All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 7

  “Is it?” Bayard asked, his tone indicating that he expected no answer. He wrapped a length of linen about his waist with a flourish. “Then might I assume that you have no interest in what you wear to take your vows?” He picked up Quinn’s tunic, which Quinn realized was looking even more disreputable than he had realized. Bayard held it high, then sniffed at it with disdain. “Your travel garments will do well enough, if this wedding is only a formality to be endured. A man’s merit is not his garb, after all.” He met Quinn’s gaze with all the innocence of a new babe.

  Curse the man.

  Quinn could not attend his own nuptials in such worn clothing, with his hair untended and his jaw unshaved. The lady already thought him a ruffian and Quinn wanted naught more than to prove her wrong.

  “You speak aright,” he said. “The institution of marriage must be respected, if naught else, regardless of the reason for the match.”

  He turned to Michel and deliberately ignored Bayard’s grin. “Go, Michel, and see if Lord de Tulley might lend me suitable garb for this occasion.” The boy bowed and would have raced immediately to the door. “But bring my knife first, for I am in need of a shave. Perhaps you could lay hands on some shears, as well, for my hair is in dire need of a trim.”

  Michel grinned as he produced Quinn’s dagger and the shears from behind his back. “Bayard said you would be needing these. I sharpened the blades, sir.”

  “I thank you, Michel.” Quinn glanced toward his companion.

  Bayard waved into the air and narrowed his eyes, as though he spied something elusive in the distance. “My dame often said I should have been a seer.”

  Quinn threw the soap at him and hit him square in the chest. Bayard jumped in surprise, not having seen the missile coming. Quinn laughed at his friend’s surprise, his customary mood restored, at least for the moment.

  He could win Melissande, and he would—for Sayerne.

  Three

  Berthe had gone to the kitchens, as was her wont at Tulley, and taken her mending. Lady Heloise had no obligation to entertain her, and truly, that lady seemed to wish to confer with her own maid. Berthe preferred to remain in the kitchen, working quietly, while she gathered gossip for her lady. She always listened and spoke little but, as her mother would have said, she kept her eyes open.

  She noted the arrival of a rough company shortly after her lady had been summoned to Tulley’s chamber. Two of them were men, and the others were but boys, though all were dirty and their clothing worn. They were fighting men, she could tell at a glimpse, and wondered if Tulley had hired more men-at-arms. They were greeted with courtesy, though, and clearly had been expected. Berthe saw the crosses on the tabards of the two men and wondered if they were crusading knights. Only one entered the kitchens and the châtelain was quick to usher him away. They would have been the party riding behind her lady’s own small group and Berthe was curious as to their reason for being at Tulley.

  The whispers began immediately.

  “So, he is the one,” said a maid. “I should not turn him aside.”

  The scullery maids laughed together. “He needs a bath.”

  “I would scrub his back.”

  “I would scrub more than that.” There was another gale of laughter, and the cook’s quelling glance made no difference.

  “Quinn has improved mightily with the years,” said one woman who had been at Tulley for as long as Berthe could recall. Her name was Rose and she had to be twice Berthe’s age. “I recall when he was no more than a lean boy. Truly, Tulley saw his promise early.”

  “I would entertain him this night if the lady refuses him,” jested one maid and there was a chorus of agreement.

  “Ensure you are near their door,” advised another. “In case she casts him out.”

  “Only a fool would deny such a man.”

  Berthe felt her color rise, but she kept her attention on her mending. She had been taught to keep her thighs together, but she knew that many of the woman who served at Tulley did not think similarly.

  So, Lord de Tulley had plans for this man, whether he be knight or mercenary. Berthe listened. What had they said his name was? Quinn. Berthe wondered where he had been summoned from. It was curious that they had ridden behind the party from Annossy, so they might have come from another holding sworn to Tulley. Perhaps they had made their way over a difficult pass. She supposed the lady who would wed this Quinn must be Heloise and wondered if Tulley’s niece guessed her fate.

