But Philippa wasn’t really upset. David could see that, even from a distance. Everything about that woman shouted proud mother. Handing the baby and a rag to Alisoun, she said, “Burp her. I need to put myself together before I meet him.” She jerked her head toward David, and David realized the maid had monitored his maneuvers ever since he’d entered the room. “He’s the one, isn’t he?”
“What?” Alisoun fumbled with the baby, while Philippa watched. After much fidgeting, Alisoun managed to cover her shoulder with the rag and lift the baby. But she held her so stiffly and patted her so uncertainly, Hazel neither burped nor relaxed.
Exasperated by Alisoun’s inefficiency, David stepped around Sir Walter. “Here. Let me.” He rescued the baby from Alisoun’s sweaty grip. Philippa grabbed, but he laid Hazel against his shoulder, patted her efficiently, and challenged the anxious mother with a lift of his chin.
Philippa observed him shrewdly, then relaxed a little. “Aye, you’ve done this before. Best give him the rag, Alisoun, or she’ll spit on him and he’ll stink of sour milk.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” But David held out his hand anyway, and Alisoun placed the rag in it without hesitation.
Still keeping a watchful eye on him, Philippa said, “Lady Alisoun will have to learn sometime.”
Wrestling to put the rag under Hazel’s chin, David answered, “She’ll learn with her own.”
“If she ever has her own, which I’m starting to doubt, she’ll have enough maids that she’ll never have to touch the child.”
“Hm. You probably speak the truth.” Amused and a little perplexed that Alisoun allowed her maid such freedom to speak her mind, David rubbed firmly up Hazel’s spine until a moist belch sounded in his ear. Turning to face the satisfied little face so close to his own, he said, “Perhaps you’d best go back to Lady Alisoun.”
A rumble sounded on the baby’s other end, and Alisoun rose from her seat. “Oh, nay. You’ll not give her to me now. I have a bath to prepare.”
Apparently Sir Walter had given up on David, for he appealed to Alisoun. “We must speak together.”
“Of a certainty.” Alisoun nodded graciously to him, then called, “Edlyn!”
Her ward came rushing up, her cheeks flushed with pleasure at being called. “My lady?”
“Prepare our guest’s bath in the blue bedchamber. We’ll need the biggest tub for him.” She glanced at David and moved a little away, but he heard her anyway. “Bring the scissors, I’ll cut his hair.”
He fingered the strands that hung around his shoulders.
She continued, “And I think marjoram and oil of eucalyptus might abate the worst of his stench.”
Surprised, he asked Philippa, “Do I smell?”
He thought for a moment she was going to laugh. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, her lips twitched, and even though she would be laughing at him, he looked forward to hearing her. This motherly creature would surely release a big belly laugh, one of those great booms of merriment that invited guffaws in return.
Instead, she controlled herself, quivering with the effort. “My lady has a sensitive nose, and you smell very much like a…man.”
That hadn’t been her first choice of a description, he was sure. Had Alisoun quashed this woman’s natural humor? He glanced at Alisoun as she gave instructions to Edlyn. If nothing else, during his stay he’d get Alisoun to laugh aloud and free her servants from this senseless bondage.
With a caution he thought reserved for wild boars, Philippa removed the baby from his grasp. “I’ll change her wrapping clothes.” But she still looked him over. “You are Sir David of Radcliffe, aren’t you?”
He stood still and tried to appear unthreatening. “Aye.”
“The legendary mercenary?”
Some people, on hearing his name and knowing his reputation, thought he must be constantly savage and brutal. Apparently this woman was one of them. Gently, he said, “I am a mercenary, but the legend is perhaps exaggerated.”
“It had better not be,” she snapped, then paled and stepped back. She looked as if she wanted to run and her breath came in little gasps. The baby, sensing her mother’s agitation, squirmed and squalled, and Philippa patted her rhythmically, her instinct to comfort smothered by wariness. “We need you to be everything the legend claims. We need you to protect my lady Alisoun. If anything should happen to her—”
“Philippa!” Alisoun’s voice sliced across her maid’s warning. “Go change the baby, then get back to your duties.”
