Page 69 of Bold Angel
“Aye, ’twill be a proper welcome,” Caryn said. “But ’twould be far more pleasant should we enjoy it without the company of de Montreale and his men.” LordStephen had sent word of his arrival. He and his entourage, his personal retainers, mounted knights, and men-at-arms, would be there before the setting of the sun.
“He travels with the king’s tax collector. There is little we can do save welcome them with open arms.”
“And open coffers. ’Twill increase the burden on the people of the village. Lord Ral already worries what may happen to them next winter.”
“’Tis only King William’s due. ’Tis not overly harsh, only that Braxston still bears the cost of building the keep. ’Tis hardly a burden at all for Lord Stephen.”
“’Twould be no burden for Lord Ral had he married Malvern’s sister.” Caryn flashed Richard a troubled glance. “You know she travels with them.”
“Aye.”
“How will Ral greet her?”
Richard shook his head. “I know only that they were once betrothed. ’Tis in the past, I am sure, Lady Caryn. You are Lord Ral’s wife, not Lady Eliana.”
Caryn might be his wife, but she knew little of his feelings. And love had never been mentioned. A shiver passed down her spine. Richard knew naught of the woman from Ral’s past. Caryn wished to God he did. For the past few days, Ral had been brooding and distant. Since his return from Caanan, other than the passionate hours they spent in bed, he seemed to avoid her.
Caryn wasn’t certain of the cause, but she feared it had something to do with the arrival of Lord Stephen’s sister.
“The troubadours will soon be here,” she told Richard, determined to keep her mind off Ral and concentrate on the feasting ahead. “’Tis said they are very entertaining.”
“And we’ve musicians and tumblers—’twill be a night to remember.”
She had no doubt of that. Her only doubt lay in how Ral would deal with the woman who had been his betrothed. Hehad said he had once held feelings for her. If so, why had he refused the marriage?
What feelings did he carry for her still?
Hours into the feasting, Caryn still did not know. Since they had entered the great hall, Ral had been distant and brooding, silent and withdrawn. Lord Stephen and his sister had arrived with Francois de Balmain, the king’s tax collector, who now sat beside them on the dais. Caryn had dressed carefully, choosing a deep ruby tunic over a white silk chainse, while Ral wore one of sapphire embroidered with threads of gold.
He was polite to Caryn, as he was to his guests, but his eyes held little warmth. He smiled but there was something odd in his manner, something that dulled the pleasure she should have felt in the evening she had so carefully planned.
Another time she would have been pleased with the lavish meal—the peacock dressed in its own iridescent plummage, the mushroom-stuffed boar, the partridge and plover and herring, the fresh garden vegetables, dried fruit, nuts, and figs. She would have been caught up in the music of lute and zither, of flute and pipe and horn.
The troubadours were as talented as she had been told, entertaining the men withchansons de geste,tales of valor and chivalry. Mostly they sang of Charlemagne and his battles with the Basque, of Roland and Oliver, two of his most trusted friends. The tale said Roland was fierce, but Oliver was wise in the war with the Saracens.
Then there was the tale they told of the Dark Knight, himself. Of Raolfe de Gere, a warrior so relentless in battle he was finally given the name. They sang of his courage, of his might against the Saxons on Senlac field, of how Ral had taken the thrust of a saber to save the life of the king.
Though Caryn’s people had been defeated, the tale of her husband’s fierce bravery filled her with pride andlove.Love.Aye, ’twas exactly what it was. She’d been a fool not to see it. And now that she did, she yearned for Ral to feel the same.
Instead he remained withdrawn, glancing too often at Eliana, frowning as if her presence somehow plagued him yet drew his reluctant regard. She was a beautiful woman, Caryn saw with more than a little trepidation. Black-haired and blue-eyed, with skin as fair as Lord Stephen’s.
And her features were much the same, fine-boned and clearly defined, with a straight nose not as pointed as her brother’s. She was tall and well-proportioned, with high, full breasts and ripe ruby lips. When she laughed, the sound drifted musically across the hall, catching nearly every man’s attention.
“She is lovely,” Caryn said to Ral as they shared a trencher of meat.
“Rest assured her beauty is less than skin deep.”
“Lord Stephen seems to find her amusing.”
Ral’s gaze swept the pair who sat at the far end of the table. “Stephen has been charmed by her since he was a boy.”
“Which of them is the elder?”
“Eliana, but only by a summer. ’Tis not her age but her woman’s ways that give her power over Malvern. ’Tis possible she is the only person on earth with the talent to wield it.”
Caryn heard Lord Stephen’s laughter at something his sister had said. His face looked flushed, his eyes bright, and his smile was warmer than any he had ever bestowed. When Caryn glanced at Ral, she saw that he was frowning.
“By God’s blood, the woman has the power of a sorceress. She has outlived one husband. I pity the next poor fool who weds her.” He pushed back from the table and turned his attention toward Francois de Balmain, the king’s taxcollector.
