When Love Awaits (12 page)

A
SILVER moon peeked through swiftly passing clouds, and wind whipped over the parapets, foretelling a summer storm. The hounds howled in their confinement, and the horses moved restlessly in the stable.

Rolfe paced back and forth before the hearth, the single candle burning on the table near him casting his shadow against the walls. There were three hours yet before dawn, hours in which he must decide…

“My lord?”

Rolfe turned toward the bed. Leonie hadn’t closed the bedcurtains, and he saw her curled on her side, eyes wide with concern.

“I did not mean to disturb you, Leonie. Go back to sleep.”

It was the sound of his footsteps that had awakened her. A large man did not move quietly.

“I have much on my mind,” he offered with a tired sigh. “It does not concern you.”

Leonie lay quietly watching him, then spoke. “Perhaps if you speak of what troubles you, my lord, it will not seem so terrible.”

His eyes fixed on her and he shook his head impatiently. How like a woman to think there was an easy solution to everything.

Leonie was chagrined. A husband should confide
in his wife. “There is nothing a man cannot tell his wife, unless he does not trust—”

“Very well.” Rolfe cut her off, her persistence irritating him. “If you wish to hear of war and death, then I will tell you. On the morrow many of my men can die, for I can no longer think of a way to take Wroth Keep without attacking. Talk of terms ended long ago.” He sat down and began elaborating. “The walls are thick and the tunnel it has taken so long to make collapsed once again. They are well supplied, it seems, for they taunt us from the walls and swear they can outlast us. My men are angry and impatient to fight, and in truth I can see no other way.”

“You will move war machines against the walls?” she asked.

“I dealt with Kenil Keep that way and now the repairs there are costing more than my army. I am not making war on an enemy, Leonie. I am only securing what is mine. I don’t want to take the keep by rendering it useless.”

“Can you scale the walls?” she asked, feeling silly for asking naïve questions. But it seemed she was not far off the mark.

“I am left with no other choice. I have three other keeps to win yet, and they are becoming desperate because they have been closed off so long ago. Any day now one or more could open their gates and try to escape. If so, they will find they have been tricked, because they are being held at bay by only a handful of men—not an entire army, which is what it looks like from inside the keeps.”

“Is
that
what you have done?” Leonie gasped.

He frowned. “I came here with only two hundred men. I hired more from the king’s army, but that’s still not enough to divide among seven keeps. Each keep
believed I moved on it first. They each thought they had only to stay within their walls and wait, and help would come from one of the others. I let each keep see the whole of my army so they would think the odds were against their fighting before they had help. Later, I moved my men around to continue giving that impression. But if one of the remaining keeps should discover the ruse, they will be so enraged that every man I have camped there will be slaughtered.”

Leonie was shocked. “Would you yourself have to fight in the attack on Wroth Keep?”

Rolfe glowered. “I do not send my men where I would not fight. I lead all movements, as I have always done.”

“You have scaled the walls of many keeps?”

His expression became remote. “I have fought the wars of many men—including your king, who is now my king. I fought wherever I had to, in whatever manner was necessary. It is only recently, in this effort to secure what is mine, that I have used so much restraint. It is usually my way to see a thing done quickly, yet I have tried to destroy as little as possible.”

“But you say you must attack Wroth.”

“I must take the risk and I may lose men, but I can waste no more time on Wroth Keep.”

“Then leave it,” Leonie suggested in all seriousness. “Move on to the next keep and return to Wroth last.”

“And have my men feel they are retreating? I told you, they have been angered by the taunts thrown down from the walls. They plead to attack.”

“How many of those men will die before you even breach the walls and begin the actual fighting? How many will break their necks when the scaling ladders are pushed away from the walls? How many will be roasted by hot oil and sand?”

Rolfe gazed skyward. “Why do I speak of war with a woman?” he asked in exasperation.

“Have you no answer for me, my lord?”

“The risks are known to us all,” he replied harshly. “War is not a game.”

“Oho,” she scoffed. “I have my doubts about
that
, my lord, for you men surely love war as children do their games!”

He scowled. “War does not concern you, wife, unless it comes to your own gate. Go back to sleep. You are not helping me.”

She let him sulk for a few moments, then went on. “Would the risk be less if there were fewer men manning the walls of Wroth?” she asked.

She thought he would not condescend to answer, for he had turned his back to her. Stubborn man, she was thinking when he finally said, “Wroth has been in constant readiness. They have not grown lax in their vigilance, and the vassal there is no fool. I regret he could not be won over.” There was real regret in his voice.

“But if there were only a few men to throw off the ladders?”

“A fool question, madame,” he replied curtly. “The risk would be less, naturally.”

“Could one man manage to get inside Wroth undetected?”

“That has been considered, but it would take more than one man just to open the gates, and the likelihood—”

“Not to reach the gates, my lord, to reach the water supply.”

Rolfe swung around, his face contorted with amazement. “You would poison them all? Even the servants! Damn me, I did not think you were cold-blooded!”

“Not poison!” she hissed indignantly. “You are surely quick to condemn me! I suggest that you put hazelwort in the water. It is a strong purgative. It will kill no one.”

