His Fair Lady (6 page)

Gathering his composure, Lord Gilbert bid
his servant bring his folding stool. This done, he lowered himself
onto the piece with considerable effort and continued to grip his
canes before him. Silence fell over the hall, its occupants’
attention fixed upon the old lord as he began to address them.

Glancing to the royal minstrel who stood
right of the dais with his lute in hand, Lord Gilbert gave him a
nod. “Take heed of my words if it pleases you, for ‘tis a doleful
tale, worthy to be remembered in verse, though at present it owns
no end.”

Pausing, the old lord drew his gaze over
those in the hall, lingering momentarily on Royce, then bringing it
finally to settle on the king and his young queen, who appeared
particularly enrapt by his presence. Lord Gilbert drew a deep
breath.

“Ten years past, when the Lionheart put
forth the call to arms for the Third Crusade, my son-in-law, Sir
Robert Mandeville, crossed the Channel with his soldiers to meet
the king at Vézelay. His wife — my daughter, Alyce — and their only
child Juliana, accompanied him as far as Rouen. My own wife,
Thérèse, God rest her soul, was of French birth. Alyce, our
daughter, desired to visit her mother’s relatives, something she
was accustomed to do every several years.

“From Rouen Sir Robert sent Alyce and the
child on with a small host of men-at-arms to Senlis, where they
visited a widowed aunt. From there, they journeyed southward,
destined for Châlon, where a second aunt lived in cloister. Their
travels brought them to the village of Vaux, where they stopped to
seek lodging for the night with the local lord.”

Royce kept his gaze fixed rigidly on the old
lord, masking all emotion from his features as the memories of that
long-ago night swarmed back in all its harsh detail.

Lord Gilbert shifted on the stool.
“Tragically, that very night the village and manor were attacked
and laid waste.” Tears collected in his pale eyes. “The source of
the attack remains in question even after these many years, though
‘tis suspected a feud amongst the French nobles lay at its cause.
The lord of Vaux was not without enemies. To point, the attackers
specifically sought out all those of noble blood and put them to
the sword. Evidently, ‘twas their intent to exterminate the lord
and all his kindred.”

Lord Gilbert bowed his snowy head, his voice
quavering. “My daughter, Alyce, was among those slain. But the
child, Juliana, was never found.”

The hall remained hushed as a tomb. Royce
closed his lids, remembering the death and wreckage in the manor
house, envisaging the noblewoman laying dead in the rushes, blood
saturating her golden hair. Fallen about were her personal guards.
He’d wondered at the time about their blue-and-silver livery, which
differed so markedly from that of the other guards. Now he
understood. The lady was of another, much nobler house. She was
Alyce Mandeville.

Royce took a deep swallow and opened his
eyes. Directly across from him, Lord Gilbert drew a handkerchief
from his sleeve and mopped his face and wiped at his eyes. He then
struggled to his feet, his eyes and features enlivening as a fresh
fury stole into his face. He turned and cast Royce a searing
look.

“These long years have I searched for my
granddaughter. This much have I learned — Sir Hugh FitzAlan and his
men came upon Vaux that murderous night and aided the survivors to
a neighboring village. A child fitting little Juliana’s description
was seen directly after the attack, in the care of Sir Hugh’s own
squire. Apparently, she held a particular liking for the lad and
rode clinging to him all the way to Vincelles, where he gave her to
a peasant family — the village brewer and his wife.”

Royce wavered at the revelation then
clenched his hands to fists as Lord Gilbert continued his tale.

“For these many long years, I have searched
tirelessly for my granddaughter but, alas, to no avail. The brewer
soon left Vincelles with his little family to seek better fortune
elsewhere, using the coin the squire reportedly gave him.”

He stabbed Royce with another accusing look
then turned toward the dais once more.

“There is no way to know if Juliana yet
lives, but her looks are as exceptional as they are distinctive —
silvery blonde hair, eyes like emeralds, and a distinctive mole
marking the corner of her upper left lip.”

Ana
. With
crystalline clarity, Royce recalled the angelic creature who’d
wrapped herself around his person and around his heart. He stole a
swift glance at the queen then dropped his gaze away. ‘Twas Ana of
whom the child queen reminded him, not in age but in her glowing
beauty, pale as the moon. Royce’s pulse drubbed heavily in his
veins. How was he to have known the child was of noble
blood?

