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“Aye. And I’ll have an answer to that mystery, but now I’m for Hendry Hall.”
“Am I seeing at last a glimmer of eagerness to be home?”
Nicholas shifted in his saddle. “They said at the inn that they’d thought me dead. No doubt my arrival will be a surprise.”
“We six were all counted among the departed when we didn’t come back directly at the end of the fighting.”
Just six. Of the two hundred knights who’d ridden off four years before proudly flaunting the banner of the Black Rose, only the six comrades-in-arms had returned. Level-headed Simon, the natural leader of the group; Nicholas, the charmer; Bernard, battle-hardened from humble squire to deadly conquerer; Guy, the outlander who was rightfully the lord’s son; Gervase, the innocent who’d taken a vow none of the others would dare; and Hugh, whose soft-hearted manner disguised a warrior’s strength.
“I thought the news of our miraculous survival would make our welcome all the merrier,” Gervase continued when Nicholas remained silent.
“Hendry Hall is not a merry place, Gervase, which is perhaps why I was wont to seek friendlier diversions away from home.”
“By the saints, Nicholas, if all your diversions were like the one we just met, I’d say you’d find friendlier ground back fighting the infidels.”
Nicholas shook his head. “And still you refuse to believe me. The lady was not my lover.” He stared ahead at the gray stone manor house that had come into view around the bend in the road. He’d always favored buxom maids with pleasing smiles and easy ways. The woman at the inn had had a strength to her, no matter how willowy her form. And there’d been steel in her gaze. “Trust me, Gervase,” he said softly. “I’d have remembered such a one as she.”
Beatrice crooned softly as she rocked the sleeping boy in her arms. “’twas in the merry month of May, when green buds were a-swellin’…”
She enjoyed these quiet evening times with her little nephew, though she knew that he would soon be beyond such attentions. Over three years old now, he seemed to grow bigger daily.
The door to her bedchamber creaked open. “Do you think to sit here the rest of the night, daughter?” Phillip Thibault asked softly, taking one step into the room.
“Flora was right, Father,” she answered, still rocking, and rubbing her hand lightly over the child’s dark curls. “Handsome as the devil himself, she used to say. Dancing black eyes that can melt the innards of whatever woman they light upon.”
“You should come down to sup, lass. You’ve taken nothing since this morning, and that was before dawn.”
Beatrice’s glance slid to her father. Her blue eyes were icy without a hint of tears. “As handsome as the devil and twice as wicked, I trow.”
Phillip shook his head sadly. “Put little Owen in his bed and come downstairs with me. Gertie left a leg of mutton that’s fair charred on the spit while I’ve waited for you.”
“You should have supped, Father. I’ve no taste for food this night.”
Phillip walked across the room. His daughter’s bedchamber was large, encompassing half the upper floor of the Gilded Boar. It had once been the master’s quarters, but when Beatrice had come from York to care for her sister, Phillip had insisted on moving to the small room at the rear of the inn. He’d stayed there now that the big upstairs chamber served as both sleeping quarters and nursery. The big bed Phillip had shared years ago for too short a span with Beatrice and Flora’s mother was pushed up against one slanting wall. The rest of the room was devoted to the child’s needs.
“You’ll be a fine nursemaid to the lad on the morrow after a day of fasting,” Phillip said sternly, reaching for the child. “He’ll be awake with the cock’s crow, running every which way and begging to be off to the meadow while you slump over your porridge.”
Owen murmured as his grandfather lifted him, but remained asleep. Beatrice watched nervously as her father carried the child across the room. Phillip was not strong these days, and at times the shaking made it difficult to keep his balance. She let out a little sigh of relief as her father placed the boy successfully on his pallet.
“I cannot stomach the thought of food while that blackguard’s face still dances before my eyes,” she said.
“Then banish him from your mind, Beatrice. You need not have any contact with Master Hendry.”
“With Sir Nicholas Hendry, you mean,” she corrected bitterly. “You forget he’s a hero now, returning from the Holy Crusade.”
Phillip took her hand and pulled her out of the chair. “Ah, you see. He couldn’t be such a devil after all if he’s spent the past four years on the Lord’s work.”
Beatrice let her father lead her out of the room. “’Tis more likely that he’s spent the past four years seducing every maid between here and Jerusalem.”
Phillip shook his head again slowly and pushed gently on his daughter’s shoulders to start her moving down the narrow stairs to the tavern room. “Put him out of your head, lass. With any luck he’ll be so busy over at Hendry Hall that we won’t soon see his face again.”
Nicholas bit his lip as he gave Gervase a full forearm grip. The younger knight’s free hand went to Nicholas’s shoulder. “We’ll meet again, my friend,” he said, his voice thick.
Nicholas nodded without speaking.
“I’ll stay on a few days if you need me, Nick. If you need help with…you know…settling your father’s affairs.”
“It appears they’ve been well settled without me,” Nicholas answered with a shake of his head. “Though I can still scarcely credit it. I’d thought my father too tough to ever let death catch up with him.”
“’Twas not the homecoming you’d planned.”
“Nay.”
