CHAPTER TWO
“Drink this, Papa.” Belladonna held the pewter cup for her father as he slurped. “That’s right, drink all of it. It will help you sleep.”
Edward pulled the cup away, licking his lips. He was seated on a lavishly carved chair in the middle of his equally lavish bower, as his servants dressed him after his bath and his daughters fussed over him.
As always, Belladonna took the lead with her father. When he was home, she supervised his waking hours, giving orders to the small army of servants who tended him, including the two minders that Dashiell had assigned to him. Belladonna had a kind manner about her, but a firm one, and the servants respected her a great deal.
Even as Belladonna looked after her father, it was Lily who had taken over duties of chatelaine for the duke’s castle when her mother had died. She, too, was very skilled in her household duties. So between Belladonna seeing to the comfort of the duke and Lily seeing to the details of the castle, Ramsbury was run quite efficiently.
Acacia, the middle sister, also had her function in the house and hold, although she tended to be an elitist when it came to any work. It was an attitude that would not serve her well with her intention of joining the cloister. Belladonna had tried to tell her that, as had the priest from the cathedral in Marlborough, but Acacia wasn’t one to listen. She seemed to think that the nuns of Amesbury Abbey, her chosen destination, would simply let her do as she pleased given the fact that the Duke of Savernake was a patron and also because Acacia’s sizable dowry would be donated to the abbey upon her commitment.
All Acacia wanted to do was read her bible, or sew the lace she was so fond of, or walk in the garden. She really had no ambition more than that. Compared to Lily’s quiet beauty and Belladonna’s magnificence, Acacia was tall and slender, with bright red hair and a plain face, and Belladonna had always suspected that the woman simply felt unmarriageable and embarrassed against her two sisters. Men would always look at Lily and Belladonna, but never Acacia. Much like her namesake, a bitter and thorny tree, Acacia was, indeed, bitter and, at times, thorny.
Even now, as Belladonna coaxed her father into drinking a sleeping potion and Lily made sure the servants freshened his bed, Acacia made no move to help other than to sit in front of him with her bible in her hand, slowly reading the passages from the book of Esther.
Acacia had been educated, as her sisters had been, but she wasn’t a very good reader. Her slow, monotone voice filled the air as everyone else around her was moving with a purpose.
“… and all the king’s servants who were at the king’s gate bowed down and did obeisance to Haman; for the king had so commanded concerning him,” she read. “But Mordecai did not bow down or do obeisance. Then the king’s servants who were at the king’s gate said to Mordecai, ‘Why do you disobey the king’s command’?”
Before she could continue, Edward leaned forward and patted the beautifully drawn pages of her expensive bible. “Read to me of the modesty of women, my child,” he said. “Why is your head not covered?”
Acacia looked up from her reading. “It shall be, soon enough,” she said. “Remember, Papa? I am going to Amesbury next month. I will take my vows soon.”
He simply looked at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “I must speak to your husband,” he said firmly. “He should not permit you to display yourself so. It is against God’s wishes, my child.”
Acacia sighed heavily. “I have no husband, Papa. I am due to join the cloister next month.”
Edward simply wagged a finger at her in a disapproving manner and sat back in his chair, yawning because of the sleeping potion he’d been given. The man couldn’t even join the feasts in the great hall any longer because he completely disrupted them with his rages or his blessings, which physics had told the family were symptoms of his madness. It was far easier to feed him in his chamber and put him to sleep for the night, watched over by his minders.
As the duke was showing his disapproval to his middle daughter, Belladonna was making sure his tonic was measured out in case he awoke in the middle of the night. His sleep was sporadic, at best, and the physics had prescribed a poppy powder mixed in wine to create a tonic that would see him sleep soundly, at least for a while.
But even as Belladonna mixed, she was listening to her father and his clear disapproval of Acacia, who lacked self-confidence enough that she didn’t need her senile father kicking her down further. Acacia was patiently trying to remind their father that she was cloister-bound, but Edward didn’t seem to think a woman who was not modest was good cloister material. As Belladonna listened to them argue, Lily came up beside her.
“Are you finished with his sleeping draught?” she asked.
Belladonna nodded, stirring it well as she took a glance around the room. “All of these people must leave,” she said. “Why so many servants? They only agitate him, Lily.”
Lily was already nodding. “I know, but they brought his baggage up from the wagons,” she said. Then, she turned from her sister and clapped her hands sharply to get everyone’s attention. “Everyone must leave immediately. The duke must rest and he cannot do it with an audience. Go, now.”
Servants and soldiers alike began moving for the chamber door, a great arched doorway with an intricately carved corbel. The panel itself was made from cedar wood, brought all the way from Rome, and it was quite beautiful.
Drusus held the door open for the soldiers and servants to leave, clearing the chamber in short order as Lily and Belladonna followed behind them, making sure everyone was pushed out and their father had some peace. But just as the last person wandered out, Clayton wandered in.
