Chapter Two
Yule 1128—Isle of Walney
“Over here, Wal.” Robert Beaumont called. “What do you think?”
A gust of wind filled with water or sand slapped Waleran de Marche as he reached the top of a small rise and its lone tower. Beside him, Beaumont leaned forward, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
Behind the tower, the endless expanse of the sea stretched out like a wrinkled blanket. No boats would approach the island from this side. To the east, the bay, two smaller islands, and the mainland. The island itself was empty except for some cattle, a few huts, and the odd castle. Crossing his arms, he turned to the tower built of red stone.
“What is it guarding?”
Beaumont shook his head. “The monks will not say, but your cousin, Stephen, has offered me the use of it on the condition that I keep it manned.”
Wal looked back to the narrow strand of beach where their boat moored. His stomached rolled. He could still feel the boil of the sea and taste bile in the back of his throat. Swallowing hard, he looked toward the leeward side of the island as suspicion crawled into the back of his brain. “I do not wish to be stranded here.”
“’Tis not a stranding. You can travel from the island to the mainland with the tides, and I’m certain the king will continue to use you as he wishes.”
Anger flared deep in his soul. Wal hated the tasks the king gave him, and Beaumont knew it. The king sent him across Europe as an emissary and assassin on an elusive promise of a place at the royal table. After the last such mission, Wal was beginning to wonder if he wanted that seat at all.
“I also like the sound of Waleran of Walney.”
Beaumont’s laugh brought Wal’s gaze back to the old man. More grit flew into his face. “Why me?”
The older man’s smile faded. “The abbot asked for you.”
“The abbot has no abbey.”
“Not yet, but the monks are negotiating with Stephen of Blois for land.”
“And he will give it to them?”
A nod.
“But you get the island?”
Beaumont shook his head. “You do.”
“Why? I already have a fief about this size.” He looked around. His march fief was bigger than this island.
“That will be your mystery to solve.”
Wal wanted no more mysteries in his life. He studied the tower, which was taller and more heavily defended than most castles that sat at a single river crossing. What had the monks found here? “Who owns my fealty?”
“I do, although the abbot will press you. Stephen will, too, most likely.” Beaumont’s grin faded. “You also need a wife.”
“So a fourth person can try to rule me?”
Beaumont laughed. “A wife who knows what she wants can be a pleasure.”
“My father—”
“Consented.”
Wal stepped back. The statement should have thrilled him. A wife meant land, children, belonging. Instead, Beaumont’s words shivered over him. Whatever was unfolding here had been in play for far longer than Beaumont’s impromptu Yule trip to Stephen’s hunting lodge would suggest.
“Who is this woman? Surely not Lord Piel’s widow.”
“No, although her portions are twice the size of this isle.”
“She is old.”
Beaumont snorted. “Only someone with your lack of years would think that. She has less than two score years and is still quite handsome.”
“I’ll leave her to you, then.” Moving closer to the tower, Wal inspected its construction. The island was sandy and windswept, although whoever had built the tower was wise enough to pick a rocky outcrop for its foundations. It was high enough to offer an unobstructed view of the sea, and he hoped, far enough back to soothe worries that a fierce storm would wash it away. “Who do you have in mind? Do I even know her?”
“My niece.”
“The cold one?”
Anger flashed over the old man’s face. “What do you know of that?”
“I mean nothing carnal. I am not my father. ’Tis each time I have seen her since last Yule she has worn a cloak. Even on the warmest of summer days, she’s wrapped in wool.”
The tension didn’t ease from Beaumont’s body. “She grew up in Narbonne with her mother’s parents. A harsh, hot climate. Now that her father is dead, her maternal uncle seeks her for his feudal lord, the French prince, Philip. I have no idea if King Louis the Fat wants with her, but I have heard that he will make his son, Philip, a co-king. Philip will be the war king, and Louis will sit in his palace and issue edicts over supper.” He stared over the sea. “’Tis best I resolve her marriage now.”
“You would wed her to me over a prince?”
“The French king controls Paris. King Henry rules England, Normandy, and a sizable portion of Brittany. Of course, I would wed her to you first.”
