Lord Of Lyonsbridge

“We should have found lodging,” Sebastian grumbled, lifting his own hands one at a time to blow on his fingers. He turned around to address one of the six Wakelin men-at-arms who were accompanying them. “How much farther?”

The man rode toward them, peering ahead and paying little attention as he crowded their big horses on the highway. “Have a care, man,” Sebastian shouted. His horse pranced nervously, but Ellen kept her mount perfectly controlled.

“These infernal hillocks all look the same,” the guardsman said. “But I think we’re almost there.”

“I hope you’re right. We’re coming hard on twilight.” Sebastian shot a look of disapproval at his cousin, then asked the guard, “Are there brigands abroad at night?”

“Not these past five years. Before that, of course, the fighting was fierce. Lyonsbridge was one of the last territories to give over to Norman rule.”

“Which is precisely why King Henry awarded the grant to Lord Wakelin,” Sebastian told the man with a smug smile. “He knew that he was a warrior who could control the people with a firm hand.”

The guardsman shrugged. “As I say, milord, there’ve been no problems these years past. Lyonsbridge has been peaceful.”

Sebastian spurred his horse to move ahead of the soldier. “I intend to be sure it stays that way,” he said.

Ellen gave the soldier a smile and watched as it elicited the typical male expression of bedazzlement. At past twenty years, she was old to be still a maid, but her conquests numbered more than the old Conquerer himself. Her father had had offers for her hand from the four corners of Europe, though she’d not yet found the man she considered worthy. Her father had indulged her finicky nature, since, as she was his only child, he was, in truth, loath to give her away.

Lord Wakelin probably would not have suffered her traveling as far from him as England if it hadn’t been for the minor skirmish she’d recently caused between two princes from rival principalities. They’d fought a joust for her favors, even though she hadn’t the slightest intention of granting them to either young man. One of the princes had been gravely wounded.

The last piece of the sun disappeared behind a copse of trees, and immediately the cold bit harder. Ellen shivered again and tucked her hands up underneath her arms. She had no worry about letting loose the reins. She could trust Jocelyn to keep to the road without guidance.

“I think I see it ahead,” Sebastian said, pointing.

Ellen caught her breath. They’d rounded a bend in the road, bringing into view a small castle, the stone washed in scarlet from the fading sun.

The structure was dominated by two imposing towers, a square one to the left and an octagonal one on the right. The dark towers and the jagged outline of the battlements against the pink sunset made an extraordinary sight.

“That’s Lyonsbridge Castle?” she asked in awe.

Sebastian also appeared impressed, but as usual, chose to make his comment with a negative slant. “’Tis not as large as they’d told of it,” he said.

“’Tis nigh as large as Wakelin,” she argued. “And twice as lovely.” She spurred her horse into a full gallop, leaving her cousin behind her in a cloud of dust.

“Ellen!” he shouted after her. “Come back here! ‘Tis not seemly—” He broke off as Ellen and her big mare continued up the road, out of earshot.

“Shall we go after her, milord?” the guardsman asked from behind him.

Sebastian shook his head. “Nay. We’ll catch up soon enough.”

“Pardon, milord, but will the vassals know who she is if she arrives in such fashion?” the man persisted.

“If they don’t,” Sebastian answered with a cold smile, “you can be sure the lady Ellen will make them aware of it in short order.”

Connor and Father Martin emerged from the stable arm in arm. Though the friar managed frequent visits with his brother at their childhood home, there was always a flicker of sadness at the moment of parting. They couldn’t entirely escape the memories of the carefree days when neither the inexorable encroachment of the Normans nor Martin’s inevitable fate with the church had dimmed their youthful enthusiasm for life. Much had changed.

“When will I see you again?” Connor asked, taking his hand from his brother’s shoulder.

Father Martin straightened, once again becoming friar of St. John’s, forbidden by holy decree from unnecessary fleshly contact with a living soul. “Mayhap soon if your Norman visitors send for me to say a Mass for them.”

Connor frowned. “Will you tell them who you are?”

“I’m Father Martin, their friar. That’s all they have to know.”

Connor’s chiseled features hardened. “You won’t mention that their Norman compatriots killed your father and brother and as well as killed your mother?”

His brother sighed. “’Tis past, Connor. And you swore an oath to keep it that way.”

“There’s no need to remind me of an oath taken at our mother’s deathbed, Martin,” Connor said stiffly.

“Aye, I know, it’s just—” He held up a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. “Jesu, who is that?”

Connor followed the direction of his brother’s gaze down the road, and his expression grew thunderous. “Whoever it is must be a bloody fool to ride like that over slippery ground.”

“It’s a woman,” Father Martin said, his voice awed.

Connor had already seen for himself that the approaching rider was indeed a woman. Though mounted sideways in a woman’s saddle, with her skirts billowing around her, she rode like a man, straight and sure—and fast. “She’s a bloody fool, for all that,” he said under his breath.

The woman was approaching so quickly that it was difficult to get a clear view, of her, but her garments were obviously rich and her horse looked to be magnificently bred. By the time the horse and rider pulled to a stop directly in front of them, both the brothers had surmised the identity of the new arrival.

“It appears your curiosity is about to be satisfied, brother,” Connor said in an undertone.

“She comes alone? Where’s her entourage?”

“From the pace she sets, they’re undoubtedly left behind at the coast,” Connor replied with a grin as he stepped forward, ready to lift a hand to stop the big horse, if necessary.

But the mount came to a perfect halt not two yards in front of him, and the lady perched on top appeared unruffled by her breakneck ride. She scarcely looked at Connor, focusing her attention instead on his brother.

“Be you the friar of Lyonsbridge?” she asked without preamble.

Father Martin shot a glance at Connor before he answered calmly, “I am Father Martin, my daughter, priest of St. John’s and administering friar to this estate.”

She extended an arm in Connor’s direction and said to Father Martin, “You may direct this man to help me down and see to my horse.”

Her attention to his brother gave Connor time to study her. He’d been unwilling to admit to Martin that he shared his curiosity about the Norman maid, but the tales of her beauty and spirit had piqued his interest as well. As with most tales oft told, he’d discounted their validity, but looking up at the young Norman woman as she sat haloed in the sunset, he had to admit that this time there had been no embellishment. Lady Ellen Wakelin was all they told of her, and more.

Father Martin spoke with a slight smile. “You may feel free to address the man yourself, milady, since he is your new master of horse.”

She glanced down at Connor, and this time appeared to take in all aspects of his appearance. Unaccountably, for the first time in years, Connor missed the grander clothes he was wont to wear when his family had been masters at Lyonsbridge. The humble fustian fabric of his undertunic and surcoat indicated peasant garb.

His chin went up a notch. “Milady,” he said, without being addressed. “Welcome to Lyonsbridge.”

Ellen’s eyes widened and she hesitated a moment, but then seemed to recover herself, placed one foot in his cupped hand and put her arm on his shoulder to dismount.

As she stepped nimbly to the ground, she made no reply to his welcome, but turned once again to the priest. “We’re not expected until the morrow, Father. Sir William will need to be informed of our arrival.”

William Booth had been serving as bailiff since the awarding of Lyonsbridge to Lord Wakelin the previous year. Booth had recently been knighted by the king for bringing order to what had been considered an unruly part of the country. No one questioned what his efforts had cost the people he had subdued.

Father Martin looked at Connor, waiting to see if his normally outspoken brother would protest the slight by the Norman beauty. But Connor merely took hold of her horse’s reins and stepped back, watching her with an amused smile on his face.