Then, it was as if someone had dropped a curtain; the room instantly went dark and moody. Catching a glimpse of Clayton was all it took for the women to demur, turning away from a man who was genuinely hated and feared throughout Ramsbury. Belladonna saw the man as he entered, turning to Lily to see how her sister was reacting to the presence of her hated husband. To Lily’s credit, she maintained a stony expression, one she always maintained when looking at the man who had ruined her life.
Lily didn’t speak to him, however. She simply turned back to her duties, busying herself over by the bed as Belladonna remained next to their father, trying to coax the man into rising. But Clayton had other ideas. He went up to the old duke, still sitting in his chair, and braced both hands on the arms of the chair, preventing Edward from rising. Belladonna stiffened as Clayton smiled his gap-toothed smile.
“It was a great victory, my lord,” he said rather loudly. “Your presence, as always, inspired the men.”
Edward’s memory of Clayton had left him long ago. As he looked at the man, he truly didn’t know who he was. He simply lifted his hand to bless him.
“Go with God, my son,” he said.
Clayton stared at him a moment before chuckling, as one does when ridiculing the less fortunate. Then, he stood straight as Belladonna practically pushed him out of the way in order to help her father stand up from the chair. Clayton’s gaze was on his wife’s luscious younger sister.
“Take good care of the duke, Bella,” he said in an utterly insincere tone. “We must take very good care of the man. He is a great inspiration to the troops and we want him well rested for when we depart again.”
Belladonna didn’t rise to his sickly comment, but Lily did. “Oh?” she said. “You will be leaving again, soon?”
Clayton turned to her, his blue eyes glittering with what could be construed as contempt. He didn’t really hate the woman, but he had no use for her. She meant nothing to him. Reaching out, he pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do not sound so hopeful, my sweet,” he said. “You and I will have plenty of time to become reacquainted.”
That wasn’t what Lily wanted to hear and she had to make a conscious effort not to appear repulsed. “It was simply a question, Husband,” she said as she turned back to the bed where Belladonna was helping her father climb in. “Whether you go to war or remain at Ramsbury, it is all the same to me. I care not either way.”
Clayton cocked an eyebrow at her disrespectful comment, but he didn’t explode at her; he rarely did. Instead, he took a dig at her, which was his way. He liked to beat her down with sly insults.
“Nor I,” he said. “I do not want your love or your kindness, my pet. I’ve never asked for either. I already have the most valuable thing you have to offer, which is the marriage. That is all you are worth.”
With that, he turned away, but not before he passed a glance at Acacia, who had been listening to the exchange. When she saw that Clayton’s focus was on her, she quickly lowered her head and went back to her bible. She pretended to be focused on it as he quit the chamber. Much like her sisters, she didn’t like confrontation with the man any more than they did, so it was best to keep a low profile when he was around. At least, that’s what she did in public.
But what she did in private was another thing entirely.
The feast to welcome home the duke’s returning army was always a grand occasion and tonight was no exception.
Since they’d received word of the army’s impending arrival the day before, Lily had been able to make preparations for the meal. Fowl had been slaughtered and stewed, baked into pies, and fish from the pond in the kitchen yard had been caught and roasted over an open flame. An entire cow, which had been slaughtered weeks before and the sides aging in the cold vault, had been brought forth and prepared in a variety of ways but, mostly, it was simply roasted over the large spit in the kitchen yard, hand-turned by an old servant.
Therefore, the smells of roasting meat wafted upon the still evening air, strong enough to singe nose hairs. Dashiell had been smelling it for the past two hours and he had to admit that he was ready to eat. The first night back from a battle campaign, strangely enough, was always one of high energy and festivities. The men from the army would gather in the bailey and partake of the feast while, inside the cavernous hall, senior soldiers, knights, and the family would eat in shelter and warmth.
Men were happy on occasions such as this, happy to have survived another battle campaign, and eager to celebrate. As Dashiell walked from the knight’s quarters through the bailey, he was greeting with soldiers congratulating him on their victory against the king. Dash had an excellent relationship with his soldiers, which was why Clayton had been so ineffective in the power struggle.
As Dashiell walked through the muddy bailey, dotted with small fires as the men sat around the flames and ate and sang, he was stopped every few steps by his men. Some wanted simply to talk, while others gave him gifts and pieces of tribute, mostly stolen from dead enemy soldiers. Dash was given two lovely daggers, a coin purse, and a finely studded belt before one man gave him a magnificent broadsword that had come from Scarborough, taken from a Teutonic mercenary knight fighting for the king.
It was a truly expensive and beautiful piece, with a lion’s head hilt and rubies for the eyes. When Dashiell insisted the man keep it, the soldier relayed that it was a sword only a knight could use. When Dashiell finally made his way into the great hall of Ramsbury, he was loaded down with enough weapons to single-handedly take the castle.
“Dash!” a knight called to him, cup in hand and congenial, until he saw all of the weapons Dashiell was holding. Then, he came to a halt and pointed. “What’s this? Who did you rob?”