  Perhaps she should have stayed and listened to the conversation between Heloise and her maid.

  “I hope Lady Melissande likes the look of him,” said one of the girls.

  Berthe almost dropped her needle.

  “What she thinks is of no import,” Rose countered. “She will wed him this day and bed him this night regardless of her view of the matter.”

  “But...”

  “Lord de Tulley has no qualms in taking away what he has given,” Rose said, her manner arch.

  Berthe blinked in astonishment at this. Would Tulley seize Annossy if her lady did not wed this stranger? One of the younger kitchen maids sat down beside her, her manner friendly but watchful. “Will your lady welcome him to her bed?” she asked with a smile that was not entirely pleasant. “It is said that Lady Melissande d’Annossy is made of ice, but perhaps she needs a man to thaw her.” Her expression turned lewd as the other maids laughed.

  “My lady is reserved, to be sure, for she was taught to conduct herself with dignity.”

  “Dignity will not aid her this night,” Rose said. “Fighting men always understand their advantage.”

  “That is what you like about them,” charged one of the maids and they laughed again.

  “What Tulley demands is what occurs in this keep,” agreed the cook. “The lady would be wise to cede rather than fight his command.” He gave Berthe a look. “You might want to encourage her in that.”

  “But surely Lord de Tulley will not demand that my lady wed a stranger?”

  “Her legal husband will not be a stranger,” Rose said. “For long.”

  There was laughter at this.

  “I thought you meant he was summoned to wed Lady Heloise,” Berthe protested and Rose smiled.

  “There is not a man alive good enough for that one, at least to Lord de Tulley’s thinking.” Rose shook her head. “Indeed, I feel sorry for any man who grants her a glance, let alone the one she weds.”

  “It is the raids on Annossy’s borders that concern Tulley, no more and no less,” the cook informed her. “Your lady will see that it is best for there to be a man in charge at Annossy.”

  Berthe was not certain Lady Melissande would agree. She did not share the detail that there had been another such raid the night before.

  Did Quinn and his party know something of that?

  Indeed, this was her opportunity to learn more for her lady. “Who is this Quinn?” she asked. “From whence did he come?”

  “He is Quinn de Sayerne, of course, and is returned from the Holy Land at Tulley’s summons to claim his father’s holding,” Rose supplied.

  Berthe was surprised and not entirely pleased. “Jerome had a son?”

  “Aye, but Tulley took Quinn under his own care some twenty years ago and sent him away.”

  There had never been a lady at Sayerne in Berthe’s memory.

  “Lord de Tulley sponsored Quinn to train for his spurs, then encouraged him to join the crusade,” Rose continued. “He saw him trained to be his minion and awaited only the death of Jerome.”

  Those in the kitchen crossed themselves.

  “It is always Tulley’s scheme to plan for the future,” the cook agreed.

  “But this Quinn and his fellows could not have come from the Holy Land so quickly as that,” Berthe said.

  “It was a year at Christmas that Tulley sent a messenger to find Quinn, and word came last summer that he had been found,” Rose informed her. “Quinn did not sail for home, though, but rode over land.
It is farther and takes longer, but knights will cater to their steeds when possible.”

  “I have never known a horse to like a ship, to be sure.”

  “That will be his companion, Bayard de Neuville, who arrived with him, along with their squires,” Rose said.

  “Then they are knights?” Berthe asked. She had been uncertain, based on Quinn’s appearance, but found this detail reassuring.

  “Aye, Bayard and Quinn are,” Rose confirmed.

  “But here is the greater question,” said one of the maids. “Is it true that Quinn’s eyes are golden? Are they the hue of honey or of amber?”

  “Which of us shall discover the truth?” The women began to chatter and laugh again, and Berthe kept her head bent over her mending.

  A young man burst into the kitchens. “We have need of hot water aplenty,” he said. “The newly arrived party have brushed down their horses and desire to bathe.”

  “The fire is stirred up and the cauldron is simmering,” the cook said. “We started to heat the water as soon as we heard they would be arriving.”