Wal looked over the tide as it battered the leeward side of the island. “If her uncle is desperate enough to seize Cate from England for the soon-to-be young king, he would just as easily be willing to make her a widow.”
Beaumont gave him an exasperated look. “As if you cannot protect yourself from a man of my years.”
“You are more formidable than you think.” Wal set a hand on the man’s shoulder. He’d been raised in Beaumont’s household, and because Beaumont and his lady wife had no children before her death last year, he’d likely been treated more like a son than he should have been. “What is this really about?”
The old man looked toward the sea where swells rose and fell in an endless repetition. Wal knew most people found the rhythm calming. One of his friends even compared it to the earth’s heartbeat, which reminded men of the safety of their mother’s arms. He hated it. The sea reminded him of boats and the rolling illness that set in the moment he stepped onto any vessel larger than a horse cart. “Your father’s plans will not work. When the king dies, there will be war, and his sons will be split between claimants to the throne. On Walney, with a Provence bride, you might, just might have the luxury of not choosing a side.”
“I might want to fight.”
“Against kith and kin? I know you, Wal. You have been in my household since before you were weaned. You are as much a son to me as I imagine my own would have been. I would make you and Cate both safe.”
Wal leaned back, unsure how to react to such a declaration. That Beaumont had no children was his wife’s deepest shame, but the man himself had never acted as if it mattered. For the first time, Wal wondered if the man’s tendency to take in others’ children was less politically motivated than most people assumed. “If it comes to a fight, no one will be safe, particularly me.”
“I promised my brother that his daughter would be safe. You are the only man I know who can protect her better than me.”
“She is young.”
Beaumont shook his head. “She is older than most brides of her station.”
“She will consent?”
“Aye.”
Wal was less certain, although he couldn’t say why. His interactions with her had been few in the past year, despite the crowd that moved from castle to castle with Beaumont. Even at feasts, she managed to erect invisible fortifications that kept people from approaching her. Perhaps cold had been the right word after all. Wal looked around. There was a stark beauty here that was surprisingly pleasant. “And what of my consent?”
Beaumont glanced at him. “You have no more choice than she does.”
But he did. He could continue to earn his way through the might of the sword. Women couldn’t. They had to be taken care of.
Walking toward the castle, Wal focused on what could become his home. Inside, the tower was cool and damp, but a warming area was built into the large room that would serve as his hall. Steps along the side spiraled upward to a second-floor room. Braziers would warm what the hearths didn’t reach. The third floor offered no heating mechanism and had a window built into each wall. It would be chilly throughout the winter, but pleasant in summer. He looked through each window. The tower was alone. No outbuildings, no kitchen garden, no pastures.
“And how are we to live?”
“The monks will furnish you and Cate with everything you need until harvest.” Beaumont stood on the land, bending to rest his hands on his knees. His breathing echoed roughly through the empty room. “The tide is turning. We should return to the abbey that will be before we are stranded here.”
“Who cultivates the land?”
“Serfs. They also fish. You will not starve.”
“But I could possibly die from idleness.”
Beaumont’s laugh was as easy as the trip back to the boat. Within the hour, they were across the narrow inlet, wet to the toes from the bombarding waves.
“Ye look right green, there,” said a monk who caught the lines.
“The sea is not my friend.” Wal tried to laugh as he spoke, but the roll of his stomach forced him to swallow hard. A half-dozen people were at the beach, including Cate, who marched through the group to her uncle.
“You took him to the isle but not me?” she asked.
“You had not yet arrived,” Beaumont said smoothly. “You remember Waleran de Marche.”
Cate glanced at him with unconcealed contempt. Her cloak was the shade of darkest blue and made her eyes look even more violet. “He looks as if he will soon lose every meal he has ever eaten,” she said. “I never get sick, no matter how wild the sea. You should have waited for me. I grew up on the sea. I do not get sick.”
“Be calm, Cate.” Beaumont tugged her braid as if she were a wee child, not a woman ready to marry. “Wal and I needed to talk about you.”
“Me?”
Cate’s sharp gaze cut from her uncle to him and back. In that brief flash of eye contact, Wal saw understanding and fury. He stepped away from the battle forming in the amethyst haze of her eyes. This was not his fight. If she dissuaded her uncle from the wedding, his life would be a thousand times more peaceful than if Beaumont got his way.