The two knights let their hands drop and Gervase moved toward his horse, saying, “You’ll give my thanks to your lady mother for the night’s lodging?”
“Aye.”
Gervase mounted his big stallion. “We’ve a brotherhood, you know, Nick, the six of us. Knights of the Black Rose. We’re the only ones left to tell the stories.”
Nicholas ventured a wan smile. “I know. Forgive this melancholy farewell, Gervase. I count you as a brother and always shall.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Nick. You’ve come back to find a house of mourning. It will take you some time to get used to the idea that you’re the new master of Hendry Hall.”
Nicholas shook his head once again. He’d not told Gervase the true extent of the bad news he’d learned from his mother last night after the rejoicing at his safe return had subsided. “Aye, it will take time,” he said simply. He gave the horse a gentle slap. “Now off with you, my friend, to put your own affairs to rights. You, too, return to a house much altered.”
Gervase gave a sad smile. “You know me like a brother as well, Nicholas. I’ll send word when I’m settled.”
Nicholas nodded and forced a smile to his lips as his friend rode off. Saying goodbye to the last of his comrade knights put an end to the adventure that had at times seemed part of a four-year-long dream. Now it was time to awaken. Past time. Gervase’s horse disappeared around the bend. His shoulders set, Nicholas turned back toward the house where his newly widowed mother waited.
“That’s the third time you’ve invoked the name of Baron Hawse in the past five minutes, Mother,” Nicholas said wearily. “I care nothing for the baron’s thoughts on the matter. I want to know yours.”
The mistress of Hendry Hall was a tiny woman, totally dwarfed by her strapping son, but her gaze did not waver. “Baron Hawse has been my savior, Nicholas. I’d likely have perished without him, thinking both you and your father dead.”
“I grant you it must have been difficult, Mother, but now I’m back and Hendry Hall can be restored to its rightful master. I mislike the idea that the ghost of my father has been chased away by the presence of our neighbor to the south. If I recall, Father thought little of the man.”
Constance turned away from her son’s gaze and walked a few steps to sit on the low stoop by the small fireplace that had been a recent improvement to the spacious master’s chambers of Hendry Hall. When alive, Nicholas’s father, Arthur, had been constantly rebuilding the stone house that had started as a much more humble abode shortly after the days of the Conquest.
Nicholas looked down at his mother. At twoscore years, she was an old woman, yet in the flickering firelight her face was devoid of lines, her eyes clear. After a long moment she turned her head back to him and said, “As I recall it, you and your father were too often at odds for you to know much about what he thought.”
Nicholas hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to drop down beside her directly in front of the fire. “Aye. ’Twas the principal thing that I was determined to change. I’ve thought of little else this year past as we struggled to make our way home.”
Constance reached out to her son and gently brushed an unruly lock of hair from his forehead. “I know. ’Tis a bitter pill that you two were never reconciled. But, Nicholas, in my heart I know that your father truly did love you.”
Nicholas looked away from her as he said, “Aye. He loved me so much that he signed away my birthright to a man he didn’t even like.”
“He thought you dead, Nicholas. And he respected the baron’s position. To him that was the most important thing. He was trying to protect me.”
Nicholas leaned toward the flames and felt the welcome heat on his face. The house had not entirely given up the chill of the long winter months. “I still can’t believe it—Baron Hawse as master of Hendry lands and Hendry Hall.” He looked up at his mother. “And of the mistress of Hendry Hall as well, from the way you speak of him.”
“The only man who has ever been my master is dead, Nicholas. And I’ve no desire to lease myself to a new one.”
“Yet the baron is in want of a wife. ’Twould be a natural match.” Nicholas finally voiced the thought that had been in his head since his mother had told him how his father, on his deathbed, had signed over his estate to Gilbert, Baron Hawse.
“Mayhap. But ’tis not a match I seek. And I’d mourn your father this twelvemonth before I’d even consider such a notion.”
Though her words were a denial, something in her tone told Nicholas that the idea of marrying the baron had, indeed, occurred to his mother. The thought made the back of his mouth taste sour.
His bad leg had gone stiff. He untwisted it and rose awkwardly to his feet. “By the rood, Mother, you deserve happiness after enduring my father all those long years. But I intend to fight Hawse on this matter of the Hendry lands. I’d hoped you’d not let your heart get in the way. Women are ever soft on these matters.”
Constance gave a sad smile. “Before you went off to the war, the rumor was that you were something of an expert on the subject of women’s hearts, my son. I confess I’d hoped that the years away would have taught you something about their heads as well.”
“The Crusades taught me many things, Mother. You’ll not find me the reckless philanderer who fled here four years ago. I’ve grown up.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” The firelight caught the brightening of her eyes.
“But the Crusades also taught me to fight my own battles. Hendry Hall belongs to me, in spite of the documents my father signed.” He rubbed his thigh where the old wound nagged.
“The baron will be here on the morrow,” his mother said. “He has made no move to implement the change in title, and has promised not to act until the mourning year is over. Mayhap we can come to a peaceful resolution.”