Lord Gilbert’s thundering voice jerked
Royce’s attention back to the hall.

“Sir Hugh and his retainers were in such
haste to join the Lionheart that they took no time to inquire about
those in their care,” he railed, his features collecting into a
choleric mien.

Turning, he raised his cane and shook it
accusingly at Royce.

“‘
Twas
you
who served as squire to Sir Hugh. You, Royce
de Warrene, are the one who gave my highborn granddaughter into the
charge of peasants, robbing her of her birthright, her station, and
what is left of her family — me, her grandfather!”

Royce started to speak, to tell Lord Gilbert
how, at the time, he’d sought to find the child’s relatives among
the survivors of Vaux, to tell him how she’d called herself only
“Ana,” obviously not remembering the full of her name. But the girl
had been severely distraught by the butchery she’d witnessed. As
Royce opened his mouth to say as much, the old lord cut short his
words.

“Juliana is my only surviving blood relative
and I, hers. My days grow short. I am unwell and nearly crippled,
as you can well see, and I am unable to continue my search.”

A fit of coughing overtook Lord Gilbert.
Somewhat defeated, he lowered himself onto the stool, his servants
bracing him. His throat settled, and he lifted his gaze toward the
dais, a great sadness in his eyes.

“If there be one thing I wish above all in
this life, ‘tis to behold my little Juliana with these old eyes
before I close them forever. God willing I shall.”

He struggled once more to his feet,
seemingly gathering the last of his strength about him.

“Majesty, when I heard of Royce de Warrene’s
return, I recognized his name and came at once to find him. Now I
demand justice — that Sir Royce take up my quest and find Juliana
and restore her to me and to her rightful place as a highborn lady
and heiress. Sir Royce, I demand you right the wrong you wrought so
many years ago.”

Royce stood stunned, unable to find his
voice. Clearly he was at fault and Lord Gilbert’s outrage
justified. His unwitting mistake tore at the fabric of his honor
and stained his very name as a worthy knight of the realm.

The queen moved first. Visibly touched, she
laid her hand on the king’s arm and leaned toward him to whisper in
his ear.

John’s lips parted in a wide smile. “Yes, my
dear, a quest. How splendid! Just as in days of old, and here we
have a knight of renown to see the quest through,” he blurted
triumphantly, like a delighted child.

The queen smiled, clapping her hands
together as rumbles of approval reverberated throughout the hall.
The king rose from his place, assuming a more sober aspect.

“Upon my oath, no domain under my crown
shall lose even one of its fair damsels,” he proclaimed
magnanimously. “Sir Royce, as a knight of the realm, you are bound
to defend — and rescue —maidens in distress. Considering your role
in the matter, I charge you with this quest. Find the heiress
Juliana Mandeville by whatever means you must and restore her to
her grandfather, Lord Gilbert Osborne.”

The king stepped from the dais, approached
Lord Gilbert, and proffered him his royal hand and ring, which the
old lord kissed. John then crossed to where Royce stood at his
place.

“We will talk anon of your lands, Sir Royce.
My counselors will have the details sorted out by the time you
return and your quest is complete. There will be a boon for you
when you do,” he added cheerfully. “The court looks forward to your
swift return. After all, how many places can an heiress hide?”

“Indeed, Majesty.” Royce forced the words
past his lips, still reeling from the swift turn of events and
subsequent royal command.

The king started toward the dais then halted
and turned back. “Report to my scribe. He shall draw up letters of
introduction and authority in the matter. Perhaps Lord Gilbert will
wish to add his own letters to these.”

Royce reined his emotions, his years of
training and discipline taking over as he embraced his knightly
duty. Wrong must be set to right, especially since he was the cause
of that disservice. ‘Twas long ago at Vincelles that he committed
himself to succoring the weak and the powerless — for “all the
little Anas of the world,” he’d avowed. Now, duty and destiny
called that he, once more, aid Ana herself.

Royce bowed deeply to the king and
queen.

