Chapter Three
The soldiers had hardly finished breaking their fast the next morning before the pages and squires were summoned from their regular duties to clear the trestle tables and benches to make room for the female army of maids that invaded the big room to decorate it.
William had never seen the likes of such flourishing. His uncle held the opinion that the outdoors needed to remain outdoors, so only minimal decorating for Yule season had been done. But here…not only were the mantels of the four hearths along both sides of the room covered in pine branches and sprigs of holly, but the dais had garlands strung along the front as well. What had seemed like a wagonload of decorations yesterday disappeared by mid-morning and several servants were dispatched to get more. Even the pine cones—which William thought were meant to be tossed into the fires for their crackle and scent—had been strung together to form a rope of sorts that was intertwined with the boughs.
And Isobel seemed to be everywhere. She had a natural talent for organizing and directing, William noticed. And an eye for detail. Countless times, she stepped back to view how the decorations had been arranged and made minor adjustments.
It was that eye for detail that made William remember the detailed questions Isobel had asked on their walk in the woods the day before. He supposed it might be natural to inquire what his uncle’s castle looked like—women had an interest in things like furniture, tapestries, and kinds of tableware—but Isobel hadn’t asked anything about how the castle was furnished. Instead, she wanted to know if it was fortified. Then, she wanted to know about the surrounding area and how many villagers lived nearby. Why?
Had Roger de Lacy asked her to gather information that he could share with the sheriff and Gisborne? William had listened carefully to the conversation at the midday meal yesterday. Gisborne was overly confident—a trait that appeared often in arrogant, cocky prigs—that the sheriff would soon clear Sherwood Forest of Robin Hood and his men. William suspected the bluster was just that, since the notorious sheriff had not been able to catch the wily band for two years. De Lacy had agreed that the woods needed to be cleared of outlaws and brigands, but William had not heard anything to suggest there was any kind of bond between the baron and the sheriff, save for the betrothal of de Lacy’s cousin to the sheriff’s henchman.
William frowned. His first instinct—and his instincts were usually right—when he’d witnessed the interchange between Gisborne and Isobel was that she cared not for the man. And in the forty-eight hours or so since William had met her, he’d already gotten the impression that she had an independent spirit and was perhaps willful, as well. He’d more than half-expected a bit of that defiance to spark when Gisborne had ordered her to sit beside him on the settee, but she had remained mute. And again, when the man told her she needn’t concern herself with the outcomes of war. The harsh tone he’d used made it a rebuke and an insult to her intelligence. William had fully expected a retort. Had even, in a diabolical way, looked forward to Gisborne getting his come-uppance, but Isobel had remained decidedly meek. A trait that screamed unnatural in William’s mind.
Was she putting on an act? And if she was, for whom?
• ♥ •
Amid the chaos of decorating and trying to keep pine needles on their boughs instead of scattered all over the floor, Isobel watched William covertly. He had stayed in the Great Hall after the pages and squires had gone back to their regular duties and helped the maids with moving and lifting the larger pine branches, much to their giggling delight. Isobel felt an odd pang flash through her as he bent down to pick up a holly sprig one of the prettier maids had dropped, and handed it back to her with a flourish, as well as a grin. The girl blushed and managed to maneuver so the wide-necked blouse she was wearing dropped off her shoulders. Isobel didn’t need to see the expression on her face to know it was an open invitation to William.
If only she could use such a ploy herself, but ladies were not allowed to openly flirt. Not that she would have any idea of how to begin such a thing. Nor did she have any clothing that would “accidently” slip off her shoulders. Her everyday clothing in Wales had been practical for the terrain and climate, and even her gowns had been modestly cut. Her cousin had not offered to increase her wardrobe, a fact that she had appreciated once he’d betrothed her to Sir Guy. The man might ogle her bosom, but all he would see was cloth. But as Isobel watched, a second maid reached up to tuck a holly sprig in William’s hair, managing to stretch enough as she did it for the material of her blouse to grow taut across her breasts. William gave her a devilish smile, as well.
