My Lady Reluctant. Laurie Grant

“The men…well, I have difficulty accepting that because my lord father ordered them to escort me to London, they lie dead now.”

      This was an uncommon noblewoman, to spare a thought for common soldiers. “Dying violently is the risk any man-at-arms runs, but doubtless their loyalty will outweigh their sins, Lady Gisele.”

      “God send you are right.”

      Perhaps it was best not to allow her to dwell on such things right now. After a moment he said, “You go to court to wed, my lady?”

      He felt her stiffen against his back. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that her eyes had the light of defiance dancing in them.

      “’Twas my father’s wish, my lord.”

      He was quick to catch the implication. “But not yours?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder again.

      He saw her shrug. “I shall have a place at the empress’s court,” she said. “That will be enough for me. What need have I for some lord to carry me off to his castle to bear a child every year till I am no longer able?”

      An image flashed before his mind’s eye of this woman nursing a babe—his babe. Sternly he banished the picture before he grew too fond of it. There was no place in his life for such feelings, and the lady had just indicated there was none in the life she wanted, either. But he could not stop himself from probing further, though in a carefully neutral tone of voice, “You do not wish to fulfill the role that nature and the church has deemed fit for a woman?”

      “There must be more for a woman than the marriage bed or the convent, no matter what the church tells us,” she said with a passionate insistence. “There must be.”

      “Lady, has a man hurt you in some manner?” he asked in a low tone that would not carry to Maislin’s ears. Had he been wrong about her? Had some man robbed her of her innocence?

      Her answer came a little too quickly. “Hurt me? Nay, my lord! Just because the lord the empress selected for me chose to marry some other lady, you should not think that I am not heart-whole.”

      She was lying, he’d wager his salvation on that. There was a wealth of wounded pride in her voice. But something about her last few words sounded familiar….

      “Nay, my lord,” she went on in a breezy voice, “’Tis merely that I see no need to w—”

      Suddenly he realized who she was. “Ah, you’re the one Matilda offered to Baron Alain of Hawkswell, aren’t you?”

      “And how did you know such a thing?” she asked, her voice chilly.

      He felt her remove her arms from about his waist and draw a little away from him. Instantly his body felt deprived. He wanted to demand that she put her arms back around him—he didn’t want her to fall, of course!

      “Fear not, proud lady—’tis not a thing bandied about court—the only reason I know is that Alain is a good friend.”

      “How nice for you to have such a friend,” she said, as if every courteous word cut her like a dagger.

      “Nay, do not bristle at me,” he said, patting her hands that were still clasped around his abdomen with his free one. “Alain would not have suited you at all—a widower with two children? Claire is much more his sort, for all that her family are adherents of Stephen’s. You’ll see what I mean if you ever meet them.”

      “Mayhap,” she said noncommittally, but he could tell she was lying again. She’d move heaven and earth to avoid encountering the man who had rejected her, sight unseen. What a proud, fierce maid she was!

      “I think you have the right idea, Lady Gisele—enjoy your life at court just as any bachelor knight enjoys his freedom,” he told her. “You’ll enjoy the empress’s favor and all her lords will covet you.”

      “I told you,” she began, impatience tingeing her voice, “I care not about the opinion of men—”

      “Of course, of course,” he said. “Hold to that course, my lady, for we are knaves one and all.” But Brys could guess how Lady Gisele’s coolness would affect the men in the empress’s orbit—they’d be panting all the more after Gisele de l’Aigle, like brachets after a swift doe. He felt acid burn in his stomach at the thought. And Brys could only wonder how long Matilda would allow such a beauty to indulge her whims before she used her as a pawn in making an alliance.

      Chapter Three

      At last they came to a Benedictine priory just beyond the edge of the Weald. Gisele, exhausted by the day’s events and longing to have some time to grieve in private, told Brys before he even assisted her to dismount that she was too tired to dine in the guest house and would seek her bed early instead.

      “Very well, then, my lady,” he said. “Doubtless you’ll feel better on the morrow. I will send the infirmarer to you with a salve for your cuts and a draft to help you sleep. Your ankle will have swollen since this afternoon, and the pain is apt to keep you wakeful.”

      “You seem very familiar with what this house has to offer, my lord,” she said. Now that they were beyond the forest gloom, she saw that his eyes were not black, but a deep, rich brown, like the color of her palfrey’s coat.

      “I have sought remedy for injury here before,” he said, without elaborating.

      She could tell that Brother Porter was scandalized by the way de Balleroy handed her down to his squire, then took Gisele back into his arms and bid the monk to lead the way to the ladies’ guest quarters. But the disapproving Benedictine did not remonstrate with him, just directed another pair of monks to stable the horses, before gesturing for de Balleroy to follow him.

      Gisele awoke and hobbled her way to the shuttered window, throwing it open to see if it was yet light. She was alarmed to see that the sun was already high in the sky. The infirmarian’s potion had been powerful indeed! She hadn’t even heard the chapel bells call the brothers to prayer during the night. Her ankle still throbbed, though less than it had last even.

      Then a sudden thought struck her. Dear God, what if Brys de Balleroy had grown tired of waiting and had ridden on to London without her? What of his promise to have Fleurette and the men-at-arms buried?

      Hopping awkwardly over to the row of hooks by the door where she had left her muddied, torn gown hanging, she found the garment miraculously clean and dry again. Propped up against the wall beneath the gown was a crutch with a cloth-padded armrest. She silently blessed whichever Benedictines had done her these kindnesses, and with the crutch to help her, ventured out into the cloister and across the garth until she came to the gate.

      “Where is my lord de Balleroy? Has he left?” she asked Brother Porter.

      “Aye,” replied the monk. “He and the big fellow, his squire, left at Prime—along with a wagon and a pair of our brothers. He said he promised you he would bury your dead. Some other brothers are already digging the graves in our cemetery.”

      “Oh.” So de Balleroy was as good as his word, Gisele thought, warmed by the idea that he had been up and about and fulfilling his promise while she had still been deep in slumber.

      The party returned at midday. Gisele, waiting just inside the gate, saw a grim-faced de Balleroy riding behind the mule-drawn cart with its ghastly load.

      “Make ready to leave, Lady Gisele,” he said as he dismounted.

      “But may we not remain until they are buried? Fleurette—” she began, her voice breaking as she saw the monks begin to unload the sheet-wrapped, stiffened forms. She could not even tell which one was her beloved nurse.

      “Is at peace already, my lady, and if we stay for the burial we will have to spend another night here. We will have to pass one more night on the road as ’tis, and I think it best to get you to the empress as soon as I can. Do not fear, the Benedictines will see all done properly.”

      She