“Mayhap.” He bent to plant a kiss on the top of his mother’s head. “Don’t fret yourself, Mother. You’ve had too many worries since my father’s death. Now that I’m home, I’d see the smile back on your face.”
She obliged him with the broadest smile she’d given since he had arrived on the previous day. “My prayers have been answered by your return, my son.”
He turned to leave, moving gingerly as the feeling came slowly back into his leg. As he reached to open the door, he was startled by a knock that sounded from the other side. He pulled it open to reveal his mother’s handmaid.
The girl was breathing heavily, evidently having just run up the steep stairway to the upstairs bedchambers. “Visitor’s awaiting, Master Nicholas,” she puffed.
Nicholas looked back at his mother. “I thought you said the baron was coming tomorrow.”
“’Tis not Baron Hawse,” the girl said. “’Tis a lady. Not a fine one, but not common neither.”
“One of your former admirers, no doubt, son,” said Constance with an air of resignation. “I thought it would not take them long to discover your return.”
Nicholas frowned and turned to follow the servant girl downstairs.
Chapter Two
The news that had awaited him upon his arrival home had almost made him forget the incident at the Gilded Boar Inn. But even before he entered the great hall and saw the tall woman waiting for him at the opposite end of the hall, he somehow suspected that his surprise visitor might be her.
Oddly enough, the thought rather pleased him. For one thing, it would give him the opportunity to solve the mystery of her dramatic response to his visit to the inn the previous noon.
She looked up as he approached. Once again, her eyes were like skewers. However, this time he had ample opportunity to observe that they were also handsome, as was the rest of her. “Mistress,” he said in acknowledgement. When she didn’t speak at once, he decided to be direct. “You have the advantage of me. You seem to know who I am, but I remain in ignorance of your identity.”
Her chin went up a notch. “I did not come here to make your acquaintance,” she said.
Her voice was musical, he noted, in spite of the frost. “Then you admit that we are not acquainted, mistress. Yet it appears that you must bear me some ill will.” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “I’m quite sure that when I left this country ’twas not the custom to greet perfect strangers by expectorating in their faces.”
Beatrice felt unexpectedly shaky. She hadn’t thought it would be this difficult to face the monster. Her father had argued against this visit, and perhaps she should have paid him heed. But she had a reason for wanting to be sure that Nicholas Hendry would never again set foot anywhere near the Gilded Boar. The sudden memory of little Owen strengthened her resolve.
“The gesture was spontaneous,” she said. “But I offer no apology. And you may believe that the sentiment behind it was genuine.”
Nicholas’s dark eyes warmed to the edge of a smile. “I believe you, mistress.”
His lack of anger made her task more difficult. “Be that as it may, I’ve come to be sure that the message was received.”
Nicholas merely tipped his head, questioning.
“You’re not welcome at the Boar,” Beatrice continued.
Now he frowned. “Who are you, mistress? And how is it that you are warning me away from an inn that, if I calculate correctly, is on lands leased from this very estate?”
Beatrice felt her face grow warm. If she were to accomplish her mission, she had to tell him that much. “The master of the inn, Phillip Thibault, is my father.”
Nicholas blinked as though a sudden memory had shifted in the back of his head. “You’re not Flora,” he said, his voice low.
“So you do remember her?”
“Aye. The brewer’s daughter, Flora. But you are not she.”
“Flora was my sister.” Her voice held steady.
“Was?” He looked stricken. She’d give him that much, at least.
“Flora’s dead these three years past.”
Nicholas looked down. “It grieves me to hear it.” Lifting his eyes to his visitor’s face, he asked, “What happened to her?”
Beatrice swallowed the lump that threatened to erupt from her throat. It was anger she wanted to show this man, not grief. “You killed her,” she said finally.
Nicholas’s shock was more acute than on their earlier encounter when she had spit at him. He remembered sweet Flora vividly. She’d been his last light o’ love before he’d set out on the Crusade. They’d had but a few short meetings before he had to take leave of her. He remembered her tender farewell, had tasted her tears all the way across the Channel.
You killed her, the woman had said, hate dripping with each word. He shook his head to clear it, and felt the beginning of anger. He may have taken unfair advantage of Flora Thibault, as he had too many other women in those wild days. But he’d never harmed her, of that he was certain.
“She was in perfect health when I left England,” he said stiffly.
“She died of a broken heart.”
Nicholas shook his head. Broken hearts were the stuff of minstrel songs. People did not die of them. Perhaps this woman, however intelligent she appeared, was of weak mind. The notion made him speak more gently. “Flora knew from the onset that our time together would be short. I can’t believe that my departure caused her such distress.”
“If you’d truly known my sister, you would have seen that she was in love with you.”
“We loved each other, Mistress Thibault, but we both knew ’twas a fleeting pleasure. I swear your sister understood this as well as I.”
“Yet she is dead,” Beatrice said, delivering each word as if it were a judge’s sentence.
“Did she have no disease, no wound?”
Beatrice ignored his question and continued in her deliberate tone. “I can do nothing to prove you accountable, Master Hendry, but listen well. I’ve come to ask you civilly to honor my father’s grief and my own. Do not show your face anywhere near the Gilded Boar.”