Isobel realized her feet were carrying her toward the trio without any effort of her own. She was about to halt when William caught her eye. Too late, now, to change direction. She pasted a smile on her face as she approached.
“Did you know the Holly King wears such a sprig as well?”
That caused both maids to giggle again, but as Isobel inclined her head slightly, they both sobered and rushed back to their duties. Perhaps being a cousin to their master had some small benefit, after all.
William looked after them too. “I am not sure whether this Holly King is something to embrace or fear.”
Isobel gave him a surprised look. “You do not know the story?”
He shook his head. “Should I?”
She considered that for a moment. “I suppose not, since so many English manors no longer observe the Old Ways of the country folk. In Wales, the myth is still celebrated, even though the priests frown on it.”
William smiled. “Priests frown on much of what I consider pleasurable, so I suspect I will enjoy the story, if you care to tell it.”
His smile wasn’t quite the mischievous one he’d given the maids, but the tone of his voice was, and somehow gave a quivery feeling in her stomach.
“It all has to do with the Celtic Wheel of Life. Of birth and death and rebirth. In olden times, the king of Birth was born on Beltane and reached his strength at Midsummer. The peasants named him the Oak King since he was strong as a tree.
“As autumn shortened the days, his life waned slowly and an usurper was born on Samhain, the beginning of the new year. His strength grew until it waxed full on the winter solstice, which is when he fought the Oak King and defeated him.
“The common folk called him the Holly King since it was the season of Yule and he began the cycle of new life that would become spring.” Isobel gestured to William’s red cape. “The Holly King is often depicted as wearing that color and living in the woods, using eight stags as horses to draw his carriage.”
William’s smile widened. “Perhaps I need to go in search of those stags since I lost my horse.”
Isobel smiled back. “I thought you were planning to win a steed in the tournament my cousin has planned?”
“That I do. When do the events begin?”
“The knights will begin arriving the day after tomorrow,” Isobel answered, “and from what I have been told, there will be a day of practice before the actual events.”
“A day of boasting, more like,” William said. “Part of the strategy of winning is putting fear in your opponent.”
“Like King Richard and the Templars did to make Acre fall?”
William nodded. “The Templars destroyed Saladin’s right wing, opening the way for the king’s victory.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “I thought you said you did not understand war.”
“What I said was, I do not understand why men want to fight.” Isobel forced herself to look into his eyes. “Do you think it strange that I am interested in strategy?”
“No… Well, maybe a little, but I think it is refreshing.” William paused. “Do you think our king will return soon?”
“I do not know, but I hope so.”
“Your cousin seems to think not.”
Isobel wrinkled her nose. “That is because he wants to go and fight. But…” She hesitated. “… there seems to be unrest in England.”
William gave her a direct look. “What kind of unrest?”
“I am not sure. I have heard my cousin say the sheriff favors putting Prince John on the throne since King Richard has spent so little time in England.”
“And how does your cousin feel?”
“I cannot say.” Isobel shrugged. “He does not confide in me since I am a woman.”
William’s gaze intensified. “I think sometimes men make a great mistake when they underestimate women.”
Isobel lifted her chin. “I think sometimes they do.”
• ♥ •
William supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Isobel showed up in the gaming room after the evening meal. Three brothers, all knights wanting to participate in the tournament, had arrived from somewhere in Kent late this afternoon. Roger de Lacy had suggested a game of cards to pass the evening. The way Isobel’s eyes had lit with interest had made him wonder if she’d played often in Wales.
Her cousin glanced up when she entered, a slight look of annoyance on his face that was quickly erased. “I am sorry, but the game is for men only.”
Isobel studied the men a moment, then turned her gaze on him before looking back at Roger. “I was rather hoping I could engage someone in a game of chess.”
“I do not think—”
“Actually, I am the fifth man at the table.” William rose before her cousin could protest. “I will be glad to accommodate Miss de Lacy.”