Rolfe’s laughter began slowly and turned into loud guffaws. “It would have them fighting each other to get into the garderobes.”

“And those without relief, overcome by strong cramps and vomiting, will be a good deal less vigilant on the walls,” she added.

“Damn me! I would never have thought of such a wicked ploy.” Rolfe was astonished.

“Not wicked if it saves lives, my lord,” she said sharply.

“Agreed. Where can I get hazelwort?”

“I—I have some in my medicine basket, but not nearly enough.”

“You keep a medicine basket?” He seemed truly surprised. “You really are learned in the healing arts?”

His tone implied that he had heard as much, but hadn’t believed it. “There is much of me you do not know, my lord,” she answered honestly. He nodded, but did not want to stray from the subject.

“How is this done?”

“It takes the juice of five to seven leaves to mix in just one drink, but the result is not a gentle purgative, so less might do per portion. You will need many plants, at any rate, and we can surely find them in the woods. I have done so easily. Another way is to steep both leaves and roots in wine. This you should do as well, for if a man can reach the water supply, he can probably also get to the wine vats and contaminate them. It would be safer to dose both wine and water.”

“How long will the preparations take?”

“It is not an easy process.”

“You will have all of tomorrow, and you can make use of every servant here if need be. Will that do?”

His autocratic manner grated on her and she nodded without speaking.

He approached the bed and took hold of her hand. “If this works, Leonie, I will be much in your debt.” He smiled. “After all the trouble you caused me in the past, I am glad to have you on my side. You are not an easy enemy.”

Just when she had begun to warm to him, he had to bring up the past. Still, this was her chance to explain everything to him, and she knew she ought to take it. But his superior manner had caused her to retreat again, and she decided to leave well enough alone. There would be time to explain later, wouldn’t there?

R
OLFE woke Leonie with a long kiss, then inadvertently spoiled the moment by reminding her to begin the work of gathering hazelwort. He failed to note her stiffly set features as he left their room.

After spending such a lovely night, he was in a magnanimous mood. He doubted he could find fault with anything today, he was so happy. Leonie was no longer sulking, and had accepted his apology. The proof of her forgiveness was the offer of help, and he was delighted by her idea.

Help was far from what he’d expected from Leonie. Had their marriage made such a difference to her then? He regretted having married her for the reasons he’d had, because the truth was that if he’d met her before the wedding, he would have wanted her for the right reasons.

He sighed. Could Leonie be feeling the same happiness he felt?

On his way to the chapel, Rolfe stopped and took a good look at the hall. The whole look of the place surprised him, but there was even more.

“Damn me, this room actually smells…pleasant,” he muttered.

“Summer flowers, my lord.” He whirled around. “If only they bloomed in winter, so we could be graced by their fragrance all year round.”

Had Amelia been lying in wait for him? She had, and she spoke without really knowing what Leonie had ordered strewn on the new rushes. But she wanted him to believe the changes had something to do with the seasons, for then he couldn’t blame Amelia for not having done what Leonie had done.

Rolfe smiled. “You have been busy while I was away, Amelia. I heartily approve.”

Amelia lowered her eyes to hide her amazement. Hadn’t Leonie taken proper credit? Had she meant it when she told Amelia the credit would go to her?

“I did little, my lord,” Amelia said sweetly.

“You are too modest,” Rolfe replied. “If only my wife had the same ambition you have. What did she do while I was away?”

“She has spent much time in the garden,” Amelia said evasively, in not quite the same sweet voice.

Rolfe grunted. “I think me she loves gardens too much.” He looked around. “Where are the hounds?”

“They—have been penned.”

He considered that. “An unusual idea, but I can see the merit in it.”

Amelia was gaining courage under Rolfe’s continuing praise. As long as he thought she was responsible for all the improvements, she would not deny it.

“I think you will enjoy your meals more, too, my lord,” she said smoothly. “The cook has been dismissed, and the new one is considerably talented.”

Rolfe and Amelia moved away together, and as they did, they passed Wilda, whose face was livid. She had heard all she needed to. Walking as fast as she could, she found Leonie in a storage pantry near the kitchen, looking over baskets and jars.

“She did it!” Wilda hissed at her mistress. “That terrible woman is taking credit for all you have done.
The gall! My lord has only to ask anyone here if he desires to learn the truth.”

Leonie was rigidly still for a moment, and then she shrugged as comprehension dawned.

“Surely you will tell him the truth, my lady?” Wilda urged.

“And let him think I seek praise? No. And he didn’t want me making changes here. He may like what I have done, but if he realizes I went against his wishes, he may not be so pleased.”

“I cannot—”

“We will not argue over this.” Leonie cut her off firmly. “You must help me, Wilda, for there is a task he
has
asked me to do and it will require much work.”

As the day wore on, Leonie gave a good deal of thought to Amelia and Rolfe. Since their night of love, she had begun seeing her husband in a new light, and come close to forgiving him for their terrible start.

