Page 3 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

A ngus looked into the dark interior of the carriage at the pale, slender figure tucked all the way into the corner, and the strangest feeling came over him.

As a child he had thrilled to dive into the lake on a hot summer’s day, relishing that moment when the waters closed over his head and dulled all sights and sounds of the world above. That was what he felt when he ducked his shoulders to behold the mysterious woman from Escafeld. A dimming down of the bright afternoon and the clamour of the courtyard. A sharpened focus on the beating of his heart and the shallow breathing of the person facing him.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he made out an anxious, heart-shaped face framed with silvery blonde hair tied neatly back into a long plait. Her frame was thin, too thin. Narrow shoulders. Long legs. Angular joints jutting through the worn woollen fabric of her grey gown. He’d expected some wise old woman of the hills, but she was younger than he by some years. Her wide green eyes gazed up at him like a wild animal caught in a trap.

Gradually he tuned back in to the world around him. They were in the outer courtyard at Wolvesley and several of his men had gathered around, all craning for a first look of the woman he had summoned here. It was late afternoon and the shadows were beginning to lengthen.

“Morwenna, is it?” he asked gruffly, stumbling back to his senses.

She nodded once.

“And is it true? Can you talk to horses?”

She shrank back further into the recesses of the carriage, as if wishing the cushions could swallow her up. “I have a knack for communicating with them, that is all.” Her voice was faint and whispering. He had to lean closer to make out the words.

His disappointment was sharp, for the stable boy from Escafeld had been outspoken in praise of her talents. But mayhap the girl was being modest.

“Welcome to Wolvesley,” he said now, trying to recover his composure.

He shouldn’t even be here; standing in the courtyard as a welcoming committee to a young peasant girl. All of a sudden, he was acutely aware of his misstep. Lucan would never have stooped so low. But ever since his conversation with Otto, and subsequent decision to engage in one final round of Emelia’s games, Angus had been consumed with a desire to see the thing over and done with.

His own stablemaster declined to go near the horse. Two trainers had been brought from York, highly recommended, but they also failed to make progress. This was his final chance; a gamble to be sure. He wanted to look upon this promised horse-trainer with his own eyes. To ensure she knew the importance of her quest. As soon as his Seneschal came with news of the approaching carriage, Angus had rushed to the outer courtyard like a man possessed. When by rights, he should have stayed where he was and had the girl come to him.

Slowly, the girl emerged from the darkness, like some nervous woodland creature creeping across a bright meadow. She faltered on the steps and he shot out an arm to steady her, noting again the impossible narrowness of her waist. “Forgive my lack of introduction. I am the Earl of Wolvesley,” he added, shaking off the unfamiliar twinge of self-awareness.

She looked down at his large hand on her elbow and shrank back against the wall of the carriage. Then her sea-green eyes glanced up at his face and what she saw there must have offered some manner of reassurance, for her breathing steadied and her face lost some of its grey pallor. She opened her mouth and closed it again without making a sound.

“You are fatigued from your journey?” he suggested, as the men behind him began to shuffle impatiently.

She nodded, wordlessly.

Immediately he waved his hand to the gaggle of men behind them. “Have refreshments brought to the stablemaster’s rooms,” he ordered. “And see the lady is made comfortable there.” He gave her the smallest of bows. “I will speak with you shortly.”

He walked smartly from the cobbled stable yard back towards the castle, then stopped abruptly, turned on his heel and took a small path leading up to the fenced off paddocks on the hill. A gust of wind ruffled his hair and lifted his cloak from his shoulders. It had been another warm day, but now there were faint spots of rain in the air, heralding the approach of dusk.

Autumn was coming, he could sense it in the sharpness of the evening breeze. The birds had begun to sing a different song, mocking him by chirpily marking the passage of time since Lucan’s death.

Three months had gone by. Three months in which Wolvesley was without an heir. If anything should happen to him, the lands of his forefathers would pass to distant relatives in Powys. Relatives who, since Angus’s boyhood, had morphed into enemies through their relentless pursuit of land and wealth.

A headache threatened to take root in his temples as he surveyed his soldiers releasing their horses in the paddocks after a long day of training. At least the army was in good hands now. Otto had agreed with his choice of loyal knight, Sir Henry de Gaunt, to take command of the Wolvesley men-at-arms. Henry had seen more than forty summers, but his youthful energy belied his advancing age. He had ridden out with Angus’s father in service of King Edward in battle at the Scottish borders. Then later, swearing his allegiance to Lucan.

