Chapter Four
“He was a gracious guest,” Constance told her daughter. “’Tis a fine man who would be so generous to a host. Our stairs are repaired, a new portcullis hung, and the man left food enough for weeks. ’Twas a marvelous bit of luck for us when you crossed his path at the falls of Erith.”
Though it was only mid-afternoon, the day had been long already.
Gray was positive she hadn’t slept a wink the night before.
After sitting with Braxton by the fire for hours, she had finally retired in the wee hours of the morn and only then because she was absolutely exhausted.
Had she not known any better, she would have suspected that Braxton did not want her to leave at all.
Every time she tried to leave, he’d start on another subject and they would become caught up in conversation.
They ended up draining two pitchers of wine before the evening was out.
But it was the most pleasant evening she could ever remember.
“He was very generous to us,” she agreed with her mother’s statement. “He seemed like a kind enough man.”
“Kind?” Constance snorted. “He was wildly benevolent. No doubt the man respected our station and showed appropriate homage.”
Gray didn’t reply immediately. She went back to the mending in her lap, an apron of Brooke’s that the girl had torn.
“He was simply being pleasant,” she said after a moment.
“In truth, I do not know if his men even slept with all of the building going on. They were in the forest before dawn selecting trees for the new portcullis, and those rotted stairs were fully rebuilt before mid-morn. They worked like fiends and still had a long march to Kendal when they were finished.”
Braxton’s army had been gone about an hour.
Gray allowed herself to go back to that moment when he bid her farewell, a strange gleam of warmth in his blue-green eyes as he thanked her profusely for her hospitality.
It was she, in fact, who should have thrown herself at his feet for what he had done for her and for Erith.
He had left the place in far better standing than when he had found it.
Frankly, it still puzzled her, no matter how much he had explained his reasoning to her.
“I do hope they visit us again,” Constance pulled her familiar tattered shawl about her shoulders. “Perhaps the next time they come, they will gift us with something more useful, like fabric or notions. Would that not be lovely?”
Gray looked up at her mother, a scowl on her face. “What he did for us is quite enough,” she said sternly. “I’ll not expect another thing from him.”
“Do not take that tone with me.”
“Someone needs to. Your selfishness is overwhelming.”
Constance’s thin face tightened. “One of us should be selfish since all you can manage to do is be supplicant and acquiescent of our situation. Someone has to look out for us because you do not have the courage to do so.”
Gray stood up. “I do the best I can to keep our family together, which is more than I can say for you. All you do is complain.”
“I complain about your lack of courage.”
Something very nasty teetered on Gray’s lips, but she refrained.
Fighting with her mother would not solve their problems. Fact was that Constance believed everything she was saying.
Gray would take her mending elsewhere, away from her mother’s attitude.
Any more time spent with the woman might see them come to blows.
Brooke passed her mother just as Gray was leaving the solar. The young girl paused, watching her mother mount the steps for the upper floors.
“What is wrong with Mother?” she asked.
Constance went over to her granddaughter. “Nothing, my love,” she put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her into the room. “So? Did you speak to him as I told you to?”
Distracted from her mother, Brooke nodded. “Aye.”
“And your mother did not see you speak to him?”
“Nay. I spoke to him before Mother came to say her farewells.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he would return as soon as he could.”
“And did you tell him that we very much appreciated his continued generosity?”
“I did. I told him we’d not had new garments in some time and we would appreciate any fabric or clothing he could see fit to gift us the next time he came.”
Constance kissed her granddaughter on the forehead.
“That is my good girl,” she murmured. “He must know that we are very interested in his continued presence here at Erith and if we plan correctly, we should have an offer for your hand very soon.” She suddenly paused, looking seriously at Brooke.
“You made it clear that you were the object of interest, didn’t you? ”
Brooke nodded. “I did.”
Constance’s features took on a shrewd cast. “The knight seems to be very interested in your mother, so we must be clear that you are the one we intend for him.”
A shadow of a doubt crossed Brooke’s fine features. “But… but if he is fond of mother, perhaps she should marry him.”
