His Fair Lady (5 page)

John straightened abruptly, rolling
the document with quick fingers. “Of course, I shall support
Richard’s wishes. Like my brother, I recognize you to be a worthy
and
loyal
subject of the
realm?” His words held a question in their tone.

“That I am, sire,” Royce returned, meeting
the king’s penetrating gaze.

“Then certainly you are deserving of such
reward,” John said simply. He became all movement again. Returning
to the table, he motioned his counselors and attendants to leave
him and seized upon an iron-bound casket.

“I shall have my counselors examine the
grant and determine precisely where the property lies.” He fitted a
key to the casket’s domed lid and opened it. “There is still much
to learn of my domains. ‘Tis my intention to rule personally, but
thus far I’ve completed a tour only of my Continental holdings. In
the weeks to come, I shall begin a circuit throughout England. Who
knows? Perhaps, I shall chance across your new lands.”

John tossed Royce a smile, then dropped the
scroll in the casket and secured its lid with a click of the key.
“Rest assured, I shall have the matter examined forthwith as you’ll
wish to settle and make preparations before winter.”

“My gratitude, Majesty.” Royce bowed deeply
once more, discomforted that the king retained his only proof of
Richard’s grant, a document he’d painstakingly guarded through the
years. Before he could rise, the blare of trumpets sounded loudly
from without.

“Ah, the feasting is to begin anew.” The
king smiled wide. “We are yet celebrating my new bride’s
coronation, Sir Royce. You will join us, of course, as our honored
guest. Isabella will delight in your tales of gallantry and valor,
as will all the court.”

Royce pulled his gaze from the casket,
feeling a twinge of distrust in his gut. There was naught he could
do at the moment about the scroll.

“You are most gracious, Majesty.”

Again the trumpets sounded.

“The queen awaits!” John snatched up his
crown from where it rested haphazardly on a nearby chair and lodged
it onto his head.

Bidding Royce follow, he hastened from the
chamber, taking long strides on short legs, his robes flowing and
jewels sparkling, a smile splitting his bearded face. Obviously,
this youngest of the Plantagenet brood enjoyed all the advantages
and attentions of kingship, a station that for many years must have
seemed beyond his reach.

Royce trailed after the king, matching his
brisk pace. Surprisingly, the courtiers and attendants who’d held
audience with the sovereign stepped aside for Royce before they
themselves joined the royal progression. He could only wonder at
their seeming deference. Presumably, many a man enjoyed stations
far greater than he. Perhaps ‘twas the favor the king afforded him
that now governed their actions, Royce reasoned.

Much bowing and scraping accompanied the
king’s passage through the antechamber as the lords and ladies
opened a path for the sovereign and his train to proceed toward the
White Hall. Whispers followed them and it bemused Royce to hear his
own name repeated upon those noble lips as a “great Crusader
knight” and “hero.”

Queen Isabella waited before the doors of
the feasting hall, surrounded by her elegant ladies-in-waiting and
flanked by the most powerful barons and clergy in attendance. At
her husband’s approach, she sank into a deep curtsy, a vision of
exquisite beauty and grace. Though Royce had heard glowing
descriptions of her comeliness, ‘twas still jolting to behold the
new queen in person — for reasons beyond her loveliness.

As Royce understood it, after John’s
coronation, he immediately set out on a tour of Normandy and the
Acquitaine. There, he encountered the beautiful heiress of
Angoulême, Isabella, and became wildly enamored of her.
Inconveniently, she was already engaged.

When John made his intentions clear,
Isabella’s parents were all too happy that their daughter attain a
queenship. They moved to break the engagement and arrange her hasty
marriage to the English monarch. But scandal swirled darkly about
the newly wedded couple. Whilst John was a man of prime years being
two-and-thirty, Isabella was a child of barely twelve.

Royce pushed aside his thoughts as John took
his young queen by the hand. Raising her to her feet, he pressed a
lingering kiss to her fingers. By his look alone, ‘twas plain the
man was utterly besotted with his bride.