“Majesties, by your leave, I shall hasten to
Dover and set sail on the first ship for Boulogne. By God’s grace
when you next see me ‘twill be with the heiress, Juliana
Mandeville, at my side.”

Chinon, in the region of Touraine, France
—

one of the Plantagenet domains of King
John

Ana silently slipped her cloak from the peg
by the door and stepped out of the house into the predawn quiet.
The chilled fresh air of early morn nipped at her cheeks and nose
while somewhere in the dark a lone dog barked. Obviously, like
herself, the animal could not sleep.

Traveling to the end of the narrow street,
Ana headed for the main square, anxious to reach it before the
first rays of light fell over Chinon and turned its walled castle
and the cliff it sat upon all to gold. ‘Twas a spectacle she loved
to behold. This would be her last time to steal out so freely and
do so — leastwise, as a maiden. Today was her wedding day.

Ana turned onto a crooked lane, hastening
her steps past half-timbered houses, squeezed side to side. Again a
dog barked while the tantalizing aromas of hot bread and meat broth
teased at her nostrils, masking the foul odors that ever pervaded
the streets. Ana continued on, her heart beating light and quick.
In minutes, she emerged onto the square.

Already there was some movement there. A
pair of veiled-and-wimpled matrons ambled toward the well at the
square’s center, their buckets looped over their arms, their heads
together as they shared some tattle. Several merchants opened the
horizontal shutters on their store fronts, propping the topmost
plank upward to create a canopy and dropping the lower one onto
legs to serve as a counter to display goods and conduct
business.

Directly across from Ana rose the
substantial church of St. Maurice, dominating all else on the
square. Her lips parted in a smile. In the coming hours, she would
stand upon the church’s hallowed steps for all to see and exchange
marriage vows with Gervase.

She drew her cloak snugly about her,
thoroughly content. Was she not the most fortunate maid of Chinon,
to have won the cooper’s heart? Gervase was a good, God-fearing
man, dependable, pleasant to look upon, and the owner of a
profitable and stable business — making wooden casks. He would be
amply able to provide a secure life for a wife and family.

She was indeed lucky to be marrying such a
man. Life would be good with Gervase, well worth her wait to marry.
And she’d waited longer than most maids. Some, including her foster
mother, Marie, feared she might never agree to wed. But, then, they
didn’t understand her reasons — deep, heart-held reasons — for
waiting.

Out of habit, Ana lifted her hand to the
silver cross suspended on a chain about her neck and closed her
fingers around it. She doubted anyone could understand her feelings
even if she attempted to explain them. Why even begin?

Her thoughts went back to her bridegroom, a
warm joy spreading through her.

Gervase had struck a friendship with her
foster father more than a year ago. On the occasion of her
eighteenth Name Day — a day chosen randomly since she knew not her
true one — she relented and decided to accept Gervase’s suit, which
he’d been pressing for nearly six months. Since their betrothal,
four weeks past, she and her foster mother had prepared for the
happy event, baking endlessly and making great quantities of fresh
ale and beer, which now filled Gervase’s new casks.

Ana blew at a wisp of hair that had fallen
across her forehead and eyes, then released a breezy sigh. ‘Twas a
fine match and she cared deeply for Gervase. She’d been fortunate
to be able to choose a spouse for love. And it was that — love.
After all, true love involved deep respect and fond regard for one
another, beyond simple attraction or momentary desire.

Yes, she loved Gervase and he loved her.
‘Twas evident by the sparkle of longing ever present in his eyes
when they were near. Admittedly, much of that “sparkle” had to do
with Gervase’s anticipation of their wedding night. He did naught
to conceal it. Still, she knew he loved her.

A fluttery sensation, akin to a host of
butterflies, rose from her stomach and flittered upward, inside her
chest. A few days past, her foster mother had explained the
physical aspects of marriage and what she might expect. When Ana
had expressed shock, Marie quickly assured she need not worry.
Gervase was a mild-mannered man and would likely be a considerate
lover, especially during their first couplings.

Ripples of unease traveled through Ana. She
could not think on these things or the night to come. Her foster
parents’ own relationship seemed happy in all regards. She would
draw encouragement from that. Surely she would survive Gervase’s
passion and possession of her. In time, perhaps, she’d come to even
welcome it.