Candle in the Window Read online

  “Well done, William,” exclaimed Raymond and Saura sighed with silent relief.

  Pushing the cup across the wooden table slab, he said, “Take it, and avail yourself of cheese and bread. My father is out in the woods, teaching the lads to ride without hands. We’ll send for him. He’ll want to display his accomplished knights to the boys.”

  Nicholas took the ale. “To prove he’s dragged many a boy up to manhood?”

  “By their hair,” Raymond joked, and the three men laughed in unison.

  William poured another goblet for Charles. “He swore he’d never again take four lads to foster, all at the same time. You wore him out.”

  “We wore him out?” Charles hooted. “I used to sleep in my trencher after he finished with a day’s training. Arthur used to pretend illness when it rained, and Lord Peter would drag him out of his blanket by his toes. Raymond never complained, just followed orders and ate so much the dogs under the table were starving. And remember when Nicholas broke his arm and had to learn to wield a sword with his left hand?”

  “Lord Peter never slacked off.” Nicholas groaned. “He said every knight should use his sword with either hand.”

  “Aye, and he made us all practice with both arms.” Raymond remembered. “You’re lucky, Nicholas, we didn’t break your other arm.”

  “Now he’s got some other pages to torment?” Charles asked.

  “One is my son,” William admitted.

  “That’s interesting.” Nicholas tapped the table with his fingers. “Will Lord Peter work his own grandson harder, or will he be soft on him?”

  William grinned, baring all his teeth. “What do you think?”

  “The poor boy.” Raymond accepted a brimming cup. “The poor, poor boy.”

  The men guffawed, their sympathy mixed with humor, and William asked, “What do you hunt, Charles?”

  “Boar. But we’ve had the devil’s own luck. We brought you venison instead. Since you can’t hunt anymore, we thought your table could use the meat.”

  Raymond’s deep, precise voice corrected, “William’s huntsmen won’t appreciate such a compliment.”

  “We’re not starving,” William agreed, his tone deliberate and bland, and he felt the touch of Raymond’s hand on his in brief communication. Of all the men his father had fostered, only Raymond was his close friend, and why, he could not discern. Raymond was younger, and richer, more noble, and so clever it made William’s teeth hurt. Prey to dark moods, Raymond had depths William couldn’t understand, yet the two of them meshed in some inexplicable rapport. Grateful for his support, both spoken and unspoken, William filled another cup. “What news of our King Stephen and our Queen Matilda?”

  “Stephen’s on the march again, and Matilda’s still licking her wounds across the Channel. Stephen should have killed her while he had her in his hands,” Charles said with disgust.

  “He’s too much of a chevalier,” Raymond conceded. “Too much of a fool. And what good would Matilda’s death do? ’Tis her son who’s making the heads turn now.”

  “Are the rumors true? Is the boy back in England again?” William asked.

  “The boy,” Raymond emphasized the word drolly, “is at least twenty and ready to pluck the throne from Stephen’s unsteady grasp.”

  “Have you seen Duke Henry?” William asked, interested and intense.

  “Nay, not yet,” Raymond said, “but he landed in January, and I hear he fights like a man and thinks with the uncanny statesmanship of Matilda, but without her uncertain temper. Nor should we discount the advantage of his marriage to Eleanor last year. She’s the duchess of Poitou and Aquitaine and—”

  “The queen of France.” William grinned.

  “The queen no longer.” Charles chuckled with the glee of a born gossip. “They say she drove saintly Louis of France to distraction. She accompanied him on crusade, you know, and created a scandal. Last spring they divorced on grounds of consanguinity.”

  “Are they cousins?” William interrupted.

  “Something like that,” Charles agreed. “Half the royal marriages are tainted with consanguinity. It’s only important when a divorce is needed.”

  Raymond picked up the knife and with vigorous motions cut slabs of cheese for the men. “All of Eleanor’s crying of consanguinity with the king of France, and she and Henry share a blood line, also.”

  “Of course, her lands in Poitou and Aquitaine make her a vassal of the French king.” Charles tore chunks of bread from the loaf and passed them around.