Swinging around, Philippa stared at Alisoun with open mouth. Then she said, “Aye, my lady.” Hampered by the baby, she bobbed an awkward curtsy. “I was just—”
“I don’t care.” Alisoun pointed her finger in Philippa’s face. “Keep…your…place. You have no business speaking to Sir David, especially not in such a familiar way.”
Alisoun didn’t sound angry, but Philippa paled. Tears rushed to her eyes, and she caught Alisoun’s outstretched hand. “I know. I’m just stupid, but I fear for you. I should—”
“The only thing you should do is tend to your duties here.” Alisoun pushed at Philippa. “Go now.”
Philippa rushed away, looking like an abused puppy, and David found himself disliking Alisoun again. Philippa seemed to be all woman, mother to her child first and to the world after, and something had crushed her spirit. He narrowed his gaze on Alisoun. Aye, he wanted to teach Alisoun many lessons.
In a voice as bitter as gall, Sir Walter said, “Philippa proves there’s good reason to beat a woman.”
Instinctively protesting, David began, “Jesú, man, that’s harsh.”
Then Alisoun caught his attention. Her face and figure remained absolutely still. She might have been encased in ice. Slowly, her head swung toward Sir Walter like a door on a rusty hinge, and something about her made Sir Walter step back. In a voice of command, she said, “Do not ever let me hear you say such a thing again.”
“If you would just listen to me—”
“I do not choose to follow your advice.” Sir Walter tried to speak, but Alisoun lifted her hand. “I do not wish to hear it again.”
A pox on all this secrecy! David felt the undercurrents tugging at him. Had Sir Walter beat Philippa? Had he beat his wife? Did he have a wife?
David’s gaze narrowed on the disturbed knight. Was Sir Walter the reason Alisoun had not married? Did he occupy her bed, and had they had a lovers’ quarrel? David had told her he wouldn’t interfere between man and wife, but if she’d taken Sir Walter to her bed, he’d interfere. He’d abandon his half-made plans to court her and abduct her instead. Sir Walter would have no chance against David.
“Did you hear me, Sir Walter?”
Her chilly voice broke David’s musings, and he dismissed the daydreams. He believed only what he saw and heard and touched.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Sir Walter bowed, giving every indication of sincere contrition.
But was he sincerely contrite about saying such an asinine thing, or contrite about infuriating his liege? And why had he advocated such despotism when his liege was a woman, and likely to consider it a challenge?
“If you again subject me to such an outburst, you will have no choice. You will be seeking another lord to serve—one more to your liking.”
Could she speak to her lover like that? Surely not. Not even Lady Alisoun could sound so disdainful to a man who’d rumpled her mattress.
David looked from the stocky, red-faced, fervently protesting Sir Walter to tall, aloof Lady Alisoun. Nay, Sir Walter hadn’t rumpled her mattress.
But she did have emotions, he now knew it. Her face didn’t show them, her posture remained the same, but behind her gray eyes existed a soul. And he would understand her, if he had to connive, spy, and enlist the assistance of all her people, and even the very heart of the cold and lonely maiden of George’s Cross.
6
Under Alisoun’s guidance, Sir David stumbled into his chamber. Alisoun quailed at
the thought of putting her safety and the security of George’s Cross in this man’s hands. In this man’s filthy hands.
He’ll look better when he’s had a bath, she argued back at herself, and snapped her fingers at the maids. They sprang into action, stripping him of his clothing and tossing it in a basket to be boiled.
“Maybe the poor will take this,” one maid said, holding the soiled rags David called his hose between two fingers.
“The poor won’t want any of it,” Edlyn retorted.
Edlyn’s voice roused Alisoun. “Go on, dear,” she said. “I don’t think it proper for a maiden who is yet unmarried to bathe the guests.”
“Will you be bathing him?” Sir Walter demanded from the doorway.
Surprised, all the women turned to look at him, then at Alisoun.
