Page 202 of The Daughters of Avalon
Hacking at another thick vine, he cast her a glance, wondering how she felt about Rosalynde and Giles. Clearly, she’d been furious with him for keeping the truth from her, but despite having said she would repudiate Giles, was she perhaps disappointed not to be wedding an earl? What woman wouldn’t like to be mistress of a great house?
Seren herself deserved to be lavished with riches—riches Wilhelm could never afford.
Alas, that hadn’t mattered when he’d passed that dressmaker’s booth in the market in Dover. He took primal joy in the way she looked right now, in part because he had bought her that dress—blue camlet with a matching ribbon. The soft material had caught his eye, because it was only slightly bluer than the pale color of her eyes. Unadorned though it might be, the cloth, made from fine camel’s wool, was imported from the East. Soft as silk, the nap was tightly shorn to give it a soft feel. Time and again, he sidled up beside her, longing to reach out and snatch a feel of her sleeve. Like her beautiful, radiant skin, he imagined it to be soft to the touch… but if he breached that barrier between them, he might regret it, and regret, alas, was the concern of the day. But at least he needn’t worry whether Giles would regret repudiating Seren, not when he loved her sister so deeply. The man was besotted—as besotted as Wilhelm must be, although, once again, without reciprocation.
How could Seren possibly want him? He could offer the lady nothing. He was a soldier indebted to his brother, and he didn’t even have a proper bower. He slept with the men-at-arms. So, then, what should he do? Bring her into his barracks and makelove to her on a pallet in the company of an army of droolingeegits?
Nay.
But if only he had some future to share…something.
Wilhelm wasn’t learned like Giles, but neither was he stupid. He sensed Seren held some affection for him, and he might better know what to do with that intuition if she were not so far removed from his station.
He sighed despondently, for no matter that he had a close relationship with his lord brother, he’d never dare ask for more than his father had been willing to give. The castle was as yet incomplete, but it didn’t matter how grand it was supposed to be; there had never been a place for Wilhelm under its roof. In good time, he’d hoped to build himself a cottage, and mayhap keep a wife there, but even that was less than appealing. What was he going to do? Sleep apart from his bride in order to lead his brother’s garrison? Slumber with his family and come running at the call of a horn? Watch his home burn from the ramparts if Eustace should happen to return?
Nay.
The thought alone was enough to put a viper’s nest in his gut. Swinging his sword with a vengeance, he severed a thick, gnarly bramble, wondering if they should return to the road.
The deeper they traversed into the woods, the thicker the vines grew. And anyway, he did hope to encounter Giles traveling north. His brother was expected in London on the fifth of June. He and Seren departed Neasham around the eleventh. His brother’s horse was a strong courser. He’d witnessed firsthand how the animal could tear up a road. On their journey south only a few months ago, they’d covered sixty miles in little more than a day. Ergo, even if he lingered in London another day or two after his audience with Stephen, it was still entirely possible that Giles could make the journey north in time tomeet them en route to Warkworth. Moreover, even though Seren wouldn’t complain, he could see the strain showing on her face. So, about midday, he led her back to the road.
Well-traveled as it might be, he fully anticipated encountering a pilgrim or two. What he didn’t anticipate was the constant stream of traffic moving south. Weary and bedraggled, the men appeared as though they hadn’t supped well in weeks. If there weren’t so bloody many, he would have offered victuals from his satchel.
He gave Seren a meaningful glance, warning her without words to remain silent as he reached about and stole the reins from her hands, pulling her and her mare to the right side of his mount to better shield her. If there was a boon to be had for his size it was this: Most men dared not cross him.
And nevertheless, while these men might sooner pluck out their own eyes than tangle with the Hammer of Warkworth, none appeared to have much fear of him. They wore a look of desperation in their eyes that made him think they had naught to lose. But he wasn’t worried for himself; dressed as he was in boiled leathers, he was far more prepared for a battle than they were, sad as it may be to say. These ragtag soldiers wore piecemeal armor: One wore a helmet, another chausses, no mailsherteor coif. They were equipped with weapons, to be sure, but none so much that would mete out any true damage, and even as he watched, one man took a gander at his blade—a fine, double-edged sword with a two-handed cruciform and pommel that once belonged to his father. Perhaps it should have gone to Giles, but Giles had returned from his travels with a weapon that far surpassed any that might be fashioned by their bladesmiths at Warkworth.
