His Fair Lady (4 page)

“Mmmm, I’m inclined to agree,” the
second voice purred, as if relishing some treat. “By his size and
bearing alone, ‘tis evident he is a warrior of some import.
Certes,
he towers above all the
other nobles present here. I venture he possesses more brawn than
ten of them together. One would need such strength to slay the
infidels by the hundreds, single-handed.”

“Hundreds? Oh nay, cousin, by
the
thousands
, ‘tis told.” A
sigh issued from the first female. “He’s very handsome, is he not?
And look at the length of his sword and scabbard. You know what
‘tis said about a knight’s sword?” Her voice dropped a fraction,
conspiratorially. “The armorer makes each sword specifically in
proportion to its owner’s size.”

“How deliciously intriguing,” the
second voice purred once more. “I would very much enjoy examining
the size of yon knight’s
blade
for myself — fully unsheathed, of course.”

A tinkle of mischievous feminine laughter
sprinkled the air.

“Has he a wife?” the second pressed.

“Shhh! He’ll hear.”

Royce turned at the approach of the Yeoman
of the Chamber, a wiry man with hawklike features carrying an
ornate staff.

“His Majesty will see you now.” The man gave
a shallow dip of his shoulders in semblance of a bow and bid the
knight follow.

Casting a swift glance toward the two ladies
who’d been so avidly discussing him, Royce acknowledged them with a
nod and appreciative smile. Their cheeks flamed instantly.

Royce’s smile widened as he turned, taking
in their shocked realization that he’d overheard all they’d spoken.
In truth, their comments were heady wine for a man just returned to
his homeland after baking these ten years past in the desert. Then,
too, the court ladies in their bright gowns and finery were as
sweet as honey to his eyes.

Royce continued behind the official, making
his way through the forechamber and crush of lords, ladies, and
clerics, proceeding toward an immense oaken door at the far end of
the chamber.

The official halted there to exchange brief
words with the guards. Eying the knight, they required he divest
himself of his weapons before proceeding further. Royce complied,
though he felt naked without his sword and the small dagger he kept
sheathed on the back of his belt. Satisfied, the guards moved
aside, allowing the two forward. With decided ceremony, the yeoman
struck the door thrice with his staff. Moments later, the door drew
open from within and Royce found himself face to face with a
moon-faced clerk.

“De Warrene? Enter, enter.” The clerk waved
him in with a rapid flapping of his hand.

Royce crossed the portal as the clerk
scurried off across the chamber, stopping where a flock of nobles
and ministers attended a richly garbed man of abbreviated height.
The clerk wormed his way through the congestion then dropped to his
knee and waited to be recognized.

Royce fixed his gaze on the man at the
center of everyone’s interest. He stood at a thick-planked table,
silhouetted against a glazed window that soared upward into a
graceful arch. Methodically, the man affixed his signet ring to wax
and parchment, approving document after document proffered by the
royal administrators. He completed the task, then waved them away
and stepped apart of the table, extending his arms. Instantly, a
servant bustled forward and aided him into a luxurious fur-lined
robe. The servant, presumably his tailor, quickly sank to the floor
and began fussing with a noticeable sag in the hem.

Royce absorbed the sight of John
Plantagenet, consecrated King of England since May of the year
past. He was sturdily built though surprisingly short for a
Plantagenet, having none of King Richard’s height. He did possess
the reddish Angevin hair of his father and brothers, however, and
if rumor had it right, their quick temper. Even as he waited for
his tailor to right the wayward hem, John paced this way and that,
displaying a hot, restless energy so characteristic of the Angevins
and their diabolical energy.

Royce continued to wait, regretting he’d not
returned from the Holy Lands sooner to aid the Lionheart. Perhaps,
had he been at the siege of Châlus to serve the king, he might have
prevented . . .

Royce shut off the thought, knowing his
presence would have made not one dram of difference. Richard had
been impulsive, foolhardy, riding up to the castle wall to inspect
the progress of his siege machines, courting danger, not even
taking the precaution of donning his armor. A cross-bowman upon the
upper ramparts handily discharged a bolt into his shoulder. Richard
died ten days later, his wound turned gangrenous.

