Elizabeth ignored the question and asked one of her own. "Is he in the hall yet?" The excitement in Elizabeth's voice told Rowena that the he she referred to must be the earl of Blackmoor.
The earl had arrived in Hexham two days before and so far Rowena had been spared his boorish company.
Something that was sure to change shortly.
Joanne's face beamed. "Aye, he just entered the hall."
Elizabeth overturned her chair in her haste to leave the room.
Sedately, Rowena rose to her feet and followed after her friends, who were rushing down the corridor in a most unladylike fashion as they giggled and recounted their earlier encounter with the earl.
"I can't believe he actually carried me," Joanne said in a breathless voice. "How I wish I'd been awake."
"How I wish I'd been the one who fainted," Elizabeth inserted. "Oh, to be carried by those strong arms!"
Rowena shook her head. In spite of her best efforts, a smile hovered at the edges of her lips. She loved her two friends, but there were times when they still acted as if they were children instead of women full grown.
Elizabeth and Joanne paused along the gallery where numerous other women were leaning over the low stone wall to spy on the men below. The hall was crowded with people and hounds and musicians as servants prepared the tables for the coming meal. Over and over, Rowena heard various women exclaiming over Lord Stryder, the earl of Blackmoor.
"Is his hair not as dark as a midnight sky?" a woman to her left breathed.
"Oh, aye. And his shoulders are by far the broadest of any below."
"You can tell by his walk that he's a man to satisfy a woman's needs. Oh, but for a chance to find out for myself."
Rowena plucked absently at her sleeve as she sought a way to block out the inane prattle. It was such an effort not to be sick in the midst of the hallway.
"I hear he's vowed to never marry."
Rowena quirked an eyebrow at the untoward comment. Perhaps the man had some intelligence after all.
"Why would he vow such?" Elizabeth asked.
"They say he's cursed."
"Cursed with the looks of a handsome devil, and the prowess of Saint George. I wish someone would curse me with such a man!"
Unable to stand any more of their comments, Rowena pushed gently past the thronging women and slowly descended the stairs. Let them ogle if they must. She had other things to do, such as finding something bitter to remove the cloying sugary taste of their comments from her throat.
As she entered the foyer, a young page accidently ran into her in his haste to fetch more wine for his lord. Rowena tried to right herself, but just as she straightened a hound shot across her path and caught in the hem of her gown. Propelled forward, she felt herself falling.
She gasped, reaching out for a way to steady herself. Just as she was certain she would undignify herself with a sprawl in the center of the crowd, someone caught her.
Strong arms wrapped tightly around her, spinning her about before holding her close against a chest taut with muscles.
Rowena looked up and felt her jaw go slack.
Never in the whole of her life had she seen the like…
Never.
Blue eyes, fierce and piercing, stared out from a face of pure masculine heaven. It was all she could do to not reach out and run her hand along the sharp angle of that perfectly sculpted jaw, to let the telltale black stubble scrape her fingertip…
The man was utterly gorgeous.
Perfect.
He possessed that rare manly beauty that would be feminine on anyone who lacked his raw, earthy masculinity. Or on anyone who lacked the size of him.
He was huge! Tall and well muscled, he held her with ease. His unfashionably long hair spoke that this man didn't cater to current tastes, and the humor in his gaze said he possessed a good, tender nature.
As he continued to watch her with fascinated interest, her face burned with heat.
This was a most embarrassing embrace, if the truth were told. Her body was tilted backward so that she looked up at the stranger with only the strength of his arms supporting her. He surrounded her with warmth and security, and his handsome face bore a mixture of concern and amusement.
"Are you all right, milady?" he asked.
There was music in that masculine tone. A rich, deep bass that would no doubt resonate with beauty should he use it to sing.
An aura of danger surrounded him that said he followed no man's rules save his own. An aura that said he held a dark, sinister side to him that would have been frightening had it not been softened by an air of charming good humor. It was a strange dichotomy that held her enthralled.
His wavy black hair swept about his broad shoulders and as he smiled, she saw the dimples that cut deep moons into his cheeks.
Her heart pounded as chills went through her at the sight of those devilish dimples.
He had also asked her a question. She remembered it, but for her life she couldn't remember what he'd said.
Until he set her back on her feet.
Mortified that she hadn't moved, that she was acting every bit as childish as her friends, Rowena felt another wave of heat rush up over her cheeks.
In an effort to look away from the laughter in his blue mirthful eyes, her gaze dropped to his broad chest. He wore a tight red and black supertunic that slid sinuously over lean muscles, muscles she remembered feeling pressed against her all too well.
His body was truly a feast for her eyes.
Until she saw it….
The sword he had strapped to his lean hips.
"You're a knight," she pronounced slowly, understanding now the dark side of him that she had glimpsed.
Knight. Murderer. They were synonymous, and she should have known he was one of their dreaded breed. She shouldn't be surprised by the knowledge. Most noblemen were knights, yet a wave of bitter disappointment claimed her.
How she wished he had been born another. 'Twas such a pity that so handsome a man would waste his time on such pointless, cruel endeavors.