Dashiell fought off a grin. “It looks that way, does it not?” he said. “Every soldier in the bailey had some manner of gift for me. I am so weighted down that I will surely sink to the center of the earth at any moment.”
Sir Aston Summerlin laughed softly. A very big man with blond hair, dark eyes, and a brilliant smile, he had been under Dashiell’s command for four years. Aston and Bentley of Ashbourne constituted Dashiell’s senior knight command. There were three other lesser knights, very young men who mostly kept to themselves but were eager to obey, but Aston and Bentley were close to Dashiell, and he relied on them heavily.
“Let us find you and your weapons a drink, man,” Aston said, slapping Dashiell on the shoulder as they made their way into the warm, stale hall. “Of everyone in this chamber, you are the one who truly deserves the chance to relax. It has been a hard few months, with you assuming the burdens for all of us.”
By this time, he’d led Dashiell over to the long, scrubbed table at the base of the dais where the duke and his family sat. This was the knight’s table, and only invited soldiers were allowed to sit there. Dashiell saw that the table was already half-full with senior soldiers, men Dashiell had fought with since his very first day at Ramsbury, and he approved of the guest list. But he scowled when he drew near.
“God’s Bones,” he muttered. “Someone left the door to the nunnery open and now all we have are women at the table. Aston, you surely should have beaten off this group of wretched females.”
The table exploded in laughter as Dashiell began setting all of his newly-acquired weapons on the tabletop. The men saw all of the lovely weaponry and began to paw through it as a servant handed Dashiell a cup of wine. He took a long, satisfying drink as he watched Aston pick up the magnificent broadsword and hold it aloft for all to admire.
“That came off of a Teutonic mercenary, so I am told,” he told Aston. “Stealing his weapon is the least I can do to the bastard who came to my country seeking to support a corrupt king.”
“He deserves it,” Aston said firmly, inspecting the blade. “This is a truly spectacular piece, Dash.”
“I know.”
“Do you intend to use it in battle?”
Dashiell lifted his cups to his lips again. “Mayhap,” he said. “It would be an honor for a man to be killed with a weapon like that.”
The men at the table heartily agreed. They continued to inspect the sword, and the other weapons, as Dashiell’s gaze moved around the room. There were three big tables in the two-storied hall with a minstrel’s gallery above, and an enormous hearth that burped black smoke into the chamber. The table on the dais was empty, but the other table was overflowing with tenured soldiers and men who had seniority in the ranks.
Harried servants were delivering trenchers to that table as men drank and laughed. One of them sat on the end of the table and strummed his citole, a stringed instrument, and sang off-key for those who would listen.
It was the same soldier who believed himself quite a musician and during the battle campaigned, had played his instrument nightly and begged men to pay him a pence for the privilege of hearing him. Men would pay him to go away, which was how he made his money. He wasn’t very talented, but he had courage. Dashiell couldn’t the fault the man for that.
As he drained his cup and held it up for a servant to refill, Bentley entered the hall. Dashiell watched his friend and comrade approach the table; Bentley had seen twenty years and six, a fine knight from a deeply religious and crusading family. With his brown hair and bright blue eyes, he was the object of many a maiden’s attention, but the only one who had his attention had long since married a bastard of a man.
Dashiell knew that Bentley had feelings for Lily, but it wasn’t something they discussed any longer. The year that Lily married Clayton, it was all they spoke of. But since the marriage, Bentley hadn’t said a word. He was crushed by it but pretended otherwise.
Yet, Dashiell could see it on the man’s face every time he laid his gaze on Lily. He thought it rather ironic, in truth – Bentley yearned after Lily while Dashiell yearned after Belladonna, and neither knight could ever have the object of his desire.
Sad irony, indeed.
“Bent,” Dashiell called to the man, waving him over. “Come and see my marvelous collection of weaponry.”
Bentley headed in Dashiell’s direction, his focus on the big sword that Aston was still holding. He stopped in his tracks, blinked, and pointed.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
Dashiell sipped from his cup. “One of the men gave it to me,” he said. “He took it from a dead Teutonic knight.”
Bentley looked at him in surprise. “I have seen that sword, and it was not in the grip of a Teutonic knight.”
“Where did you see it?”
“De Blondeville had it.”
Now it was Dashiell’s turn to be surprised. “And he was fighting for the king, was he not?”
“He was. And not very well.”
It was a gleeful thought on a hated enemy. Dashiell laughed into his cup.
“Now his sword is mine. The man lost the battle and his weapon. That’s a piss-poor excuse for a warrior, indeed.”
Bentley took a seat next to Dashiell as more wine was brought forth in heavy pewter pitchers with the stamp of Savernake on the side. Dishes were being delivered to the tables, a sure indication that the duke’s family was expected imminently.
As soldiers crowded into the great hall and more servants poured in from the side entrances with food, the duke’s family and retainers finally emerged from the main entry. Immediately, men began to cheer at the sight of their beloved duke’s daughters, making sure to respectfully acknowledge the women, the only heirs to a great dukedom.