The king placed Isabella’s small hand
on his forearm, his larger one lingering to cover hers, then turned
to Royce. “My lady-wife, this is Sir Royce de Warrene, the heroic
knight of whom I spoke, just arrived from the Holy Lands. He warred
with Richard there. I’m sure he will be agreeable to entertain us
tonight with gallant tales of the Crusades and of the years since
my late brother’s departure from
Outremer
, the lands beyond the sea.”

Royce bowed low and, at once, the diminutive
queen lifted her free hand to him to be kissed.

“Rise, Sir Royce. I shall take pleasure in
your stories of chivalry and am pleased that you are returned safe
to England’s shores.”

Royce dropped a light kiss to the queen’s
ring then rose. He paused for a moment as he gazed upon her
enchanting face. His brows began to draw together, then realizing
the gesture, he willed them smooth lest others think he found
displeasure with the queen.

In truth, Isabella reminded him of someone,
but he could not quite puzzle out whom. She was a delicate creature
with lively eyes. Her bright, flaxen hair draped over her shoulders
in two long plaits, each wound with satin ribbons and ending in
jeweled clasps. A veil of net spilled from her fair head, held in
place by her queenly crown. Gemstones glittered on her mantle and
gown, the latter a shimmering creation of gold sendal over an ivory
undergown, all lavishly embroidered.

Royce regarded the queen for only a brief
moment before she turned to gaze admiringly into her husband’s
eyes. Next, he found himself presented to the dignitaries
surrounding the royal couple, among them Hubert Walter, the
Archbishop of Canterbury; Geoffrey FitzPeter, the king’s justicar;
and most notable and impressive of all, the very paragon of
knighthood itself, William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Lord of
Leinster.

The earl took a keen interest in Royce and
was just expressing his interest in hearing of the latest
developments in the East when a fanfare of trumpets, drums, and
pipes signaled the ceremonials for dinner to commence.

The king and queen led the procession into
the hall, followed by the dignitaries and nobles in descending
order of rank. Royce held back, waiting for the others to pass
before he himself joined. But the king halted and gestured him
forward, indicating he should remain near.

The White Hall proved to be a great aisled
chamber, high-ceilinged and of significant expanse. Tapestries and
painted screens enlivened the cold stone walls, warming them by
color, if not in fact.

Tables, draped with snowy linens,
lined the length of both sides of the hall. At the far end, the
king’s high table held place of precedence, situated upon a raised
dais beneath a crimson canopy. Left of the dais stood the
aumbry
, a sideboard crowded with
gold vessels, exhibiting the king’s wealth. To the dais’s right
stood a separate table intended for the honored guests who, like
the sovereigns, would be clearly visible to all in the
hall.

As the king and queen assumed their places
upon the dais in the sole company of the Earl of Pembroke and the
Archbishop of Canterbury, Royce again found himself at a loss,
wondering where exactly he should assume a place. Just then, the
Marshal of the Hall appeared with his white wand and led him
forward to the table of honor. Royce seated himself, amazed to find
himself in company with such important personages of the realm.

A fresh flourish of trumpets announced the
beginning of the rituals. Issuing from the kitchen passage at the
opposite end of the hall emerged a procession of noble servitors
and squires of gentle birth. First came the ewerer and his
assistants, white cloths over their arms, bearing lavers and
pitchers for the washing of hands. The king and queen were first
attended then the other lords and ladies, their hands cleansed with
fragrant herbal water.

Next in the cadre came the carver and
cupbearer, the pantler and butler, and the almoner, who led the
chamber in prayer. More servers followed bearing great platters of
food and tureens of soups, comprising the first course — offerings
of flesh, fish, and fowl. While the meats were sauced and broken,
two noble youths paraded a subtlety around the room then set it
upon a stand for viewing. Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester,
who sat beside Royce, informed him that the marzipan sculpture was
of the queen’s dower castle, gifted her upon her recent marriage to
the king.

The bustle continued in the hall with a
constant traffic of servers coming and going. The mingling of harp,
dulcimer, and lutes played in the background while guests partook
of the feast and chattered with their table mates. Minstrels,
jugglers, and dancers entertained between courses while servers
paraded the subtlety round the hall again. Trumpets heralded each
new course, the multiplicity of dishes continuing — lampreys and
eel dishes, venison pastries, stuffed pig, puddings, capons,
woodcock, jellies and tarts, quince in comfit, almond cream, fried
minnows, and more, all washed down with spiced wine and ale.