Royce refocused on the new sovereign. John
now wore the crown, having wrested it from his young nephew, sired
by old Henry’s third son, Geoffrey — now also deceased. England’s
greatest barons, including William Marshal himself, refused to
support the boy, who was much spoiled and dominated by unprincipled
counselors. They feared his yoke would prove far worse than
John’s.

Were they right to support John, the
youngest and only surviving eaglet of Henry II? Royce had
questioned their wisdom all the way from the shores of Jaffa to
those of Dover. He did not trust John. Few did.

As Royce beheld the restless man before him,
he wondered what to think of the new king. Old Henry and his brood
were not called “the demoniac Angevins” for naught.

After pressing his ring to yet another glob
of wax and parchment, the king snatched up his goblet and turned,
nearly trampling the moon-face clerk who still waited on bended
knee. After taking notice of the clerk and then heed of his words,
John jerked round, swinging his gaze across the chamber to Royce.
His face brightened.

“Ah, Sir Royce de Warrene!” he exclaimed
buoyantly. “I’ve looked forward to your arrival since news of your
landing at Dover.”

“Majesty.” Royce bowed deeply, touching a
knee to the floor at the king’s approach, noting how the tailor
scrambled after him, still connected by needle and thread to the
royal hem.

Oblivious, the king came to a halt before
him, continuing to smile. Meanwhile, the tailor knelt at his side,
his needle flying.

“Rise, Sir Royce,” John bid heartily. “I am
anxious to hear of your adventures. No doubt word of your return
has spread throughout all of England by now. The clerics at Dover
are like gabbling old women, scratching down every morsel of news
that comes to their ears and relaying the latest buzz to Canterbury
and beyond.”

“The temptation is understandable, Majesty,
what with the traffic of pilgrims and travelers that pass through
Dover’s port.” Royce pressed to his feet.

Truth be told, he’d indulged in several
hours’ gossip himself over cups of ale with the chroniclers,
gleaning what he could of the status of the realm since Richard’s
death,

“Yes, yes, understandable, but while the
scribes report of your return, ‘tis the court that shall be the
first to hear of the latest deeds of chivalry wrought by her
knights for all of Christendom.”

John paused of a sudden, studying Royce
closely as if seeking to take his measure. One side of his lips
lurched upward into a crooked smile. Just as quickly, he whirled
round and gestured to the moon-faced clerk.

“Wine! Wine for Sir Royce!” Impatiently,
John crossed the space to meet the clerk halfway. The tailor gasped
and scuttled after the sovereign once more, snatching at the needle
dangling from the royal hem.

Seizing the goblet from the clerk’s pudgy
hands, the king turned on his heels and strode back to Royce,
thrusting the vessel into the knight’s hands. In the same moment,
the tailor shrieked, having stabbed himself with the needle. He
shoved his finger into his mouth and caught up his needle with his
other hand, then bent to the hem once more.

“What’s this?” The king glanced down and
pinned the tailor with an irritable look. “Ralph, are you yet to be
done?”

“I will be if your Majesty will do me the
kindness of standing still,” he replied waspishly.

John grinned like a mischievous child who’d
vexed the man apurpose and now gained precisely what he desired.
“So be it, so be it,” he allowed and strove to stand motionless
while Ralph took his stitches, though the king’s efforts proved
less than successful.

John angled a glance to Royce. “Stories of
your prowess burgeon your name, Sir Royce. I vow they rival the
deeds of my late brother.”

Again, Royce sensed John searched him out.
Certainly, Royce had distinguished himself in the East, but he
stood nowhere near the stature of Richard, only in his shadow, as
did most men.

“Sire, you know how the people love to
exaggerate.” The image of the women in the forechamber sprang to
mind.

“You fought with Richard at the Battle of
Acre, did you not? Knighted on the field of battle, I am told.”

Royce caught a combative note in John’s
voice, containing a sudden sharpness and swift change of mood. Had
he misspoken somehow, Royce wondered?

“Aye, sire. The stories are true.”

