Chapter Two
Aye, she’d heard tale of the man. Everyone in Norfolk and Suffolk knew of him, and beyond that even. He was famous throughout England.
But she never imagined it would come to this.
It had all happened so fast. But now the time was upon her and there wasn’t a thing she could do in protest. Any argument, sage or otherwise, had died long ago and she had approached this day with all of the excitement as one does when anticipating a bloodletting.
A bloodletting, in fact, would have been preferable. She was about to face the man they called the High Warrior, a man soon to be her husband, and the anxiety boiling in her gut was enough to set her to burping in a most unladylike manner.
Unfortunately, she had a nervous stomach that she often couldn’t control and, God help her, surrounded by people she did not know made her painfully self-conscious about it.
The House of de Winter had sent a carriage to her home, along with a pair of big knights and about twenty men-at-arms. Faced with an armed escort cheerlessly determined to be of service, she’d bid her weeping mother and joyful father a farewell and settled in for the trip to Narborough Castle, seat of the great House of de Winter.
It had been a long and uncomfortable journey.
The carriage had rolled and bumped along the way, and she had tried to be discreet as she belched her anxiety away when she thought no one was looking or listening.
But when the carriage rolled through a series of sharp ruts about an hour after leaving her home, she burped loud enough to be heard.
Though her escort didn’t react, she knew they had heard her.
Sweet Jesus, let the earth open up and swallow up my appalling, ill-mannered soul, she prayed silently. These men are going to think I’ve been raised by wolves!
Embarrassment did not quite encompass what she felt but, unfortunately for her, the earth remained closed and she had no reprieve from her embarrassment. The more the miles rolled on, the worse her nervous stomach became until nearly every other breath had some sort of gastric emission to it.
But it was truly a pity that she was focused on her churning stomach and not on the lush Suffolk countryside.
Lady Eiselle de Gael had spent her entire life near Thetford, the only daughter of a bastard grandson of a long-dead Earl of East Anglia who made his living importing fine fabrics from France to sell at his business in Bury St. Edmunds.
Her mother, being a worrisome woman of ill health, did not like her daughter to stray too far from home, so consequently, Eiselle had spent a good deal of her life sequestered at home or in her father’s shop.
The only exception to that rule had been the twelve months she had spent at Framlingham Castle.
Being related to the Earls of East Anglia, there was some privilege for her because the earl, Talus du Reims, had been kind to her family.
When it came time for Eiselle to foster, he had sent her to the powerful Bigod family to learn something of the world.
While the Bigod family had been kind to her, the other wards had been living nightmares.
A year was all Eiselle could stand of their nasty behavior before begging to return home.
But it hadn’t been a happy return. Her father had been devastated that not one of Bigod’s knights had pledged for his daughter’s hand.
He’d very much hoped for a husband when she’d gone away, but it was not to be.
Enraged, he’d put her back to work in his shop, hoping beyond hope that some wealthy man would see her and take her off his hands.
But that’s not where her one and only marriage offer had come from.
Eiselle burped into her kerchief as her thoughts moved from her father’s shop to the man that all of England knew as the mightiest knight in the de Winter arsenal.
She remembered hearing about him whilst at Framlingham but, truthfully, she didn’t remember the details.
The other wards would whisper and titter about him, and any number of other eligible knights, but Eiselle wasn’t usually included in those conversations.
What she knew about the man, she’d overheard.
And now he was to be her husband.
Otho de Gael had been thrilled when the missive had come from Dashiell du Reims, their distant cousin and the son of Talus.
According to the message, the House of de Winter was looking for a strong alliance to the Earls of East Anglia, and it had been suggested that Eiselle would be an appropriate match for Bric MacRohan, de Winter’s most decorated knight.
Eiselle remembered with disgust as her father had run around their home shouting Victory! Victory!
Finally, the daughter had found a husband.
Eiselle had felt quite cast aside by her father who was so eager to be rid of her.
But regrets and reflections had no place in her life now, as her future was set.