And then, there was Clayton.
Clayton soaked up the adoration as if it was meant for him even though the men were clearly welcoming the women. Dashiell, Bentley, and Aston watched the procession towards the dais. When Aston glanced at Dashiell to see what his reaction was to Clayton assuming the cheers were for him, Dashiell simply rolled his eyes.
However, none of them said a word because Clayton was drawing close and they didn’t want him to overhear anything that might be spoken. They had contempt for the man, but they never voiced it in front of others. Clayton seemed fixed on Dashiell as he drew closer, finally speaking to the man when he drew abreast of him.
“Join us on the dais, du Reims,” he said. “Do not sit here with the rabble. There is a great deal we must discuss.”
Dashiell had no idea what Clayton meant, but he did as he was asked. When the women began to take their seats at the table, Dashiell took a seat at the very end, watching as Belladonna and Lily left the duke’s usual seat empty, instead, choosing to sit on either side of it.
The duke’s chair was always left empty these days in silent tribute to him. Clayton had taken the seat next to his wife and motioned Dashiell to sit across from them. Without hesitation, Dashiell obeyed.
Food was now being brought out in earnest. Now that the lord’s family had arrived, the feast could truly begin. Dashiell wasn’t particularly eager to hear what Clayton had to say to him, but he was glad for the fact that he was sitting at the dais and across from Belladonna. He’d take any opportunity to sit near her, even if it was at Clayton’s invitation. His wait to discover what Clayton wished to discuss with him wasn’t a long one.
“It was a great victory at Driffield, was it not?” Clayton said as a servant poured him a full cup of wine. “The glory of the Savernake army has surely spread across England by now.”
Dashiell didn’t particularly like ego where a military victory was concerned. He thought it was bad luck, and an affront to God, who was behind all military successes or failures in his opinion. A man was merely a vessel.
“There were several other armies involved,” he said. “It was not only Savernake.”
Clayton was served his trencher first, even before the women or guests, because that was what he demanded. A steaming trough was placed in front of him and he inhaled the smell of the roasted beef deeply before replying.
“But we planned the offense against the king’s army,” he said. “It was our men who held the line, du Reims. We were at the head of it.”
“And de Lohr and de Winter were there, too,” Dashiell pointed out. He really couldn’t believe he was having to speak of the obvious. “We have support from armies who, in years past, have always fought for the crown. De Lohr and de Winter are the largest of these. Their families have always supported the crown, from the time of the Conqueror, and through the anarchy, they supported Matilda. They have never wavered. But now… now, they have.”
Clayton wasn’t moved by the reverence in Dashiell’s voice. “If they supported the king, they would be fools,” he snorted. “They are simply siding with the rebels because all of England is rebelling against John. Had de Lohr and de Winter not supported the rebels, they would be fighting a losing battle. Everyone would hate them.”
Dashiell sighed sharply. “No one would hate them,” he said. “Men understand the strength of tradition and conviction.”
“Sometimes traditions are made to be broken.”
“Under the right circumstances, I would agree.”
Clayton studied Dashiell for a moment before delving into his food. He knew that Dashiell was formidable, both militarily and with his sheer intelligence, but he liked to play the game of seeing just how far he could push East Anglia’s heir.
The man who was the last line between him and the riches of Savernake.
“Speaking of circumstances,” he said as he chewed noisily. “I have heard that John’s army is moving north into Scotland.”
Dashiell eyed the man. “That is old news,” he said. “It is up to the northern barons to stop him. The king is moving to support the uprising in the north and he is moving to punish the Scottish king, who is supporting the rebels. The defeats we dealt him did not stop that drive, but it surely slowed it.”
Clayton wanted to show how much he knew. “But he is moving north with a weakened army and when he arrives, de Vesci of Northumberland will be waiting for him. See if he is not turned back.”
A servant placed a full trencher in front of Dashiell. “Do not underestimate John and his mercenary army,” he said. “Northumberland will have his hands full.”
“If that is true, then we should have beaten John’s army into the ground to ensure he did not have enough men to go north.”
Dashiell had to shake his head at Clayton’s uneducated views. “The battle we fought south of Scarborough was not all of John’s army,” he said. “They are scattered in the north, fighting the rebels. What we fought was only part of it. Once he aligns his entire army, he will have a formidable force.”
“Then why did we not go north? Why did we return home?”
Dashiell sighed heavily. “Because our army had been on campaign for months,” he said. “We must return home to fortify our army and restore our supplies. We have already fought John several times in the last few months – Winchester, Northampton, and Nottingham before we took the field against him south of Scarborough. If we marched any further north after months on campaign, our army would be wearier than John’s. It would be a recipe for disaster. Surely you understand this, Clayton.”
Clayton did, but he was a glory-seeker. He wanted to taste the sweetness of victory regardless of the cost to the men.
“I should have insisted we continue north,” he said. “If there is victory at-hand, then we should be part of it.”