“As I always do,” she answered.
He placed his fists on his hips. “Are you not a maiden?”
So angry she could barely speak, she said, “I am a widow.” By good Saint Ethelred, the man had lost his mind. When had he come to believe he had the right to question her activities? When had he lost so much respect for her that he believed he could insult her without consequence?
Oh, she knew the answer.
When she had confessed she’d risked everything to do what she thought was right. He didn’t comprehend that she cared nothing about his disapproval or his opinion. She paid his wages; what she expected from him was his unconditional loyalty. He hadn’t given it, yet still she recalled his earlier support and found herself unable to order he find another post.
Mechanically, she reviewed the arrangements for their guest. She spoke to Edlyn about the special evening meal, then sent her on her way. A fire burned in the fireplace. She pressed on the mattress. The bedding smelled clean and dry. Lifting the pitchers which sat on a table beside the bed, she found them empty and frowned. In their excitement over serving the legendary mercenary, the maids had failed to finish preparing the chamber.
At the tub, one of them squealed, and Alisoun glanced impatiently toward the little group around David. So frivolous! Did they think, just because he was a legend, he would be the answer to a maiden’s prayer? She glanced at the furious Sir Walter. Is that what he thought, too? Is that why he stood off to the side, watching, bristled up like a mastiff?
The group parted briefly, and Alisoun caught a glimpse of David, naked and dripping. He was certainly not a maiden’s dream. A cook’s dream, because he was so skinny. Or a washerwoman’s dream. She’d never seen a man so caked with dirt. It would take hard scrubbing to remove all the grime, but regardless of Sir Walter’s opinion, she knew her duty and always did it. Rolling up her sleeves, she picked up the apron the maids had laid out to cover her. If she could have, she would have left him to the maids, but she dared not retreat now or Sir Walter would consider it a victory.
Her level voice cut the chatter. “Where is the wine and water, should our guest have a thirst in the night?”
Heath clapped her hand over her mouth.
She’d been Alisoun’s personal maid before; she had been promoted to chief maid when Philippa had come, and when distracted, she occasionally failed in her duties. “Are there other chores left undone?” Alisoun asked.
The group around David melted away. Heath ran from one place to another, assessing each maid’s performance. They all remained within the chamber, hoping, Alisoun supposed, to sneak glances at the legend in their midst. She didn’t care about that. She feared only that their hospitality might be lacking, not that it would be done too well.
At her approach, David sank into the water as if it might melt him. From the look of him, he hadn’t the experience to know otherwise.
Soaping the washing cloth, Alisoun tried to ease David’s uneasiness with polite chatter. “Is the chamber to your liking?”
He leaned forward and let her rub his shoulders. “It’s lovely,” he said politely. “Is it yours?”
Briefly, she considered digging her fingernails into his skin. She had hoped he wouldn’t behave like an ass and make offensive comments that insinuated she would warm his bed. So many knights and lords did when she bathed them, assuming that she must hunger for what she did not know and smugly sure they could satisfy that hunger. For them, a few cool words worked much like icicles dropped into the bath water, and she never had the problem again—at least from the same man.
Today she didn’t feel so tactful. She, too, was exhausted from travel and this duty seemed onerous beyond belief. Running the washcloth up over David’s head, she let strong lye soap drip into his eyes. Jumping to his feet, he yelled, and tried to rub it out. Heath ran forward with a basin of clean water and helped him splash water into his face. When he turned on Alisoun, red-eyed and snarling, she thought to apologize sweetly. Instead she found herself saying, “You’ll sleep in here alone, Sir David, unless you choose another partner. I’m sure one of the maids could be persuaded to join you, out of curiosity if nothing else. Now, if you’ll sit again, we’ll finish with—”
He grabbed her hand in a firm grip, and she wondered if he would soak her. Her training told her she deserved it for allowing her temper to get the better of her, but Sir Walter’s growl angered her even more. She didn’t need protecting from David; she could handle him.
“This is my chamber?” David demanded.
She stood absolutely still. “I have said so.”