  “You knew before they arrived at the gates?” Berthe asked.

  The cook laughed. “Tulley has spies in every corner. He knew when they halted at Beauvoir Pass, and when they stayed in a tavern two nights ago. He sent a party after them to Sayerne yesterday with provisions. He likely knows more than that.”

  There was laughter and agreement to that. Berthe could not believe that Tulley would sponsor a man who was less than deserving of his trust. Twenty years before Tulley had sent this Quinn to gain his spurs, at Tulley’s own expense. He must have seen merit in him young. Berthe found Tulley brusque and domineering, but he was fair.

  There must be more to Quinn than met the eye, and she was inclined to think well of him for being both knight and crusader.

  If she had doubts about the wedding, they were to be dismissed. No sooner had the boys taken water to the stables than the châtelain hastened into the kitchens with purpose. “There will be a feast this night,” he declared, clearly agitated, and the cook nodded agreement. “We have a wedding to celebrate! We will have the rest of the venison and bring wine from the cellars....”

  “Who is to be married?” Berthe had to be certain.

  The châtelain fixed her with a bright look. “Lady Melissande will wed Quinn de Sayerne. If you have not brought suitable garb for your lady, then you might speak with the maid of Lady Heloise with all haste. She is with her mistress in the hall.”

  “Aye, sir,” Berthe said and gathered her mending. There were times when she was glad to be a simple country lass and a servant besides, and this day had to be one of them. To think that her lady would be compelled to wed a stranger and was commanded to do as much immediately!

  Lady Melissande would be devastated. What of her old pledge to Arnaud de Privas? Berthe understood, though, that there would be no choice. Tulley was never to be denied.

  She halted abruptly when a man marched toward her, the same man who had followed Tulley’s summons. He fairly filled the portal and Berthe had little choice but to stand aside. He looked to be riled, and she doubted he had noticed her. His golden eyes blazed with fury and his lips were drawn to a grim line. He barely granted her a nod as he passed her, then strode through the kitchens to the bailey beyond.

  The maids stared after him in silence.

  “Gold,” whispered one.

  “Honey,” asserted another, then sighed.

  “Amber,” declared a third.

  “There will be need for more water!” the cook said and sent them hurrying.

  Berthe was intrigued that the bridegroom was no less enamored of this match than she guessed the bride would be. But whyever not? His reaction pricked Berthe’s pride. Her lady was lovely, young, and the heiress of Annossy. Any man should be glad to wed her!

  This night, though, would not be easy for Lady Melissande. Berthe loved her lady dearly and did not wish to see her unhappy in any way. What could she do to assist? If naught else, she could ensure that her lady looked her best. Indeed, Lady Melissande’s beauty might melt the coldest heart.

  And Berthe could bolster her lady’s confidence. Aye, Tulley always had good wine and plenty of it. Berthe took a pitcher of it and some spices from the open bowl. Such was the affluence of Tulley that a few sticks of cinnamon would not be missed, and her lady was both guest and bride.

  Even Tulley’s châtelain could not take issue with her choice.

  Melissande unlocked the door to the chamber she had been assigned to find Berthe in the corridor. It was the same chamber she had been granted before at Tulley and familiar for that. Berthe lit a brazier and began to mull wine. There were lanterns lit and the chamber soon was both warm and filled with welcoming light. Melissande went to the window and folded her arms across her chest, staring at the distant tower of Annossy, its pennant waving from the summit. Her heart was so cold that it might have been wrought of lead.

  She would wed the son of Jerome before the sun set.

  It was outrageous.

  Worse, there was naught she could do about it. Tulley was adamant and she knew that pressing him further would only vex him. She could do without Tulley being annoyed with her, given that he had pledged her to Jerome’s son when he was pleased.

  Berthe began to chatter, as was her wont. “My lady, you look to have had a shock of the worst order. And you are too cold.” The maid pressed Melissande’s hands between hers for a moment, then tutted under her breath. “Come over here and sit yourself down by the fire. I have stirred up the blaze in the brazier and it will warm you through to your toes.”