Dashiell didn’t want to debate policy with a fool. Above all else, Dashiell’s commands when it came to the army were obeyed, something that had always greatly annoyed Clayton. He felt, as he was married to the heiress of Savernake, the control of the army should be his.
But the army wouldn’t follow him, and the duke knew Dashiell these days when he didn’t know Clayton. That meant Dashiell’s control was permanent. Therefore, Dashiell ignored Clayton’s assertion as he turned to his food, using his knife to spear moist chunks of beef. He pretended to be focused on his food when the truth was that it was shifting to Belladonna, seated across from him.
She hadn’t been served her food yet, but was simply sitting quietly while the men discussed their recent military campaign. When Dashiell glanced up at her, because he simply couldn’t help himself, she was looking at him. Their eyes met and she smiled. He smiled.
Clayton ruined the moment by speaking.
“Things will be different when I am in command,” he said. “There will be no hesitation. If there is a battle, we will fight it. Savernake is an old and powerful name, and it is right that Savernake should be at the head of any battle in England. I shall restore Savernake’s rightful glory.”
Dashiell was ignoring the man’s prattle for the most part until the last few words. With those, he took exception.
“There is nothing to restore,” he said. “The dukedom of Savernake is one of the oldest in England. It was born of glory and continues to be glorious.”
Clayton could see he’d offended Dashiell, something that brought him pleasure. “A glorious army led by a madman,” he rumbled. “We are a glorious army that is a laughing stock.”
Dashiell knew the man was trying to get a rise out of him, but he kept his cool. “Mayhap you are the laughing stock, Clayton, but no one is laughing at me or the rest of the men,” he said. “And mind your tongue when speaking of the duke. He is still your liege.”
Now, Dashiell had insulted Clayton and a balance had been struck, but Clayton was far less cool than Dashiell was. He didn’t like being insulted.
“I will speak of the man however I like,” he snapped. “You cannot tell me otherwise. I am his heir and when I am the duke, you will show all due respect, du Reims. Do you understand me?”
It was an effort for Dashiell not to roll his eyes. He’d heard that from Clayton, many times, and he always had the same answer.
“Until that time, you are a servant to Savernake, like the rest of us,” he said. “But let me be clear; if I find the duke wandering the battlefield again because his minders have been distracted or paid by you to look the other way, I will find you and I will kill you. Is this in any way unclear?”
The conversation at the table went from mildly contentious to deadly all in a matter of seconds. Over at the knight’s feasting table, Bentley and Aston had heard the threat and they rose to their feet, moving over to the dais in case Dashiell needed them.
It was a show of force against Clayton, something they’d had to do before, and something that usually pushed Clayton into a tantrum. He didn’t like it when men countered his wishes. But he also knew he was no match for Dashiell, much less Ashbourne and Summerlin. Therefore, it was a most difficult task for him to keep from raging.
But that didn’t keep him from being nasty.
“You’ll not threaten me like that when I am the duke, du Reims,” he said, avoiding the entire accusation. “Someday, this empire shall be mine and you will bow at my feet if I demand it. If I want the army to continue to do battle against the king, then it shall. All of this will be mine and you will show me all due respect. Is that in any way unclear?”
He wasn’t beyond repeatedly reminding Dashiell that someday soon, he would outrank him. It would be him in control of the vast Savernake estate. But Dashiell didn’t care about that; he didn’t care that Clayton would have everything once Edward died. But he did care that the men he’d worked with for many years would be under the command of an idiot. And he very much cared that Belladonna would become the man’s ward. That, more than anything, concerned him.
But he couldn’t let the man get to him.
“When you become duke, I shall return to East Anglia and assume my position as Viscount Winterton,” he said. “Then I shall become Earl of East Anglia at the passing of my father, which you know very well. Unlike you, I did not have to enter into a marriage to inherit my title. Mine comes from a very long line of noble men. Nobility is in my blood. The only thing in your blood is too much drink and an overabundance of foolishness.”
Behind him, the men who heard his insult began to snicker. No one liked Clayton, so it was always great entertainment to see du Reims beat him down. Dashiell heard the laughter but before Clayton could snap back, he continued.
“I will again say that the next time I discover you’ve turned the duke loose on the battlefield, I will bring you up on charges,” he said. “I will have you tried and found guilty of trying to murder the man, and you can spend the rest of your life in the vault without your dukedom. Tell me you understand this before we go any further.”
Clayton was starting to turn red in the face, being outsmarted and outwitted by a knight he could never get the upper hand with. But he knew one way to get to the man; he’d known it since his marriage to Lily, something only to be used when all else failed, mostly because it was a powerful weapon, indeed.
And it drew the strongest reaction.
“Your imagination is running wild, du Reims,” he said. “I would never put the duke in any danger. But if the man wishes to bless the dead and dying, who am I to prevent him from doing so?”