“You have no reason to discuss me with a mere guard.”
Wal snorted. Clearly, the woman didn’t pay much attention to what was before her.
“He will soon be your husband.”
“You promised Papa—”
“I promised your father that I would keep you safe. Wal will do that better than any man I know.”
“No,” she said. “I will not marry a landless knight.”
“He will not be landless long.”
“Because of my lands. I will not consent to this.”
Beaumont shrugged. “Shall we discuss this when we are not all cold, wet, and half-sick? Wal, escort her back to Furness. I will follow shortly.”
Cate whirled around and almost ran from the beach. Shaking his head, Wal followed. The marriage was doomed.
The path to the road, then to where the abbey would one day be, was muddy and slick. Use had widened it enough that two people could walk abreast unless one was Cate, who put herself in the middle of the road. He positioned himself on her right, a half-step behind her. She smelled like evening-blooming water lilies, the scent faint but unforgettable.
He’d glimpsed her a few times since he’d ordered her onto the boat in Le Crotoy, but hadn’t been easily keeping one step ahead of him. Not that she was speaking to him now. Most of her was hidden beneath the woolen cloak, but she’d grown taller in the past year. The top of her head now reached his shoulder, and her stride was long and quick, easily keeping pace with him.
“My uncle had this planned from the start.” She kept her gaze on the trees ahead.
“If he had planned it, it would have been done before now.” Then again, he had spent months in Normandy, defending the king’s lands against French encroachment and performing other, less chivalrous tasks.
“He lied to my father.”
“Maybe.” Wal struggled to remember what she’d said on the docks. She’d mentioned a betrothed—Oh, yes. Richard of Brinklow. “Be glad of it. Brinklow was not a good man. He beat his first wife so severely the church granted her a divorce. His second wife died after three months, and I suspect the hunting accident that claimed his life was no accident.”
She stopped moving just long enough to scowl at him. “Why do you think that?”
“The only witness to his death was his second wife’s brother.”
Her eyes widened. The purple tint to the blue in her eyes enthralled him. Would his children have her purplish eyes or his plain blue ones? “He went hunting with the brother of the wife he murdered? That was not very clever.”
“No one ever accused him of being that.”
An almost-smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “That does not change the fact that Uncle Robert lied to my father.” Her voice lacked the heat it possessed a moment ago. “Why would my uncle offer Brinklow as suitable if he was not?”
“Land. Wealth. Powerful alliances that would benefit your family and children for generations to come. Even so, I am the better choice.”
She cast him a long look. “I’ve heard rumors about you.”
“Most people have.”
“You are a bastard.”
“Aye.”
Her headlong rush toward the abbey ended. Her steps were slower, more reluctant. “You are proud of that?” Her voice was somewhere between shock and respect. “You were made in sin.”
“Are we not all made in sin?”
She looked away at his question, and Wal trudged on. The pathway had given way to a narrow road speckled with cattle droppings. As he steered her around several large piles, he realized he’d never thought of the circumstances of his birth as anything other than facts, even though his illegitimacy shaped his life more than anything else. “I have nothing to do with my parentage. I am not proud of it, but neither will I be shamed by it. Without that sin, as you call it, I would not be here.”
Her eyes took on the gleam of amethyst. “Sin is not changeable.”
“No, but it is inevitable.”
Her eyes widened with shock, and he laughed.
“Be calm. I am not suggesting we throw aside Church teachings for pagan revelry. I merely suggest no one is impeccable.”
“But I will not marry you. I will not consent. I will not—”
“I have found persuasion to be a more effective tactic than a direct assault.”
Her scowl wasn’t adorable, as most women’s were. Instead, she looked like her uncle in the moment before he exploded into curses. He stepped closer.
“If you do not wish to wed me, offer your uncle a better alternative.” He grinned at her. “I will warn you, though, that will be hard to do.”
“Are you as stupid as this Brinklow? You are a bastard. I am the daughter of a count—and your superior in every way.”
Now that was adorable. “Before you boast too loudly, you should know your gossip left out a crucial bit, sweets. I was christened Waleran Fitzroy. My father is King Henry.”