  “I fear it will not,” Melissande said, though she did as she was bidden.

  Berthe urged a stoneware mug into her hands. It was warm. Melissande glanced down to its ruddy contents, the smell of cinnamon teasing her nostrils. “A cup of spiced wine is what you need, my lady, for that will warm you through and through. It encourages the blood to race and heats you from the very core.” She stood back and sighed. “You will need sustenance, I fear.”

  Melissande sipped the soothing brew and eyed her maid. “What have you heard?”

  “Is it true that you are to wed Jerome’s son?”

  Melissande nodded and watched Berthe’s expression change to echo her own mood.

  “Irksome man! How is it that Lord de Tulley can forget your pledge to Arnaud de Privas? How can he command you to wed?”

  “He can and he has,” Melissande said grimly.

  “At least Lord Quinn is not old. Or lamed.”

  “It is the character of my husband that concerns me more than his appearance.”

  “Aye,” Berthe agreed, then her eyes widened. “And that is fine, is it not? He is a warrior, to be sure, and Annossy will be blessed by his presence.”

  “Will it?”

  “Of course, my lady!” Berthe’s eyes sparkled with mischief, which surprised Melissande. “All of the women in the kitchen declare they would be glad to bed Quinn de Sayerne in your stead.”

  “Do they?” Melissande admitted he had an appeal, in a rough way.

  “Aye, Dame Fortune has smiled upon you, my lady, for that rogue Tulley—pardon any disrespect, my lady, but he is one who sees to his own interests first—could have seen you wed to the first man who came along, and not waited for a fine specimen such as he.”

  “You have seen him then?” Melissande indulged in a sip of wine so seldom that this heady brew of Berthe’s was having a strong effect upon her.

  “Aye! He passed me twice, and once he stood directly before me. He is tall and broad, my lady, a man who can swing a sword and one who will defend both you and Annossy.”

  “You cannot know that, Berthe.”

  “Tulley has sponsored him for twenty years,” Berthe replied. “Because of his honorable nature, Tulley ensured that he trained for his spurs, and suggested that he ride to Palestine on crusade, and sent a messenger to find him and summon him back when Jerome died. He is Tulley’s man, t
o be certain, my lady, and that cannot be a bad alliance for you.” Berthe added a little more wine to the cup. “What did you think when first you saw him, my lady? You must have been aware that he is a man.”

  “I feared he had lice,” Melissande admitted and Berthe laughed before she covered her mouth with one hand.

  “You did not, my lady.”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you think next?” the maid asked, her eyes sparkling.

  Melissande dropped her gaze. She had thought Quinn alluring. He was disheveled, poorly garbed, and less than clean, but did have the most wonderfully warm gaze—when he wasn’t angry, of course.

  “You must tell me, my lady, are his eyes truly golden? They seemed to be lit with fire when I saw him.”

  Melissande felt a jolt that Berthe’s question should so closely echo her own thoughts, but the girl continued. “Aye, they are gold, and most uncommon for that.”

  “Are they the shade of honey or of a deeper hue, like that of amber?” Berthe asked. “There is great dissent in the kitchens over this and I—for the sake of accuracy, of course—would like to be the one to set the matter straight.” The maid paused, her expression expectant, and regarded Melissande.

  Melissande cleared her throat. It was easy to recall the precise shade of Quinn’s eyes, and the way they changed when his temper flared. Although she was not one to encourage talk among servants, it seemed that the gossip mill was at work already on this matter.

  “It depends upon his mood,” she admitted, hoping against hope that her cheeks were warm because of Berthe’s brew.

  “His mood,” Berthe breathed. “How so, my lady?”

  “When he is angered, they flash like gold in sunlight, but when he is...intent, they darken like wildflower honey.” Melissande was certain her own cheeks were on fire.

  Berthe’s eyes were round. “Intent?”

  “Aye,” Melissande agreed and took another sip of wine. “Intent.”