Dashiell knew he was lying, trying to take the blame off of him. Shaking his head at Clayton’s ridiculous answer, he simply turned back to his meal, silently indicating that Bentley and Aston should do the same. But what came out of Clayton’s mouth next was something that was designed to jar him.
“In fact, I have the greatest concern for the duke and his family,” Clayton went on, watching Dashiell’s face carefully. “I am concerned for my wife and her sisters. I am concerned with what will happen to them when the duke passes away. Lady Acacia and Lady Belladonna will be my wards, you know. Lady Acacia has already sworn her commitment to Amesbury, but Lady Belladonna is of prime marriageable age. It will be my duty to find her a powerful and wealthy husband.”
That was a jab, one that got to Dashiell more than the others. He knew the man was trying to get under his skin, but he didn’t look up at him, nor did he look at Belladonna, which would have been a dead giveaway. He focused on his food as Clayton continued to dig.
“I already have a man in mind for her, in fact,” Clayton said, knowing that Dashiell surely must be growing increasingly upset. “I would discuss this with the duke but, alas, he does not know a discussion between the weather or his daughter’s future. His mind retains nothing these days. Therefore, I will simply have to wait until Savernake is mine before I make the marital contract. Mayhap you know the man, du Reims – Sir Anthony Cromford. He is a wealthy lord with property north of Nottingham. A marriage to him would be a great alliance.”
With that, he dropped the hammer and waited for Dashiell to react. Clayton knew the man’s secret because, one night, Lily had let it slip – according to her, Dashiell was far gone in love with Belladonna and she with him. But looking at the two of them, one would never know it. They put on polite airs when around each other and that was the end of it. Still, Clayton very much enjoyed hitting Dashiell where it hurt.
That was Clayton’s secret weapon against Dashiell – his love for Belladonna. But the reaction he received to his barb wasn’t from Dashiell, it was from Belladonna herself.
Seated on the other side of her father’s empty chair, she’d been listening to the conversation between Dashiell and Clayton with growing concern. It seemed to her that the men were baiting each other, and she worried very much that Clayton would try to harm Dashiell somehow.
Clayton had no self-control when it came to his temper. But the moment she heard of his plans for her, shocking plans, she could no longer keep silent.
“I will not marry anyone of your choosing, Clayton,” she said, standing up and nearly knocking her chair over in the process. “It is Papa’s choice on who I shall wed, not yours. I am no concern of yours!”
Now, Clayton’s focus was on Belladonna, but so was Dashiell’s. And, everyone else at the table. It was Lily who tried to intercede on behalf of her younger, and sometimes very passionate, sister.
“Clayton only wants to ensure that you are taken care of, Bella,” she said before turning to her husband. “It is not necessary to speak of such things at the moment, is it? Surely we want a pleasant meal and not one wrought with shouting.”
Clayton was frowning at his wife’s younger sister, completely ignoring Lily’s attempt to ease the situation.
“You should be grateful for any man who would consider marrying you at your age,” he said. “You should have been married years ago.”
“Who I marry is none of your affair!” Belladonna fired at him.
Clayton slapped the table as he bolted to his feet, knocking over Lily’s wine. He jabbed his finger at Belladonna.
“Who you marry is my affair, lady,” he snarled. “You are a valuable commodity and I shall choose the man I feel best suited for you.”
Belladonna was near tears. “You mean the man best suited for you!”
Clayton was moving around his wife, heading for Belladonna in a threatening manner as she stood her ground. But suddenly, food was flying all around, and she instinctively winced as something sailed past her face – bread or a vegetable or… something. She didn’t know what it was. But she did know when Dashiell put his big body between her and Clayton.
It took Belladonna a moment to realize that Dashiell had leapt over the table to get to her, and that was why food was scattered everywhere. It was even on her gown. Belladonna felt hands grasping at her and she turned to see Bentley pulling her away from the table as Aston went to stand beside Dashiell.
The three knights had leapt to her defense and she could hear Dashiell’s deadly-calm voice.
“Lift your hand to Belladonna and you will lose the arm it is attached to,” he growled. “What, exactly, did you think to do to her, Clayton?”
Clayton was faced by men who, frankly, terrified him. He tried to hold his ground, but he wasn’t doing a very good job.
“I was not going to do anything to her,” he lied. “I was going to scold her. She cannot speak to me in that tone, du Reims. I will not permit it.”
Dashiell was finished humoring the man. He’d spent the past several months on campaign with him, listening to his ridiculous boasting, watching him undermine his command, and a host of other offenses.
Dashiell was done with him.
Men like Clayton le Cairon only understood one thing – strength overall. It wasn’t about respect. It was about intimidation and who could shout the loudest. Therefore, Dashiell thumped Clayton on the chest in a move meant to frighten him.
“Reclaim your seat,” he rumbled. “Sit down with your wife and I shall forget this conversation. You do not want me to hold a grudge, le Cairon. Sit down before I am forced to push you into that chair and tie you there.”