"Aye, milady," he said again in that wonderful, melodic voice. "A knight ever at your service."
She supposed she should thank him for the quick reflexes that had kept her from falling, but then those reflexes had only been honed so that he could kill others. Rather she should sprawl upon the floor a thousand times than one man should perish in war.
"I appreciate your service, sir," she said, her voice carrying the full arctic impact of her mood.
She started away from him.
"Milady?"
Without thought, she paused and turned back toward him.
"Will you not give me your name?"
"Nay."
This time when she started away from him, he actually blocked her path.
"Nay?" he asked, his eyes showing his surprise, and yet they also managed to be charming and warm. 'Twas obvious he didn't hear that word often from a maid's lips.
"You have no need for my name, sir knight. I am sure there are plenty here who would gladly give you theirs, but I am not one of them."
One corner of his mouth quirked up, displaying a single dimple in his left cheek. In spite of her best intentions, she found his devilish air…
Entertaining?
Nay, that wasn't really the word, she found him… well… delightful, if she dare admit it. He really was too charming for words.
"Can I not claim mere curiosity, milady? After all, 'tis not often I find an unknown woman in my arms."
Rowena bit her bottom lip in an effort to suppress her smile which proved a treacherous beast against her will. "There is something about you, sir, that tells me that is not true."
His rich laughter rippled in her ears as he bestowed his full smile upon her. That smile did the strangest things to her body. It made her pulse race, her mind giddy.
"Then shall we say 'tis not often I find a maid in my arms who is reluctant?"
"Now that I believe most definitely." She
took a step backward, more afraid of her sudden desire to stay with him than of his occupation.
Whatever was the matter with her? She'd never before wanted to be in the same country as such men, and now all of a sudden she actually wanted to take a moment to chat with this one.
She must have drunk too much wine.
You haven't had a sip, Rowena. You only just now entered the hall.
Oh, well, then it must be the excitement of the day's events. Aye, that was it.
That must be it.
"If you'll excuse me?" she asked.
He stepped back reluctantly. "This time only, milady. When next we meet, I'll be expecting a name for you."
"If that be the case, sir knight, then you shall again be disappointed."
Something akin to admiration glowed in those deep blue eyes. "Should I warn you, milady, I don't take disappointment well?"
Rowena smiled in spite of herself. She liked this verbal sparring with him. It wasn't often she found a man or woman who could match her so effortlessly. "Only if you allow me to warn you that I don't take warning well."
This time when she turned he didn't try to stop her, but she heard his laughter again.
Oh, she thought with a sigh. 'Twas terrible he was a knight. With such a voice and manner he would have made a fine troubadour indeed.
Halfway across the room Rowena did her best not to yield to a desire to turn around and see if he watched her still. Over and over she told herself she didn't care whether he watched her or not.
He was a dreaded, brutal knight.
And as she reached the side of a fellow minstrel, she did just happen to glance backward. Not that she was looking for him, she assured herself. It was Elizabeth, Bridget, or Marian she sought. And yet as her gaze skimmed the occupants and she saw no hint of her knight, she couldn't suppress her disappointment.
It's just as well. All a man such as that can offer is early widowhood and a broken heart as he traipses from bed to bed, ever careless of a woman's feelings.
Those words were ever so true, yet she did wonder at what his name might have been.
What name would fit a man of such charm and beauty? Certainly not Hugh, Henry, or Edward. Nay, he would have a name as unique as the man…
Do stop thinking about it!
Putting the man out of her mind, she joined her friends and forced herself to enjoy the conversation.
Henry Plantagenet, king of England, ruler of Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine, undisputedly one of the most powerful men in the world, sat in the corner of his withdrawing room, holding a cool cloth to his head.
His temples throbbed, his heart raced with fury, and he was quite certain that in the next few minutes he might very well die from aggravation.
If one more knight, baron, earl, or other came through the doors of his room to beg him to force Stryder of Blackmoor to marry his daughter, he would kill them.
All of them.
He would go mad with anger and descend on the whole of his court like the Grim Reaper, seeking only peace from the locusts who were determined to kill him.
"Here," his wife Eleanor said as she brought him another cool cloth and placed it to his brow. She was an elegant queen. Tall, slender, and blonde, she was the envy of all Christendom, and at times such as this, Henry remembered why he had married her (aside from the fact that she held control of more French lands than the French king).
Henry handed her the old cloth and grimaced. "What am I to do, Nora?" he asked his wife. "Apparently no lady in the kingdom is willing to wed until Stryder chooses a bride. What foolishness has plagued these women?"
"If you were a woman, Henry, you would have no need to ask that. The man is quite pleasing to the eyes and has more wealth than even you."
He growled at her.
To his utter horror, another knock sounded. "If 'tis anyone other than my physician, send him away."
His guards opened the door to show him Lionel of Sussex. They were about to shove the man out when Henry stopped them. "Nay, he is one of the few people We are ever grateful to see. Unless he says the name Stryder of Blackmoor, that is."