  “Just so.” Raymond gave a peal of laughter. “She’s required to receive his sanction to marry anyone, and she flouted Louis. Henry, too, should have received permission. He’d just paid his vassal’s vow of fealty to his overlord for his lands in France. Henry had given him the kiss of peace, and still the wedding was accomplished before Louis heard a breath of it. Eleanor’s beautiful lands have gone to fund Louis’s greatest rival.”

  Nicholas crumbled bread between his fingers as he listened, but he could keep silent no longer. “That my vassals would flout my authority to wed and combine themselves against me would stick in my gullet, also.”

  “Personally, I believe ’twas their marriage not even two months after the divorce that distressed Louis,” Charles said. “No matter how holy Louis is, he could hardly wish to believe that the she-devil he couldn’t tame leapt gladly into another man’s bed. A younger man’s bed.”

  “It sounds as if the wedding were political, but the marriage bed was preference,” William observed. “When Eleanor was queen of France, she complained that she’d thought to marry a king and found she’d married a monk.”

  “The contrary woman bore Louis only daughters,” Charles reminded them.

  “Poor Louis couldn’t even win when he marched into Normandy to crush his former wife and her new husband. Henry charged in from the west and left Louis’s army in ruins.” Raymond spoke, but all the men were laughing now. It was a bright day for the English when the king of France was discomfited, and the men reveled in it.

  “What says Louis about this today?” William asked.

  Raymond answered with smug pleasure, “What can he say? Eleanor is going to have a babe this summer, and the stars predict a son.”

  “Then the young stallion will produce what the old saint could not.” William settled back with a grin. “So Henry has the funds to continue his battles until the tide turns his way?”

  “He has the funds to buy England, should he desire it,” Raymond said. “Eleanor’s eleven years older than Henry, of course, but she’s an attractive woman.”

  “Age has no bearing on a royal wedding so long as the woman is fecund,” William said. “Queen Matilda was fifteen years older than Henry’s father, and he’s preceded her in death.”

  “’Twas a wise marriage for Henry,” Nicholas concurred. “It gives him a great deal of power.”

  “Does Stephen hold him off?” William asked.

  Raymond said bitterly, “Stephen wavers in the breeze, as uncertain as ever.”

  “Stephen’s your cousin,” Charles pointed out.

  “So is Matilda,” Raymond agreed. “I’d support either one of our sovereigns, or their sons, if they’d just settle the country.”

  “There’s profit to be made with the chaos,” Charles said thoughtfully.

  “Profit! What kind of man destroys his honor to cull profit from his country’s disaster?” William asked, his scorn palpable as he filled another cup and pushed it toward Nicholas. “A man without honor crawls on his belly like the worms of the earth.”

  “’Tis a way to gain lands.”

  “By theft!”

  “Or chicanery,” Nicholas interjected smoothly.

  “Stephen has plunged the country into disaster with his vacillating.” William poured one last cup. “Were he backed against a wall, think you he would declare Henry his rightful heir?”

  “That’s the question, is it not?” Raymond laughed. “And what will Stephen’s son
s say about such a dismissal?”

  “A new generation of war.” Nicholas sighed. “To burn the earth and bring pestilence to the land.”

  Charles said, “We should have kept our oaths to—”

  “To whom?” William flashed. “My only oath of fealty is to the sovereign of England, and I know not who that is.”

  “Perhaps God has abandoned us,” Raymond said with sardonic dismay.

  A heavy silence fell as they contemplated the chaos, then Nicholas roused. “That’s why I like to fight.”

  “You, Nicholas?” William queried. “You like to fight?” Nicholas was a large man, quiet, jocular when it suited his purposes. He was not an accomplished knight, yet as an administrator none could surpass him. What others did with brawn and might, he did with his clever brain and ability to read others. If William felt a bit of contempt for Nicholas’s cowardice, he held it firmly in check. He’d seen Nicholas, as a newly dubbed knight, return to his older brother’s home to serve him. He’d seen the brother carried off by the bloody flux almost immediately, seen Nicholas take control of the estates with a steady hand that never faltered.