Looking into Dashiell’s eyes, Clayton was in a bind. He was about to be humiliated in front of an entire room full of his men. He couldn’t tell if Dashiell meant what he said, but he suspected that he did.
Dashiell du Reims never said anything he didn’t mean.
But he wasn’t going to acquiesce to the man. It wasn’t in him to obey like that. Snatching the nearest cup of wine, which happened to be Belladonna’s, Clayton took it for himself and walked away. It was the ultimate act of defiance, turning his back on a man he couldn’t bully.
But this wasn’t over; not in the least. Clayton had been entertaining the idea of pledging Belladonna for his own benefit and the only thing preventing that had been the very real barrier of Dashiell du Reims.
But he was hesitant no more; du Reims thought he could control the situation. Clayton was going to prove he would have the last laugh.
Ever.
Clayton sauntering away was the end to a tense situation. Frankly, Dashiell was glad Clayton had walked away. He’d come close to throttling the man. Feeling some relief that their first night home hadn’t deteriorated into a brawl, he turned around and indicated for Aston to regain his seat. Then, he made his way to Belladonna, in Bentley’s grip.
“Reclaim your seat, my lady,” he said quietly. “I am sure he will not bother you any more tonight.”
Belladonna looked up at Dashiell – that handsome face she knew so well, and those eyes, usually so hard, but now soft when he looked at her. His voice was soft, too. But she shook her head.
“I am not hungry,” she said, still upset. “I will go and sit with Papa.”
Dashiell discreetly jerked his head at Bentley, indicating for the man to leave them. As Bentley walked away, Dashiell held out his elbow to her.
“Will you permit me to escort you?”
A reluctant smile came to Belladonna’s lips as she took his elbow. Dashiell led her off the dais and over to the edge of the room, away from the crowds of men who had gone back to their noisy meal.
They moved in the shadows on the fringes of the room where the servants usually toiled, heading for the hall entry. Belladonna clutched Dashiell’s arm, allowing herself to draw strength from the man. She’d spent the past several months worrying over his safety and now here he was, firm and warm and real.
He’d stood up to Clayton and her heart had swelled with gratitude, with adoration. How easy it would be to pretend Dashiell belonged to her, for walking with him, arm in arm, was the most natural of things.
God, she wished it more than anything.
“I apologize if I upset you earlier, my lady,” Dashiell said, breaking into her train of thought. “I did not mean to offend you my first day back at Ramsbury.”
Belladonna looked at him curiously, having no idea what he meant until she remembered their earlier conversation when she’d asked him why he no longer addressed her by her name.
She hadn’t been angry, only embarrassed, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Her anger at him cooled rather quickly, as it always did. She couldn’t stay angry with him for long.
“Oh… that,” she said. “You did not offend me.”
“But you left rather quickly.”
“I left because I am not a child any longer and that is the way you treat me,” she said, trying not to sound like she was still miffed. But then, she turned wistful. “Sometimes… sometimes I wish it would go back to the way it used to be, Dash, when you would call me Bella and we would throw rocks at the soldiers on guard duty. Do you remember?”
They were nearing the entrance of the hall, passing into the dark night beyond. “I remember,” he said, going back to those days when she was so young and full of mischief. He recalled them with great fondness. “I remember you had good aim with those rocks.”
“Shall we do it again? I believe I have become an even better marksman since then.”
He grinned, glancing at her. “I have no doubt.”
“Can we wait for Clayton to emerge from the hall and then bombard him from the shadows?”
That brought laughter from Dashiell. “I would be inclined to agree with you, only…”
“Only what?”
“Only I must serve with the man. If I attack him with rocks, who is to say he would not attack me with a knife when I am not looking? Trust in battle is, mayhap, the only thing Clayton and I share.”
Belladonna sobered. It was dark and quiet, the winter night sky brilliant overhead. She slowed her pace, not wanting to enter the keep. She wanted to stretch out this moment with Dashiell for as long as she could.
“Was it terrible?” she asked quietly. “The battle campaign, I mean. We did not receive much word about what was transpiring. Can you tell me what happened?”
Dashiell could feel her slowing her pace and he slowed his as well. Not strangely, he wasn’t ready to take her into the keep yet. He hadn’t seen her in months and, like a starving man, he had to have his fill of her.
“There is not too much to tell, to be truthful,” he said. “It was relatively unspectacular as far as battle campaigns go. We went to prevent the king from raining havoc upon the barons in the north, and we met him four times in battle.”
“Why did you come home?”
“Because the army was exhausted,” he said. “The men need rest. We also came home because we have new recruits for the army. While we were gone, some of the soldiers we left behind scoured the countryside for men who were willing to fight for the duke. Tomorrow, I will have new soldiers to train.”
That wasn’t unusual. Being that Savernake was a strong military power, there were often new recruits to train. Belladonna came to a halt and looked up at him.
“I think I have seen your new recruits,” she said. “They have been camping outside of the walls, waiting for the army to return.”
“I would imagine that was them.”
“Are you exhausted, too?”