Lionel frowned at that. He came forward and bowed low, his eyes never wavering from Henry's head where the cloth resided. "Have you an ache, my liege?"
"Aye, but We are trying to decide which one plagues Us most. The one in Our head or the one in Our—"
"Henry!" Eleanor snapped.
"Neck," he said gruffly. "I was going to say 'neck.'"
Eleanor gave him a disbelieving stare.
Lionel came forward to kiss the queen's hand before Eleanor sat down in the chair next to Henry.
Henry watched as his old friend took up pacing in the open area between his chair and the doors. He knew what vexed Lionel. "She won't decide?"
"Decide? Nay, Majesty. She won't agree to anyone at all. She has some foolish notion that she is a teacher and wants to set up a school."
Henry groaned at that. Lady Rowena was an heiress whose wealth was not so great in coin. Her desirability lay in the fact that she was heiress to practically the whole of southern England. Whoever married her would control the border of his kingdom and separate the northern part of England from his lands in France.
With all the trouble he was having with Phillip of France, the last thing he could afford was for that land to fall into the possession of anyone who was less than friendly toward him. In the wrong hands, that land would spell the end of his monarchy.
"What was wrong with Lord Ansley?"
"He, like the others, is knighted. She says she will not consider a knight."
"Then force her!" Henry snapped.
Lionel sighed. "I wish it were that simple, Majesty. The last time I tried to force her hand, she ran away to the continent and was gone until I agreed to forget my plans for her. I sent out more than two score men to find her and was unable to do so. She only returned because I signed a document swearing I would allow her the power to naysay any man I proposed to be her husband."
Eleanor laughed.
Both men glared at her.
"Forgive me, gentlemen," she said, smiling. "I have to say that I admire the girl's temerity and wherewithal."
"Will you admire it when Phillip sits upon Our throne?"
She sobered instantly. "Calm yourself, Henry."
Lionel raked a frustrated hand through his graying brown hair. "I fear I shall just have to live forever. I can't die and allow her lands to go to a man who can't protect them."
Henry snorted at that. "No offense, Lionel, even now We worry at your abilities to hold her inheritance. There are many men out there who grow impatient with her indecision. Sooner or later one of them is bound to pounce."
"No offense taken, Majesty. I have the same fear every time one of those greedy beasts comes calling for her hand. I know you speak the truth and I appreciate it."
The king pulled the cloth from his brow. "What is the matter with the youth of today?" Henry asked the ceiling above them as if addressing heaven itself. "In my day, we married when we were supposed to and we married who we were supposed to. Now I have an earl who refuses to take a bride and a strategically placed heiress who would sooner cut off her head than take a knight for husband. There has to be some solution to this."
Eleanor sat forward.
"Nay, Nora," Henry said as he noted the speculative look on her beautiful face. "Say not what I know is in your mind."
She waved his words away with her hand. "They would be perfect together. Who better to guard Our border than Stryder of Blackmoor? He is one of the few whose loyalty is above question."
"Aye, and look at what happened when I tried to marry him off to Kenna. The man still hasn't forgiven me."
"That's because you ordered him to, Henry, and need I remind you that he would have obeyed you."
"Aye, but an irate earl in Scotland is one thing. An irate earl sitting entrenched in lands that divide my kingdom in half is an entirely different matter."
She
drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and didn't appear to be listening to him. Typical. Eleanor only heard what she wanted to. "I have known Rowena since she was just a girl. Like Stryder, if you tell her to go right, she will go left. Put them together and—"
"Rowena will geld your knight, Your Grace," Lionel said, interrupting her. "She despises all knights."
"But there is no woman whose heart is immune to Stryder of Blackmoor," she countered. "Rowena is a woman and he is not the usual knight. Put them together and I am sure they will suit."
Henry narrowed his eyes. "I'm not so sure I agree with you."
"You seldom do."
He ignored the venom in her voice. "But I would like to see the two of them married. What do you suggest?"
Eleanor thought it over. "Rowena wants her choice of husband. I say we give it to her."
"Are you mad?" Henry asked. "She'll pick one of those geldings who flock to your skirts. Those mewling minstrels who lack all masculinity."
She gave him a droll stare that warned him of her wrath should he continue to disparage those who curried her favor in nauseating droves. "Nay, she won't. Rowena prides herself on only one thing in life."
"Her music," Lionel said.
"Aye. As you said, she thinks to start a school."
Lionel nodded.
"Then let us cater to her desires, gentlemen. Tell her that if she can teach a knight to sing in the troubadour contest at the end of the tournament and win it that you will not only allow her the choice of husband, but that you will set up her school."
Henry frowned at the idea. "Are you suggesting she teach Stryder to sing?"
"Aye."
Henry shook his head. He knew Stryder well enough to know what the man would say to that. "Stryder will never do such. He despises minstrels even more than I do. The moment Rowena approaches him with the proposal, he will send her packing."
"Not if he is told that at the end of the tournament Rowena will wed the victor."
Oh, his queen was evil, and he loved her like this. The cold, cunning politician who was merciless. There were times when Henry thought that Eleanor should have been born a man.