  “Come, William, I’m not so clumsy,” Nicholas protested.

  William took refuge in a sip of ale, and Nicholas’s voice smoothed and thinned. “Perhaps I am, but I like to watch. Fighting keeps my mind off these weighty matters over which I have no control. I’m hosting a tournament on Whitsunday, and William, I wish you could participate. No knight in England holds himself in full good honor unless he defeats you.”

  William’s voice filled with eagerness. “A mêlée?”

  “Aye,” Nicholas said. “Remember the time in Chichester your lance broke in the first charge and your horse was wounded? And you fought on foot and won ransom from five different knights?”

  “I just utilized the first rule of combat,” William said smoothly, and the others laughed as if they’d been told a marvelous joke. William grinned at their relish. “I equipped myself and my retinue handsomely that day.”

  “But the span of your shoulders measured so large no hauberk you won could fit you.” Charles chuckled, easily turned to reminisce.

  A voice called from the doorway. “Remember the time you took that barbarian of Kirkoswald prisoner?”

  “Arthur, trust you to avoid the talk of England’s welfare and appear only to reminisce.” William’s tone echoed a disdain for the light-minded man who’d never grown up.

  “You look well.” Arthur’s footsteps pattered across the floor, childlike and frisky, like a puppy greeting his master.

  “I thank you.”

  Over the top of William’s head, Arthur spoke to his hunting companions. “Is he still blind?”

  “He is,” William interrupted. “But he’s not deaf.”

  Impervious to William’s frustration, Arthur poured himself a goblet of ale. “The greatest knight in all of England, fallen from glory by a single blow. What a shame.”

  “A greater shame to dwell on it,” Charles suggested. “So shut your mouth, Arthur.”

  “I will, but I wonder if his liver’s turned white?”

  William slammed down his cup and rose to his feet, but Raymond grasped his arm and pulled him back down, saying, “Do you no harm to the little coward. ’Tis his liver that’s white, and his mouth blathers of matters better left to greater men. Apologize, Arthur.”

  “My liver’s not white!” Arthur said.

  “Apologize, Arthur.” It took only one demand from Nicholas’s cool, smooth voice, and Arthur mumbled an apology.

  The moment was fraught with unspoken tensions, the apology unacknowledged by the recipient, and Charles broke the silence with a false jolliness. “Do you remember how the barbarian shrieked when you demanded his horse?”

  Their voices droned on, recalling events of past glory, and Saura set her jaw and gestured. Bartley stood by her side immediately. “M’lady?”

  “Send for young Kimball and Clare at once. They will want to see these good knights, I am sure, and we need pages to serve the head table. Order the panter up here to trim the bread. Summon Lord Peter again. And hurry the meal arrangements.”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  She cocked an ear to the conversation, disliking its flavor. It contained the potential to destroy William’s progress. She dated the events at Burke Castle with two labels: prebath and postbath. Prebath William fought against blindness as if his refusal to accept his fate would alter his circumstances. But that day in the bath, William had truly returned. The creed governing his life motivated him once more and he vanquished despondency.

  Now Saura understood why his vassals and servants worshiped him. The chair in front of the fire rested bare, no longer the haven of an angry man. What needed to be done was done promptly and with no complaint, and what he required was the guidance to dominate his handicap. In a few short weeks he had learned everything she could teach him, absorbing knowledge as a freed prisoner absorbs sunlight. He ate with knife and spoon, he ordered the work in the stables, he disciplined the boys. Desiring freedom, he’d ordered that ropes be strung from the castle into the woods, providing him with a guide along the path he preferred to walk.

  It had been a time of triumph for Saura. Her pupil proved himself to be a nonpareil, and she had proved herself in a manner that bemused and flattered her. She was no longer an outsider, no longer a temporary chatelaine or a surrogate to be endured. The churls treated her well, for she had shown she had the ability to capture their lord’s attention with her feminity. That was a skill they respected, and it held a power they understood.