It was a gentle question, one that seemed to make him more weary simply to hear it. As if he wanted to collapse in her arms. God, what comfort that would give him.
“I could use some rest,” he admitted. “I am not getting any younger, and these drawn-out battle campaigns are tiring.”
She pondered that a moment. “But it is not over, is it?”
He shook his head. “Nay.”
“Will it be soon?”
“I do not know, my lady. But I have a feeling I will see battle again before it is.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for you to live in peace, with a normal life and a routine that was more pleasant?”
“Aye, it would.”
She smiled, timidly. “Then I have something that will help you enjoy a more pleasant life.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “A party,” she said. “Jillayne Chadlington is having a grand party in honor of her day of birth, and everyone who is anyone is invited. I think she invited half of London. Of course, my sisters and I were planning on going, but that was before the army returned. Now, we have escorts. Will you please escort me to the party so I will not look like a sad fool with no man on my arm?”
Dashiell was surprised by the invitation. But he was even more surprised because of the very fact that while he hated parties, he very nearly gave his consent immediately. Spending the evening as Belladonna’s escort was the best possible thing he could imagine. They would be together, almost as if they were meant to be together. He could fawn over her all he wanted and it would be expected.
But the more reasoning side closed in on him and he found himself resisting the urge to run from her very hopeful face. How could he agree to escort her, knowing it was all a lie, that he would be living something that could never be? He didn’t want to taste the pleasure only to have it ripped away from him. It would be so very cruel.
“Although I am honored by your request, my lady, mayhap you should ask one of the younger knights,” he said, hating that he was saying it but knowing he had to. “Bentley or Aston would be more than honored to escort you.”
Belladonna stared at him and he could see the light of hope doused in her eyes. She let go of his elbow.
“Why not?” she demanded. “Dash, you and I have been good friends for many years. There was a time when you hardly left my side. But the past year… you have gone out of your way to avoid me. You will not even call me by my name any longer. You treat me like a stranger and I want to know why. If I have offended you, will you not at least allow me to apologize?”
She was hitting too close to home for him and Dashiell had no idea what to do. He was without practice in the emotional games of men and women, but this wasn’t a game. It was very serious. He could see that if he didn’t ease this situation, then he could very well drive Belladonna to hate him. Perhaps, she would never speak with him again.
And that would kill him.
He cleared his throat softly.
“You have not done anything to offend me,” he said. “I have told you before and I shall tell you again; it is not proper for me to address you so informally and…”
She cut him off. “But there is no one around to hear you,” she pointed out. “It is only me, yet still you behave as if I am a stranger to you. Why, Dash? Do you truly dislike me so?”
God’s Blood… did he dislike her? That wasn’t the problem at all. He adored everything about her. From the top of her golden-red hair to the bottom of her little feet, she was a goddess. And she had the heart of a lion.
She was perfect.
“Nay,” he tried to reassure her. “I do not dislike you at all. You are my long-time friend who has grown into a beautiful, eligible woman. I cannot continue to treat you like a child. I have told you this.”
Belladonna folded her arms across her chest; she wasn’t having any of it. “So you treat me with polite distance,” she said. “What happened to the man I used to throw rocks with? What happened to the man who would sneak me out of the postern gate on my horse when my father forbade me to ride? What happened to the man who would cheer me up when I was sad? Dash, what happened to you?”
He was losing ground and struggling to stay on an even keel. With each passing moment, he was becoming increasingly inclined to tell her the truth.
What happened?
Lady – you happened!
“My lady, I want you to listen carefully to me and, hopefully, this will explain my position,” he said, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “You know as well as I do that anything other than formal behavior between you and me could be construed as… inappropriate. When you were younger, there was no issue, but you are not a child any longer. You are a woman grown. I would not damage your reputation so.”
Belladonna eyed him as if she didn’t believe him. “And that is why you will not escort me to Jillayne’s party?”
“That is exactly why. People would see us together and assume… they would assume that we were together.”
Her eyebrows flew up in outrage. “And that is a terrible thing?” she cried. “I see perfectly, du Reims. You would be ashamed to be seen with me. Now, I know!”
With that, she turned on her heel and stomped away, leaving Dashiell feeling as if he’d just been hit in the gut. All of the air left him as he watched her walk away, wishing with all of his heart he could tell her the truth.
It was killing him not to do so.
But he simply couldn’t open that door – nay, he wasn’t brave enough to do it and face her rejection. As he’d told Christopher, he was an old man. She deserved a fine, young husband. What would she think if he told her that he had feelings for her? He would probably come off sounding like a fool, and she would quickly come to understand that it was more than simple friendship he felt for her. And she would be embarrassed about it, embarrassed that a seasoned, old knight had fallen in love with her.
All she wanted was an escort.
All he wanted was to give her his heart.
With great sadness, Dashiell watched her disappear into the keep before heading back to the great hall and becoming ragingly drunk.
The next morning, he would pay the price.
But he didn’t care in the least.