Royce restricted himself to a light sampling
of a few dishes for the variety was staggering and more than he
cared to manage. Throughout the meal he gave himself to answering
his companions’ questions. As he was discussing recent events in
Jaffa, he caught sight of the two women who’d taken a sharp
interest in him earlier in the antechamber. They sat with a third
woman, a matron, perhaps in her early thirties. She stared at him
with dark, compelling eyes, then tipped her head toward the other
two, asking some question, her gaze never leaving him.

“Beware, Sir Royce,” Lord Robert advised
good-naturedly. “That is Lady Sibylla, Countess Linford, a fine
catch for her wealth and estates, though she’s buried three
husbands to manage it. She’s known to be looking for fresh prey and
has a particular liking for men younger than she.” His smile
disappeared behind his goblet as he downed its contents.

Again the trumpets blared, declaring the
final course. But before the procession of food began, a single
youth — one of the ushers of the hall — appeared. He ran toward the
dais and dropped to one knee, flustered.

“Your Highness forgive me. I tried to stop
him but—”

An aged noble entered the hall, his hair
like snow and his robes a rich brocade edged with marten. He made
his way slowly, painfully, down the length of the hall with the aid
of two canes and servants supporting him on either side. With
dragging steps he came to stand before the main dais.

“Majesty, a thousand pardons,” the man said
in a deep booming voice, bowing as low as he could manage. His
servants aided him upright once more.

“I am Lord Gilbert Osborne of Penhurst and I
seek the knight, Royce de Warrene. On good word, I am told he
landed at Dover two days before last and departed there for
Westminster Palace. Happily, I was at Canterbury when news of his
return reached my ears.”

The king exchanged a swift glance with
Royce. “Dover’s scribes are far busier than I imagined,” he uttered
in obvious amazement, his brows arching high.

The old lord shifted his weight, leaning
heavily on his canes. “Sire, I have urgent business with the
knight. ‘Tis a matter of honor and of dire urgency. If he be
present, pray direct me to him.”

Royce rose slowly, purposefully to his feet.
“I am he whom you seek,” he said, his rich voice carrying through
the hall. “I am Royce de Warrene.”

Lord Gilbert turned and fastened his eyes on
him. For a moment he held silent. Then his features twisted, a
mixture of anger and torment flooding his features. He shuffled his
stance and turned back toward the dais.

“Majesty, I demand justice!” he bellowed,
striking the floor with his cane.

Murmurs rippled along the high table and
throughout the hall.

“Justice?” the king blustered, his
expression confounded. “Sir Royce has just this hour arrived,
returned after a decade in the Holy Lands. What possible justice
could you seek?”

“Justice for a grave wrong he has committed
regarding my granddaughter!”

Gasps echoed all around and many a lady’s
eyes leapt to Royce, stabbing him with knifelike looks as though
he’d wronged all womankind.

“I know not of what you speak,” Royce stated
flatly, maddened to be falsely accused and denounced before all.
“Ever have I acted honorably toward those of the gentle sex. Never
have I brought ill on the least of them. Who is your granddaughter,
sir?”

“The lady Juliana Mandeville, child of my
daughter, Alyce, and of the great Marcher lord, Robert Mandeville,
God rest their souls. Surely, you know of Sir Robert. He served
King Richard on Crusade. ‘Twas at Acre he fell.”

A face and blue banner flashed in Royce’s
mind. “I recall the knight, but I know nothing of his
daughter.”

“Ah but you do!” The old man jabbed at the
air with one of his canes. “And because of you, she has been lost
to me these many long years. I demand you restore her to me!”

Again the hall erupted in murmurings and
babble. Royce steeled himself, a knot forming in his chest.

“Upon my honor, I know naught of what you
speak. But if I have unknowingly wronged the lady, I shall right
it.”

“Aye, upon your honor, right it you will!”
the old man snapped. “Hear me out then.”