John downed a mouthful of wine then touched
his forefinger to his lips. “Let me see if I have the right of it.
Sir Hugh FitzAlan’s destrier was killed beneath him, the beast
falling atop the knight and trapping his legs.”

“Aye, Majesty.”

“But then you, his high-hearted squire, ran
onto the field of battle, snatched up his sword, and wielded it
with all the ferocity of a Norse berserker, slaying three hundred
infidels on the spot and sparing your knight.”

Royce’s lips twitched upward. “The number
has a tendency to grow in people’s telling, Majesty, but
essentially the tale is true. I fought on till the Saracens either
lay dead about us or withdrew at the sound of retreat. By God’s
grace, Sir Hugh lived to fight other battles.” Seven more before he
fell a final time.

“And my brother knighted you on the field of
battle, did he?”

“‘
Twas Sir Hugh who gave me the
colée
, once we’d freed him from
beneath his horse. ‘Twas his privilege, though the king looked
on.”

Royce remembered the proud moment, the
knights Beuvan and Renaus supporting Sir Hugh while he delivered
the ceremonial blow to his cheek, Roger de Bray and Henry le Toit
looking on. Now they all lay in the dust of Jerusalem, save Beuvan
who yet lived and chose to remain in Haifa.

The tailor completed his task and bit off
the thread with his teeth. Full of thought, the king strode back to
the table, flipped open the lid of a jeweled casket, then began
slipping costly rings onto his fingers and settling a great chain
and medallion of gold about his neck.

He turned back, his expression shuttered.
“Such gallantry and skill as yours are invaluable to the realm. I
understand you even campaigned with the Templars.”

“For a time, Majesty.”

“Yet you chose not to join their order?
Curious.” John’s eyes lodged on him, narrowed, crafty.

Royce cast about in his mind for a tactful
response. While he’d once considered joining the order, he’d
decided against it due to a taint of fanaticism that infected those
hardened warriors. He did embrace much of their strict discipline,
however.

“For most of my stay in the kingdom of
Jerusalem, I employed my sword securing the road between Acre and
Ascalon and defending Jaffa. But ‘twas always my intent to return
to England’s shores.”

Reaching beneath his tunic, Royce produced a
small scroll, feeling now to be the best time to broach the reason
for his requested audience.

“Before your brother, King Richard, departed
the Holy Lands — for services I rendered beneath his banner,
particularly those during the bitter retaking of Ascalon — he
granted me a portion of land to claim at the time of my return.
Knowing I desired to remain a while longer in the East, he assured
a seneschal would be appointed to oversee the estate in my absence.
Now, at long last, I am returned to assert my claim in person.”

Royce gave over the scroll to the king then
released a long breath, feeling a mixture of joy and edgy
uncertainty collide in his chest as he embraced his future, no
longer a landless knight.

Richard had assured the land boasted a fine
castle and prosperous village. In addition, Royce had accrued a
modest fortune while in the East. The years ahead boded well. Once
he’d secured his new land, seen to the castle and its defenses, he
would consider establishing his own house, his own bloodline. For
that he need seek a good marriage, preferably one with an important
heiress who could increase his station, bringing him more titles
and more lands. Royce was determined to secure a place of import
and influence for himself in England now that he’d returned.

The king’s brows drew upward, surprise
lighting his eyes as he scanned the parchment bearing his brother’s
seal. “In truth, I was unaware of this particular grant, Sir Royce,
or of this estate being named among the royal holdings.”

Royce’s breath stilled in his lungs. He felt
as though a great fist had just reached out and squeezed his heart.
What intent lay behind the king’s words? Did he think to deny him
the Lionheart’s behest and keep the estate for himself? Royce’s
doubts about John reared their scaly heads.

The king continued to peruse the document
then, with head bent, he cut his eyes up at Royce.

“I confess, I am surprised Richard had royal
lands left to give, or that he would grant them without a price. He
would have sold London itself had he been able, so that he might
finance his wars. The kingdom never finds rest,” he murmured,
returning his gaze to the parchment. “Always a wolf at the
door.”