After a very long day of uncomfortable travel, the future was in sight as they finally neared their destination because a glance from the small windows of the carriage showed a massive curtain wall in the distance.
Eiselle watched with some fascination and fear as the castle loomed closer, its pale gray walls stark against the brilliant green of the summer landscape.
To Eiselle, those walls seemed to be hiding something more than protecting those within.
She sensed something somber and mysterious from those old walls, which did nothing to ease her nervousness.
She drank in the sight, imagining what her life would become from this day forward.
Praying it would be something she could bear.
Eventually, the road evened out and became smoother, and Eiselle began to feel some relief from her nausea. But her relief was short-lived when the thunder of hooves suddenly invaded the air.
“Get the carriage moving,” someone roared.
It was a fast and furious command. The cab lurched and Eiselle yelped as she was thrown against the back of the seat. Her knightly escort, so silent for hours on end, suddenly came to life and she could hear their cool, calm chatter.
“Are we under threat, Bric?” a voice asked.
A massive destrier was snorting and kicking up rocks against the side of the carriage as the knight astride it spoke.
“We’re not sure, but we may have seen a Nottingham party to the west,” the man replied in a very deep, very heavy Irish brogue. “The rebels usually stay well-clear of this area, but it is possible they are scouting to see just how heavily-fortified we are. I am surprised you did not run into them.”
One of the men, the one who had stayed so close to the carriage throughout the ride, flipped up his visor to reveal a young and weary face. “We have had a clear journey since leaving the lady’s home of Hadleigh House,” he said. “We’ve seen no threat.”
The enormous man astride the silver charger waved a big arm at the team, startling the horses into a jerky gallop. “Get them moving! Into the castle!”
Eiselle yelped again as she ended up on the floor of the cab, bounced around like a child’s ball in the midst of a frenzied game.
She finally got a grip on the seat and pulled herself back onto the bench, holding on for dear life.
But her grip on the seat wasn’t enough as the carriage charged dangerously over the road and in through the great gatehouse of Narborough.
She ended up on her arse, bounced around mercilessly.
A rapid stop came almost as abruptly as the blinding acceleration.
Eiselle bumped against the wall of the cab as it lurched to a halt.
Ill, and somewhat terrified, she barely had time to collect herself when the carriage door flew open and an enormous figure stood in its place.
Jolted by the shock of the door nearly being ripped off its hinges, Eiselle gazed into the open doorway with a mixture of anxiety and outrage.
A man with silver eyes stood there, looking steadily upon her.
Dressed in full armor, including a helm that covered most of his face, he looked ready for battle.
Sprawled on her bottom in a most unladylike position, Eiselle realized that there was no way to save a very crude introduction.
Blowing a stray lock of hair from her eyes, she thought, perhaps, a witty word might salvage the situation.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, all that came out was a belch better suited to a drunken barmaid.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiipppppppp…
It was a shockingly wet sound. The man with the silver eyes stared at her, his surprise evident. But he did nothing more than lift an eyebrow.
“Greetings to you as well, my lady,” he said in his thick Irish accent. “Welcome to Narborough Castle. Are you Lady Eiselle?”
“I am.”
“I am Bric MacRohan.”
If I had a dagger, I would use it on myself, Eiselle thought, feeling her cheeks flush bright red as she realized who the man was. MacRohan in the flesh! Grasping at the last shreds of composure, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to find her footing.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said as primly as she could manage. “It has been a rough trip and I… I am afraid that I’ve not handled it well.”
Bric did nothing more than hold a hand out to her. Gathering her skirts, Eiselle put her small hand into his massive one. It was warm and strong. With surprising gentleness, he assisted her from the cab.
The ground was still rolling a bit as Eiselle tried to regain her equilibrium.
Bric moved to the back of the cab, snapping orders to the soldiers that were unloading her baggage from the rear.
More baggage was on a small wagon that had followed from her home and Bric moved towards the wagon to make sure that it, too, was cleared.