Amice, a thin, wan woman dressed in an unbecoming shade of grey, relaxed somewhat once she saw that these royal intruders were on their good behavior and she even ventured to offer a timid invitation. “If you would care to stay the night, my liege, we would be so honored.. ”
Henry stifled a smile, for she’d used the word “honored” in virtually every sentence since their arrival. “That is most generous, Lady Fitz Hugh, but we do not wish to disrupt your household any more than necessary. If you can put the lad here up for a day or two, that is more than enough. We’ll be on our way as soon as the storm lets up.”
Amice demurred politely, her relief obvious. Turning her attention then to the ailing squire, she showed unexpected skill in soothing the boy’s fears. He became noticeably less agitated under her ministrations and even perked up enough to ask the identity of a girl just entering the hall. Amice glanced over her shoulder, then gave a shrug. “My younger sister,” she said dismissively.
She was alone, though, in her indifference to her sister’s entrance. Every male eye in the hall was upon the newcomer as soon as she shed her mantle, revealing a crown of curly blond tresses only partially covered by a crookedly pinned veil, and a surprisingly voluptuous body for one barely five feet. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin flawless and fair, and when she smiled, the squire momentarily forgot the pain of his broken arm. Hugh de Gernons, the young Earl of Chester, trampled on several toes in his haste to reach her side. But his gallantry was wasted, for her response was polite but preoccupied; from the moment she’d hurried into the hall, the only man she seemed to see was Henry.
Henry had noticed her, too; he always had an eye for a pretty girl. This particular pretty girl seemed vaguely familiar, though. Where had he seen her before? Ranulf was wondering the same thing. The memory was somehow connected with his son Gilbert, but it was as evasive as the wolf they’d been chasing all day. Henry’s memory proved more reliable. “Woodstock,” he said suddenly. “Clifford’s little lass
… of course!”
Ranulf now remembered, too. “The girl you rescued out in the gardens. I knew I’d seen her somewhere. Well… she has grown up for certes, has she not?”
“That she has,” Henry agreed and moved to meet her. “Mistress Rosamund, this is indeed a welcome surprise. How is it that you happen to be at Avreton?”
“You remember me!” Her smile was blinding. “Amice is my sister-”
“Rosamund?” Amice was staring at the girl in disbelief. “You know the king?”
“Mistress Rosamund and I met at Woodstock two summers ago,” Henry said smoothly, “and it is a pleasure to be able to renew our acquaintance.”
“You are staying?” Rosamund entreated. “At least for supper?”
Amice started to shake her head, but Henry forestalled her. “Yes, we’re staying. Thank you, Lady Fitz Hugh, for your generous offer of hospitality.” He was speaking to Amice, but smiling at Rosamund Clifford.
Rosamund offered to nurse Giles, the injured squire, until a doctor arrived from Ludlow, and stirred up massive envy in the younger men each time she gently bathed his face with a wet cloth or rubbed salve into his gashed forehead. Amice excused herself to change into her best gown, but Rosamund didn’t bother. Utterly unself-conscious in her faded everyday blue homespun, she seemed to have a remarkable lack of vanity for a young woman of such striking appearance. Neither flustered nor flattered by all the male attention she was receiving, she conscientiously tended to Giles until supper was served, but she so rarely took her eyes off Henry that even the most smitten of her swains, the Earl of Chester, could not help but notice. Some of the men began to joke amongst themselves that the king was about to make a conquest ere he even set foot in Wales, but the bawdy humor was curiously muted. If Rosamund’s bedaz zlement with Henry was innocently obvious, so too was she obviously innocent, and even men who normally took a predatory attitude toward women found themselves feeling unexpectedly protective of this one.
Supper that evening was a surprisingly festive affair for men who were soon to ride off to war. Jokes flew along the length of the table, and the hunt for the grey ghost was spun out for Rosamund’s benefit-greatly embellished, of course. The last course of roasted capon had just been served when Osbern Fitz Hugh arrived, accompanied by the doctor and his father-in-law, the Marcher lord Walter Clifford, who had joined the king at Ludlow several days ago. Amice Fitz Hugh had so far been sparing with wine and ale, for her husband was notorious for his frugality, not an admired trait in a man of rank. But the brash, overbearing Clifford would have none of that and immediately sent servants to raid the buttery. Wine was soon flowing freely and the only men in the hall not enjoying themselves were Fitz Hugh, who had to watch helplessly as his wine kegs were drained one by one, and Ranulf, whose thoughts kept stubbornly dwelling upon the coming bloodshed.
A harp and a lute were produced, and the members of the hunting party took tipsy turns dancing with Amice, her two ladies, and Rosamund. When Henry’s brother Hamelin tripped and nearly lurched into the fire while trying to show Rosamund a new version of the carol, Henry declared that one broken arm per hunt was more than enough and put a stop to the drunken dancing. Walter Clifford then announced that his youngest daughter would sing for the king. Rosamund’s reluctance was painful to the more sober amongst them, but her father was not a man to be gainsaid, certainly not by the females of his household, and she was soon obediently perched on a stool, clutching a harp. While she’d shown herself to be a graceful dancer, she’d not been blessed with a strong singing voice. Her song was hesitantly delivered, barely audible at times, and occasionally off-key. Nonetheless, she reaped a round of enthusiastic applause when she was done and only Henry’s merciful intervention saved her from the cries for more.
Sitting in a window seat, an untouched cup of wine in his hand, Ranulf watched the revelries and wondered how many of these men would be dead in a month’s time. The cockiness of the English notwithstanding, he was convinced that this war would be a protracted, bloody one. And whoever won, he would be the loser.
“There you are, Ranulf.” Henry sprawled beside him in the window seat, showing no ill effects from a day in the saddle, and not for the first time Ranulf marveled at his nephew’s almost inexhaustible store of energy. Laughing, Henry gestured with his wine cup toward Rosamund. “I could become fond of that lass. She looks as if she’s made of moonlight and gossamer, but she’s not all sugar. There is salt there, too. When I complimented her on her singing, she blurted out that I must be stone-deaf!”
Ranulf gave him a sideways glance. “So,” he said, “when is Eleanor’s babe due?”
Henry grimaced and then grinned. “Subtle, Uncle, very subtle indeed. I need no such reminders, for Eleanor is the last woman in Christendom a man could ever forget. But all wives should be as wise as she is. She knows full well that a man with an itch is going to scratch it, as she once bluntly put it.”
“I was not worrying about Eleanor. I was thinking of the girl. She is an innocent, Harry, and each time you smile at her, she glows like a flower that has been starved for the sun.”
“You’ve been living in Wales too long, Ranulf. Damn me if you’re not getting downright poetic-starved for the sun?”
Ranulf shrugged. “I’ve had my say. I just never thought you were one for hunting a nesting quail. Where’s the sport in that?”