Yet certain truths remained to trouble her, things that went beyond his keeping a mistress in residence. Alain Montigny’s assessment of Rolfe seemed exaggerated now. Hadn’t Rolfe shown consideration for her last night? Wasn’t he trying to win a battle with the least possible bloodshed? Rolfe didn’t seem like a man who would want to hunt down poor Alain and kill him, as Alain claimed. But despite the good things she knew about Rolfe, it wasn’t right that Alain had lost Kempston when he was innocent of any crimes.

Oh, it was all so unreasonable—and the king had forced all of it on her. She had a good mind to write him and tell him what she thought of this interference. But no one questioned the king’s will, certainly not a woman.

Leonie was busy gathering and steeping herbs all day, and when Rolfe came in that evening he was
pleased to know that all was ready. He told her that everything was arranged at Wroth, and that he had a volunteer ready to be secreted inside Wroth Keep that night with her concoctions.

What Rolfe didn’t tell her was the initial reaction of his men to her idea. Not a single man had trusted her, and Thorpe was especially vocal about it, sure the plan would bring them disaster, not success. Rolfe remained steadfast, however, and eventually one of the soldiers spoke up, telling the others that he knew from experience that hazelwort would do exactly as Leonie claimed. Once he told his story, Rolfe had trouble telling them the details of the plan because of all the laughter.

But he told Leonie none of this, and she saw only her husband’s grin. His good humor made hers worse. Why was everything so much easier for him?

“You are unhappy, my lady?”

Leonie turned to Mildred, working beside her, extracting juice from the hazelwort. Four tables had been set up in the bailey for the steeping of leaves, while the kitchen staff worked on the wine mixture.

She hadn’t spoken to Mildred in the week she had been at Crewel, though she knew Wilda had made friends with her. Leonie remembered Mildred from her visits to Crewel when the Montignys held the keep. She had even ministered once to Mildred’s mother. It was a minor thing that Sir Edmond’s stupid leech had been baffled over. But their prior acquaintance didn’t give Mildred the right to pry. How dared the woman ask such a personal question?

“Do you have so little to do, Mildred, that—”

“My lady, please, I mean no disrespect,” Mildred said hastily. “It is my greatest wish that you not be
unhappy here at Crewel—for I fear it is my fault that you are wed.”

The declaration was so ludicrous that Leonie’s anger fled. “
Your
fault? How is that possible, Mildred?”

The older woman’s gaze fell away as she whispered, “I—I was the one who told my lord that you lived at Pershwick.” She faltered, then confessed, “It was then he decided to marry you so he could have Pershwick under his control. I am so sorry, my lady. I would never have caused you grief on purpose.”

The poor woman looked so miserable. “You blame yourself for no reason, Mildred. My husband would have learned what he wanted to know from someone else, if you hadn’t told him. I am the one who caused his attention to be drawn to Pershwick in the first place.”

“But he did not know you lived there until I mentioned it. He was terribly angry to learn that a woman was responsible for his troubles.”

“No doubt,” Leonie said dryly. “But I was responsible, so I have only myself to blame for being here now. Think no more about it, Mildred, you are not to blame.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Mildred replied reluctantly. “But I will pray for you that my lord Rolfe’s temper does not rise again, as it did on your wedding night.”

Leonie blushed, assuming Mildred was referring to her stabbing Rolfe. “I hope you told no one what you saw that night, Mildred.”

“I would never carry tales, my lady, nor would Edlyn. But everyone knows what he did to you. I did not think my lord was a cruel man—hot-tempered, but not cruel. Why, any man who would beat his wife only a few hours after their wedding—”

“What?”

Mildred looked around quickly, hoping no one was listening, but the others only glanced up, then looked away again.

“My lady, please, I did not mean to upset you,” Mildred whispered.

“Who told you my husband beat me?” Leonie hissed.

“Lady Roese saw you the next morning, and she told Lady Bertha, and—”

“Enough! Sweet Mary, does
he
know what is being said about him?”

“I do not think so, my lady. You see, only the women insist my lord Rolfe did it, though none are brave enough to speak to him about it. The men swear beating a woman is not in his nature, and the disagreement has caused many arguments. John blackened the eye of his wife, and Jugge flung a bowl of stew at her husband. Lady Bertha is not speaking to her husband after the tongue-lashing he gave her, so now he brings her gifts to try and sweeten her temper.”

Stunned and embarrassed, Leonie said, “Sir Rolfe did not beat me, Mildred. If you recall, I wore a heavy veil when I came here. Do you know why?”

“A rash.”

“There was no rash, Mildred. That was a lie, made up…never mind why. My father had me beaten because I refused to marry.”

“Then—”

“My husband is being blamed for something he did not do! I won’t have it. Hear me well, Mildred. I want you to see to it that the truth is known. Can you do that?”

“Yes, my lady,” Mildred assured her, considerably surprised by the revelation.

Leonie left her then, too mortified to stay in Mildred’s company. She needed a little time alone.

What, she was wondering, would Rolfe say if he knew what was being gossiped about him? Would he find a way to blame his wife for the unfair talk making its rounds among his people?