  Still, it was not the thought of her enhanced prestige that brought a smile to her face when she lay on her bed in the dark, but the memory of a man’s strong arms about her and his golden voice saying, “I don’t know who she is, but she is unforgettable.”

  “Your blindness, William, is such a tragedy.” Saura jerked back from her dream and clenched her fists, for Arthur’s voice throbbed with pity. “What do you do with yourself all day?”

  William laughed, a pleasant sound that fooled all but her trained ear. “I rise and dress with the help of my pages.”

  “Surely your squire lays out your clothes? But, no,” Charles recalled. “Sir Guilliame removed his son from your care.”

  “Young Guilliame complained most sorely, for we were fond of one another. He had been with me for six years. But I urged his withdrawal. I could not complete the boy’s training to knighthood without the eyes to direct his progress.” Now William’s pain echoed for all to hear, but he fought his voice to an even tenor. “I break my fast with a sop in wine and go out to the stables.”

  “Do you not trip and fall?” Raymond queried, real interest in his tone.

  William laughed again, long and heartily, and stuck his leg out from beneath the table. “Beneath these hose, chevaliers, are shins bright with black-and-blue bruises, tokens of encounters with unforgiving wood and stone.” He shrugged. “My years as a squire handed me worse punishment for less reward.”

  “What reward?” Charles shoved his cup toward William. “More ale.”

  “I’m free to wander in the bailey. As long as I count my steps and follow my landmarks, I’m never lost.” William found the cup with his groping fingers and poured it full. He shoved it back to Charles and refilled his own. “I walk with cane in hand, practicing until the drag of the tip on the ground resembles my own touch. With the help of our cleric, I deal with the estate accounts. And I render judgment in estate court.”

  “You’ve found useful occupation then, William,” Raymond approved.

  “But not pleasant, eh?” Charles joked. “I remember how you hated the dull days of listening to the lies of one villein pitted against another, and deciding the truth.”

  “’Tis a fitting duty for me,” he answered.

  “And my thanks, son, for relieving me of it,” Lord Peter said. His spurs clanged on the stone floor as he strode in with the dog and two youths dancing at his heel
s.

  “You ride, too, Father,” Kimball shouted.

  “Indeed I do,” William said warmly, wrapping his arm around the boys who nestled against him. “With the help of these pages and Lady Saura.”

  “You ride your destrier?” Raymond asked, surprised.

  “Nay, I’m not fool enough to try to ride that fighting steed. They’ve found me a colossal farm horse, big enough to carry me and young enough to retain its spirit.”

  “And they understand each other,” Kimball bragged. “Father and the horse think as one, and we hardly needed to touch the leading rein connected to his bridle.”

  “A leading rein? Like a woman?” Arthur murmured. “How you must complain about that!”

  “Not at all: ’tis necessary,” William answered curtly.

  Lord Peter stepped forward. “Welcome to our home. My Lord Raymond.” Cheeks brushed lightly as they embraced. “Nicholas. Charles. Arthur. I do believe you four have grown!”

  Kimball shouted with laughter. “That’s what he says to me when he hasn’t seen me in a while.”

  The men guffawed and agreed. “So he always has, to all the lads he’s fostered.”

  “A man’s got a choice. If he isn’t growing, he is shrinking. I hope you always grow in my eyes, Kimball.”

  Calling softly for a stool, Saura relaxed in her corner. Lord Peter would direct the conversation, and surely he wasn’t such a fool as to speak endlessly of the clash of arms that William longed for.

  Bartley approached and announced, “Supper’s ready, m’lady, will ye not come t’ dine?”

  “Nay, Bartley.” She smiled at the anxious churl, and petted the head of Bula, who had discovered her in his first circuit of the room and now leaned against her shoulder. “These gentle knights would unintentionally inform Lord William of my blindness. Let me direct the dispensing of the meal from my corner.”

  “I’ll bring ye a saumon coffyn,” Bartley said firmly, “an’ a goblet of wine. The wine’ll warm ye an’ that fish pie’s tasty today.”

  “Come, chevaliers,” Lord Peter called. “My farrier tells me the mares in the stable bred clean and true this season. Let’s go and see the colts.”