“I sleep here…alone?”
“Aye.”
Her soapy hand slipped from his grasp, and he made no move to recapture it. “You have chambers for everyone?”
“For my guests.” She began to realize the reason for David’s amazement. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to sleep on the floor of the great hall with the servants. Sir Walter has a private chamber in the gatehouse where he can be at the ready in case of attack, but I thought that you should be within the keep.”
“Since I’m to guard you.”
She felt foolish now. “Aye. I need you to guard me and mine.”
Sir Walter stepped forward. “I can do it.”
Her hand trembled with frustration, but she answered as she always did. “I need you to preserve the whole castle and the village. There isn’t enough time for the special care I have come to require.”
She expected David to say something, to step between them somehow, but he didn’t. Instead, he sat in the water and looked up at them both as if expecting entertainment. She could have slapped him.
Sir Walter turned away with a grunt.
David didn’t try to take the cloth from her, but leaned forward to let her finish his back. A scar snaked out of his scalp and down his back, and when she washed his neck, she discovered the lobe of one ear was missing. She tried to be gentle with it, but he said, “Go ahead and scrub. It doesn’t hurt.”
Boldly, she inquired, “How did you lose it?”
The work within the room slowed as all the women strained to hear the tale.
“I made a mistake,” he said.
“Did the other knight—” Alisoun paused, not knowing how to continue.
“His widow has since remarried.”
His flat reply answered more than one question. He didn’t brag about his triumphs, but she wanted to know. Not for the same reason as the maids, who simply worshipped without thought, but because she wanted verification of his prowess.
Then he leaned back to give her access to his chest, and she saw further testament to the suffering he’d endured, both in battle and in his struggle to survive the drought. The wiry muscles across his shoulders lifted the skin in impressive ripples, but she traced the line of his prominent collarbone as she scrubbed. His arms clearly showed the effect of swinging sword and shield. The veins on the back of his big hands rose in massive blue lines, and he’d lost the little finger on his left hand.
Lifting his wrist, she asked, “Sword?”
“Battle ax.”
“Did his widow remarry, also?”
Sounding disgusted,
he said, “Nay! It was only a melée.”
She looked again at the blank place where his finger should be. “You lost it in a play battle?”
“Not play,” he answered patiently. “Practice. We hold melées for practice, and to entertain the court.” He held up his hand and grinned at it affectionately. “If Sir Richard hadn’t pulled back on his swing, I’d have lost the whole hand.” Tucking it back in the water, he added, “I was a fledging then, and lucky.”
“Lucky.”
She looked, and she didn’t think he was lucky. A variety of weapons had gashed lines of flesh from his upper chest, leaving a gnarled pattern of black hair and white scars traced over his impressive pectorals. But immediately below, his ribs were delineated with dreadful clarity.
Perhaps he could eat the whole goose by himself.
She couldn’t wash the parts of him still in the water, and she wanted to, badly. Not because she was curious. She wasn’t, although the dirt and soap floating in the water might have frustrated a nosy woman. She’d seen, and washed, many men, and a legend such as Sir David would be no different. But obviously, the man was not enamored of bathing, and she didn’t know when she might persuade him to partake again. “Stand up,” she commanded.
He didn’t answer, but slipped one leg out of the tub and shifted as if the tub were too small.
Well, it was too small for a man of his size and…“Fine,” she said, and washed his foot. Calluses deformed his toes and snagged the weave of the cloth, but he flexed and grimaced in reflexive action when she stroked the bottom of his foot. Purple scarring rippled the skin from ankle to knee.
“Fire?” she asked.
“Boiling tar poured from the curtain wall during a siege,” he answered.
“Did you take the castle?”
He watched as she lifted his leg and washed beneath. “In sooth.”
The muscles of his well-formed calf joined a bony knee, and his thigh was thin—too thin for a man of his size.
Holding out her hand, palm up, she silently demanded the other foot. He looked at her hand. She insisted with a wiggle of the fingers, and he deliberately drew his foot from the water and laid it in her hand.