“Rubbish,” Constance snapped softly. “Your mother is not an eligible young maiden.”
“But if he likes her…”
“I will hear no more of that. ’Tis you we will match with him.”
Though Brooke tried to understand her grandmother, truth was, the woman could be very overbearing at times.
Rebelling against her mother was one thing; rebelling against her grandmother was another.
Brooke believed her grandmother had her best interests at heart.
She believed that Constance wanted her to be rich and happy and well taken care of.
It would have never crossed her young mind that it was anything other than pure devotional family love, not some sick, twisted vision of reclaiming something for herself.
“But he does not have a House, grandmother,” Brooke said after a moment. “And he is not from a fine family. Did you not say that I must marry someone from a fine family?”
“He is a de Nerra of Anjou, child. Their family is older than the crown of England. And when he marries you, he can make Erith his house and repair the fortress so that there is no finer castle in all of England.”
“But he is an old man.”
Constance laughed softly. “He is not terribly old. But young or old, he is very wealthy. Just look at all he has done for Erith in the short time he was here. You want a wealthy husband, do you not?”
Brooke agreed, simply because her grandmother had drilled that objective into her head for the past two years.
“But… grandmother,” Brooke said as she sauntered into the room, picking at the only chair. She seemed distracted. “What… what do you think mother would say to all of this? I know you said it was a secret, but she will know some time. She will find out. And then what?”
Constance’s smile faded. “She must accept it. Your duty is to marry well, Brooke. Your mother knows that. You are of marriageable age and the time to find a husband for you is now.”
Brooke faced her grandmother. “Do you think I shall have any more suitors other than Sir Braxton?”
Constance shrugged. “It is possible. I have sent word to a few. But if you do not, we must take advantage of our opportunities.”
“You mean the arrival of Sir Braxton?”
“Precisely.”
Brooke continued to stare out of the lancet window.
She was able to observe the newly hung portcullis on the inner wall.
Constance watched her granddaughter’s profile, a thousand calculating thoughts running through her mind.
She was positive that she knew what was best for the girl, fighting off the knowledge that Gray would undoubtedly become irate when she found out what her mother was doing.
It was a miracle she’d not found out yet, considering the planning that Constance had been doing.
But no matter. Gray obviously did not have her daughter’s best interests at heart.
“Do not worry, darling,” she went to her granddaughter, stroking the silky blond hair. “You shall have a wealthy husband, I promise. But the next time Sir Braxton comes to Erith, we must ensure our position with him. We must make sure that he does the honorable thing.”
Brooke looked at her. “What do you mean?”
Constance played with the girl’s hair. “There are… ways.”
“What ways?”
Constance leaned in close, her lips almost against the girl’s ear. “Listen and learn, darling. Your grandmother knows best.”
*
Creekmere Castle was a small fortress built in the shape of a triangle.
It was partially buried against a heavily forested hill and nicely arranged, as Braxton noticed as his army approached.
Baron Wenvoe carried around one hundred fifty men, not a sizable force.
In fact, Creekmere seemed like a miniature version of a normal sized castle.
Everything about it was small, including its lord.
Neil Wenvoe met Braxton in the bailey of his small, red-stoned fortress. He was short and round, with small eyes and a smelly aura. Braxton left Dallas settling the men and went inside the small keep to conduct business.
He was on edge as he followed the baron into the dark, fragrant structure.
He had been on edge ever since leaving Erith, feeling more apprehension with every step of his destrier.
It was unusual that he felt such apprehension; he had been a mercenary for twenty-one years and in that time, had learned to keep his apprehension at bay.
He knew his anxiety was not because of the job itself.
He did not fear battle. His trepidation lay in the unknown details that would soon be made clear to him.
Something told him to expect the worst, and for good reason; Cumbria was relatively sparsely populated.
How many troublesome neighbors could Wenvoe have?
With an unsettled debt with Garber Serroux, a neighbor less than a day’s ride to the south, there was good reason to be suspicious.