Raising a hand to his forehead in greeting, he said, “Well met.”
“Hail sir,” said a thin man, giving him a nod, assessing Wilhelm as he approached.
Compelled despite himself, Wilhelm reached back with his free hand to lift up the flap on his saddlebag, reaching in to see what he could find—a small round of cheese met his fingertips and he lifted it up, tossing it to the man. “God save ye,” the traveler said, inclining his head.
“Well met,” said another as they crossed paths, and Wilhelm dared to inquire. “Where to good man?”
“York, m’lord.”
Wilhelm’s brows lifted, and he let go of Seren’s reins to turn his horse. “York?”
Turning in his saddle, the man’s eyes lit with a fever of excitement. “Aye, m’lord. To join a siege with Duke Henry.”
Wilhelm’s brows collided. “Fitz Empress, at York?”
Eyeing the sigil on his breast, the man openly confessed, “David knighted him. They’re taking York with the Earl of Chester.”
Duke Henry was old enough to have been knighted by his own sire before his death, but Wilhelm was far more intrigued over the details of how the lad re-entered the realm so quietly. In due time, they were supposed to have used the port at Warkworth, but their arrival was still being discussed. In the eventuality it was approved, Duke Henry wasn’t supposed to arrive until after the new proposal for ascension was discussed and accepted by the King. To Wilhelm’s knowledge, that proposal—an agreement that Stephen could rule until his death, but cede the throne to Matilda’s boy instead of his own son—hadn’t met with resounding approval from the Vatican. A few of the Empress’s “friends” believed she should be the one to wear her father’s crown. To their way of thought, Duke Henry was scarcely a child, and he had too many years remaining beforehe would be ready to rule. “Under whose banner do you ride?” Wilhelm asked another man, as he trotted toward them.
“Rainald FitzRoy,” said the soldier. “We’ve fresh come from council. More than half the northern barons will support David. I’m guessing you should be pleased enough to hear that news?” He tilted Wilhelm a meaningful nod, then put a hand to his forehead in salute. “Safe travels, m’lord. And if you should find yourself without the lady in tow, Duke Henry will welcome Warkworth’s support.”
Wilhelm nodded. “God be with ye, lad,” he said, and gave Seren another meaningful glance. She arched one perfect brow, perhaps because he’d given her so much grief over assuming his title, and he’d let it slide for these men, but it served him well enough for these men to mistake him for Warkworth’s lord. It was also quite telling these soldiers would speak so freely about rebellion. It was a testament to the growing unrest in England. People might not relish having a haughty woman on the throne, nor a beardless youth, but, it seemed they would prefer the boy to a hard-hearted despot—particularly one aligned to Morwen Pendragon. Stephen may not be guilty of tyranny, per se, but the man had one ass cheek off his throne, and he was already advocating for his son—but, God’s teeth, York?
Clearly, to no avail, his brother had warned David not to take the diocese perforce. There was no way in hell Stephen would ever allow York to fall. If what these men claimed was true, it was a matter of time before Stephen drove his army north. If they came so far as York, Warkworth was no more than another thirty leagues north.
Grateful now that he’d avoided York en route to Neasham, he waited until the last of the cavalcade was out of sight before abandoning the road yet again, praying to God his brother was not embroiled at York. Their troubles would mountexponentially and God’s bloody bones, he was growing weary of trouble.
Seren didn’t questionhis decision.
Though she might still be vexed with him, she trusted Wilhelm without fail. It was clear to her that he was concerned for their wellbeing. Despite that Jack was no longer traveling with them and there were no signs of her mother’s ravens, his mood had grown darker and darker by the mile. “Those were the Earl of Cornwall’s men?” she ventured.