She smiled and it seemed her eyes grew more luminous, but that might just be the glow from the fire in the hearth. The light also cast a sort of halo about her, and William remembered how much he thought her voice had sounded like an angel’s as he had awakened. Was she as innocent as she looked?
She knew the Templars had been involved with the siege of Acre and King Richard’s victory. She could have overheard de Lacy talking about that, but she’d also said she felt there was unrest in England. And she’d mentioned the sheriff favoring Prince John. Had Isobel been baiting him to find out how he felt? She’d claimed she didn’t know what her cousin thought on the subject. Was she speaking the truth, or had Gisborne somehow put her up to it?
“The table is over there.” Isobel gestured toward a smaller table and two chairs tucked into a corner of the room.
As William followed her over, he saw the chess pieces were already placed on the board. Had Isobel arranged them earlier? Before he could pull her chair, Isobel sat down on the side with the black pieces and he raised an inquiring brow.
“Are you sure you do not want the first move?”
She gave him another smile. “You are a guest, so you get the white.”
“You may be sorry.” Her smile deepened and he noticed a dimple appear. It made her look like a very mischievous angel.
“I will risk it,” she said.
It didn’t take but a few moves for William to realize that not only was Isobel well-versed in the strategy of the game, but she was also very competitive. She sacrificed a pawn to move both her knight and bishop out so that she could castle and protect her king. He grinned and made the same maneuvers.
“Now, the game begins,” he said.
“So it does,” Isobel answered.
She captured a pawn he’d intended to sacrifice anyway. At least, he thought he had. Two moves later, she had her bishop lined up to capture his knight. He moved the piece quickly out of the way. Perhaps he needed to concentrate more on the game than on the lady.
“Does your uncle ever write to you about Outremer?”
William wasn’t sure if she was trying to distract him from the game or if she were trying to wheedle information that could be passed along. “Not often. Why do you ask?”
Isobel repositioned her bishop. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”
He moved a pawn to block the bishop’s taking his rook. Was Isobel parrying with him? Or was she becoming suspicious that he was suspicious of her questions? He truly wanted to believe that neither she nor de Lacy were part of the alleged treasonous plotting, but her cousin had betrothed her to the sheriff’s henchman, after all. That made William wary.
“I guess I have an inquisitive nature,” he replied, and gave her a beguiling smile that worked on most women. Unfortunately, she simply looked at him. “My uncle is not overly fond of writing letters.” That much was true, at least.
Isobel left his sacrificial pawn in place and placed her queen behind her knight for protection from his own. William thought about the symbolism of one knight protecting Isobel—no, her queen—from another knight. He hoped the protector wasn’t Gisborne. “What do you want to know about Outremer?”
She concentrated on the board for a moment before answering. “I was just wondering what it would be like to be in such a warm area during Yule. We are so used to cold and even snow.”
“Pleasant, I would imagine, if it were not for the fighting.”
Isobel looked up. “You do not believe in the fighting either?”
He shrugged. “A man fights when he has to. Knights are trained for war. I would probably be there if it were not for the fact that my uncle needs me here.”
“But do you believe in their cause? The Crusaders, I mean,” Isobel asked. “I studied lots of history when I was growing up in Wales. This is the Third Crusade. Knights and soldiers have been fighting over that territory for nearly a hundred years. Is the killing worth it?”
“Well, it is the Holy Land. Jerusalem is the most important city in Christendom.”
“And the same city is equally important to the Jews and Turks,” Isobel answered. “Just ask Saladin.”
William had to smile. “I would prefer never meeting the man.”
Isobel considered. “I guess I would not want to meet him either, but my point is, why can people just not get along? Especially during Yule? Why can they not call a truce?”
“I agree the season calls for peace, but I am afraid it is wishful thinking on your part.”
Isobel shook her head as she moved her rook. “Well, a truce would bring King Richard back, would it not?”
William looked at her sharply. That remark sounded like she wanted the king to return. Did that mean she truly did not know what Gisborne and the sheriff were suspected of? He hoped so. The more time William spent in Isobel’s company, the more he was growing to like her.
