that you will not meddle.’

Lord Faramus stroked his beard. There was a pause. ‘Yes, yes, I shall leave everything in your hands.’

With a bow, Eric left the solar.

As the door swung shut behind him, Lady Barbara set her sewing aside. ‘I told you he’d agree.’

‘He had me worried for a while. Rowena is a stubborn wench, but God knows I wouldn’t wish Breon on her.’

‘I wouldn’t wish Sir Breon on any woman,’ Lady Barbara said drily. ‘I knew Sir Eric would agree if faced with that. He has a kind heart.’

‘It’s nothing to do with his heart, orphans always make the best recruits.’

‘Faramus!’

‘Don’t delude yourself, Barbara, for de Monfort this is the chance of a lifetime. He was a foundling, for pity’s sake. He’s done well to win his manor, but he wants more power, more land.’

‘He wants Rowena.’

Lord Faramus sent his wife a pitying look and shook his head. ‘Barbara, you’ve been listening to too many ballads. That boy wants land, this is all about land.’

Lady Barbara looked at her husband and didn’t reply.

* * *

At St Mary’s Convent the next morning, Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe dressed as quickly as she could. ‘Hurry, Berthe,’ Rowena said.

Outside the sun was shining. Rowena couldn’t bear to be inside a moment longer. She lived for her morning rides or, more precisely, she lived for those few brief moments of each day when she could delude herself that she was in charge of her life. She eyed the door to their cell, as ever she was half-afraid that one of the nuns would appear and ban her from taking her exercise in the open air.

‘Very good, my lady.’

Berthe set about binding her hair into the simplest of plaits and Rowena tried not to fidget. Berthe seemed to take for ever covering her head with the grey veil deemed suitable for a girl who was shortly to take her preliminary vows. She adjusted it and pushed a golden tress out of sight.

‘Ma dame, please keep still, I almost stabbed you with a hairpin.’

‘Sorry, Berthe, I’m longing to be outside.’

Berthe gave the veil a final twitch and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There. You look lovely, my lady. Fit to face the world.’ Her face fell. ‘Not that it matters, they’ll be confining you inside these walls soon enough. And cutting off all that beautiful hair. It’s a crime, if you ask me, my lady.’

Rowena gave her a straight look. ‘You don’t like it here, do you?’

Berthe glanced around the chamber. On account of her mistress’s status it was larger than most of the nuns’ cells, large enough to contain a bed for Lady Rowena and her maid. The walls were roughly plastered and lime-washed. The only ornament was a wooden crucifix on the wall opposite Rowena’s bed.

Berthe shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter much what I think, does it, my lady? You’re the one who’ll be staying here, not me.’

Rowena’s throat tightened. ‘That is true.’

Rowena picked up her riding crop. She wanted to ask Berthe to stay with her at the convent. The difficulty was that Berthe showed no signs of liking convent life, rather the reverse. It was a pity, as Rowena liked Berthe and ladies were allowed maids in this convent, even if they were not called maids as such. But Berthe had shown no sign of a calling. Indeed, Berthe seemed to dislike the place as much as she did...

Rowena drew a sharp breath. No! What was she thinking? She didn’t dislike it here. It was quiet. Peaceful. It was far more restful living in a convent than in a castle. In convents the person in authority was a woman, and here in St Mary’s Convent Mother Pauline was most definitely in charge. The few men allowed through the gate—a couple of gardeners, the grooms—wouldn’t dream of crossing her. Within these walls, women were most definitely in charge.

Rowena was pulled two ways. She had told the world she wanted to be a nun; she’d told everyone that she had a calling. Her father was a practical man rather than a religious one and she’d had to cross swords with him to get here. She stared blindly at her riding crop. Soon she would be taking her preliminary vows. The bishop was coming to the abbey to say mass on the morning of the Feast of the Visitation and she would be clothed as a novice afterwards.