“Check,” she said moving her queen two places in front of his king. “And checkmate.”
William looked at the board in confusion. Somehow, during their discussion, Isobel had managed to align both a bishop and knight to be in position to capture his king—and her latest move made sure her queen would do it.
William looked at Isobel with new respect. Not only did she understand strategy, she was very good at it.
That meant he would have to be careful.
• ♥ •
As Isobel had predicted, more knights began arriving the next day. By evening of the second day, at least another score had arrived. Along with their pages, squires, and an occasional guardsman, William estimated probably near a hundred people were in attendance. Most of them had pitched tents in the fields surrounding de Lacy’s castle, but all were expecting to be fed.
He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Isobel all day, although he had seen her darting to and fro trying to keep everything inside the castle organized and running smoothly. He’d approached the kitchen once after she’d disappeared into it, but between the sounds of pots and pans clanging, muffled curses, and the howl of a scullery boy who’d probably been cuffed about the ears, William decided to avoid that area completely.
But now, sitting at one of the trestle tables in the Great Hall while the servants began carrying in the platters of food, he realized just how efficient Isobel had been. Clean rushes lined the stone floor. A lady sat near the dais playing a golden harp that was twice the size she was. The tables had been polished until they gleamed. Beeswax candles in glass orbs had been placed among the pine boughs, and holly sprigs adorning the four side mantels and silver candelabra set upon each table. The trenchers were of fresh bread and the spoons beside each one were pewter, not wood.
Nor was there any lack of food. The meal began with large tureens of pheasant stew and puree of grouse, followed by roasted rabbit, peacock, and venison, as well as steamed salmon and eel for the main course. Next came several wheels of cheese with scones, clotted cream, and honey. The meal was finished with spiced cinnamon baked apples, a rare treat indeed. Wine flowed as freely as the more common ale.
William suspected that a great number of the knights would have thick heads come morning, but that would provide an excellent opportunity to find their weaknesses as they practiced for the tourney. He planned on winning the destrier, which was the grand prize.
He frowned as he looked at the dais where Isobel sat between her cousin and Sir Guy of Gisborne. Not only did the man have boorish manners, he was a glutton, as well. He’d heaped his trencher high with every course that had passed by his nose. William had also noticed Isobel looking slightly nauseated beside him. From where he sat, he couldn’t tell how much food she’d eaten, but nothing was heaped over the top of her trencher, so he doubted it was much.
William had also watched Isobel’s interaction with her betrothed. He’d told himself he studied her strictly for the purpose of his mission—was she gathering information and passing it along to Gisborne and the sheriff—but he knew he was telling himself a big lie. He was attracted to Isobel as he had never been with any other woman, and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’d saved his life, grateful as he was for that.
She was slight of figure—his hands would fit easily around her waist—which made her appear delicate, but he suspected there was a strength to her that lurked below the surface. The man in him wanted to taste her passion. Ever since he’d heard that angelic voice through the haze of his consciousness, he’d wanted to discover what sort of temptress she really was.
That damn idiot Gisborne didn’t deserve her. The real question though was, did she want him? William couldn’t see any indication that she did, but perhaps he was purposely missing the signs because he didn’t want to see them. He watched now as Gisborne leaned far too close to whisper something in her ear. William saw her face turn red, but she kept her eyes downcast and only smiled a little. Was it a forced smile or a flirtation?
Damn.
When the meal was over, the food was cleared with the same efficiency with which it had been served and the trestles pushed back against the walls to leave the large floor open, no doubt for dancing, since the harpist had retired and several men with lutes, reeds, and tuned bells took her place. But instead of the music starting, everyone was gathering along either side of the Great Hall, leaving an open aisle in the middle.
“What is going to happen?” he asked a young knight standing near him.
Instead of the man replying, William heard Isobel’s voice behind him.
“We are bringing in the Yule log,” she said.
William turned quickly, expecting to see Gisborne by her side, but he was not. Glancing around the crowd, he saw the man engaged in conversation with de Lacy. William hoped it would be a long conversation. “Another Celtic tradition?”
“Yes.” Isobel smiled. “Around Samhain, the villagers begin searching for just the right ash tree to be used, then it is cut down twelve days before the Christ’s Mass. Once it is lit, it burns continually until the Mass is celebrated on the twenty-fifth.”
William smiled back. “Sort of a blending with Christianity, then?”
“Of course. My cousin is going on Crusade to fight and win back the Holy Land, after all.” She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “As I already said, I just wish we could all live in peace and everyone be treated fairly.”
“Both noble sentiments.”
“I am not sure noble is the right word to use.”
William raised a brow. “How not so?”
Her shoulder lifted again. “Well, nobility has always had privileges. One law applies to commoners and villagers, another applies to the aristocracy—and sometimes, the law doesn’t apply at all. A peasant can be imprisoned, tortured, or even hanged for committing a deed that done by a noble would not even warrant notice. Sometimes…” Isobel stopped suddenly and placed her hand over her mouth. “I am sorry. I sometimes speak when I should not. I forgot that you are a knight and that your uncle is an earl.”
“Believe me, my uncle feels the same way you do,” William said, “and he definitely believes in noblesse oblige…that nobles are obligated to provide for those less fortunate.”
Isobel nodded. “I would like to hear more about your uncle. I think I would like him.”
William looked at her thoughtfully. “I suspect you would.”
The musicians started playing just then, the sound of high-pitched reeds, tingling bells and low notes of the lutes drowning out further conversation as the doors to the Great Hall opened to reveal four older boys dressed in red tunics with green leggings bearing a huge log on their shoulders. They solemnly marched down the open aisle toward the main hearth behind the dais. A throng of villagers followed them along with a few of the gypsies from the camp.
A small pitch torch was presented to de Lacy, who lit it from a wall sconce and then touched it to the kindling that had been laid earlier. It only took a moment for the tinder to catch, and soon the dried bark on the log did, too. A cheer rose from the crowd.
As the villagers turned to leave, William noticed several of the castle’s servants stood near the door, handing out the trenchers that had been used at the evening meal. That was not especially uncommon since nobility only ate the contents of whatever had been put in the bread bowl and the broth would have saturated it providing nourishment, but what surprised William was that each trencher had a spiced apple in it, as well. He wondered if that had been Isobel’s idea, given how she felt about the difference in classes.
As the crowd thinned, William saw Gisborne looking around. No doubt the man would soon be heading their way once he spotted Isobel. “I think your betrothed is looking for you,” William said reluctantly.
“I know.” Isobel turned to him and touched his arm briefly with her hand before she let it drop. “I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
She looked around and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Would you take me away from here?”
William stared at her, not sure his ears were working properly. “What?”
“Take me away.” Isobel looked furtively around her and then back to William with a hint of desperation when she continued. “I know your uncle is away, but could you take me to Barnsdale when you leave? I will not stay overlong.” She glanced at Gisborne who was closing in. “I cannot go through with this.”
“What are you doing over here?” Gisborne asked as he came up and took her arm none too gently. “I told you to stay by my side.”
William’s first thought was to put a fist in the man’s face. He was about to demand that Isobel be unhanded when she pulled her arm from Gisborne’s grasp. She shot William a warning look.
“I must not have heard you, my lord,” she said.
“Come along, then,” Gisborne demanded and glared at William. “You leave my betrothed alone.”
William clenched his fists. Isobel gave him another warning look and then she turned to leave with Sir Guy.
William slowly unclenched his fists as he watched her follow the bastard. He could still feel the light touch of her hand, branding him with a warmth that shot up his arm. He reminded himself that she had said she wanted to know about his uncle. Was she fishing for more information on whom the earl might support for the throne?
Isobel was either one of the best spies he had ever met or she was in serious trouble. He just wasn’t quite sure—yet—which it was.