Yes, Otto had confirmed after overseeing the knights at training, Sir Henry would make a great leader. Angus now breathed easier, knowing he could give his full attention to his role as judiciary. Wolvesley was in most part, a peaceful land. But he knew how quickly unrest could spread.

He had seen firsthand where a frenzy of fear might lead.

When he was but a boy, an old woman from the lower town stood accused of killing a neighbour’s infant son. The stricken family, distraught with grief and desperate for someone to blame, claimed the old woman had been spotted slipping a poultice of herbs beneath the boy’s blankets.

To heal his fever , she claimed.

To end his life , they countered.

Before anyone could intervene, the villagers had taken matters into their own hands, accused the woman of witchcraft and burned her at the stake.

The incident had left a deep impression on young Angus. As did the horrific stench of burning human flesh which hung around the town for days afterwards. His mother’s closest friend had fled from Wolvesley in fear that either she or her daughter might be next.

Shaking away the memories, he walked further along the path which led to an isolated paddock circled by a strong wooden palisade more than six feet high. Behind this fence, a tall chestnut horse snorted and pranced, distrusting of all.

This was the unrideable horse sent by Emelia.

He was a beautiful, wild creature, with a flowing mane and a coat of gleaming copper. His legs were finely-boned but strong. A horse capable of carrying the most muscle-bound knight into battle.

If he were made to submit.

Angus ensured that Jacob kept him fed and watered, but none of the stable boys dared approach him. All except one, the young boy who had spoken up about the trainer from Escafeld. Angus had learned the boy’s name was Gerrault. He was but a youngster, with arms and legs too long for his skinny frame, but he was a hard worker. Just yesterday, Angus had recommended him to Henry. The knight would need a personal groom now he held a more responsible position in the Wolvesley army.

Gerrault had a fascination with the chestnut horse and most often volunteered to fill up his water troughs. He was duly respectful of its height and power, but showed no concern about its future.

“Morwenna will work her magic,” he’d assured Angus, when questioned.

Angus had checked they were alone in the paddocks and contemplated telling the boy to take more care with his claims, but he reasoned it was just a turn of phrase. Gerrault was overly excited to be of service to his new master. Besides, Angus was so quick to quell any rumblings of witchcraft, they had all but dried up in Wolvesley.

A burst of evening sunlight haloed the chestnut horse in a blaze of mellow gold. Angus couldn’t help admiring the creature. If tamed, it would make an impressive steed.

Still, it was an audacious act for Emelia to send him to Wolvesley. Even if she had done so whilst ignorant of precisely how Lucan met his end, their previously good-natured competition had soured for Angus. So much so that he was minded to wash his hands of the whole affair and simply find himself another bride.

But even as the idea took hold, part of him baulked at the fuss and bother that would involve. Balls, introductions, negotiations. He was weary before the search had even begun. Nay, it would be far easier to see this final challenge through to the end.

Unless of course, a potential bride happened to present herself at Wolvesley before Emelia named a date for their wedding.

If that were the case, Angus fancied he might consider his options.

He smiled to himself at the thought, even whilst knowing that such an occasion was unlikely to pass. If he was a gambling man, he would put his money on the horse being tamed first.

But he chewed on his lower lip as he pondered on Morwenna’s surprising youth and apparent frailty. Notwithstanding the undeniable fact that she was a woman !

A woman whose head did not even reach his shoulders.

Come here to do a job no man in his employ dared to take on. A job that two trained professionals had failed at.

Was she really equal to it?

Angus believed himself to be a fair-minded man. His youthful competitions with Emelia had proved to him that girls could do many things well, including shooting arrows from a bow and racing horses across the moors. But this task was of a different order entirely.

He must talk to her and discover her credentials.

Buoyed with resolution, he turned from the paddocks and walked quickly to the stable yard, which had emptied out after the earlier excitement. The carriage had been put away, along with the pair of horses, and many of the young grooms had retired for the evening. The brisk evening wind whipped up straw and grit from the cobbles, making Angus’s eyes water. Blinking rapidly, he walked through the grand arch into the main stable block, passed through an empty stall and ascended a rickety wooden ladder which led to the stablemaster’s room. He ducked under a low beam and pushed open the door.

Morwenna was inside, bent low over a wooden table on which stood a pitcher of ale and a simple bowl of broth. Upon seeing him, she immediately pushed back her stool and stood up. The room was small, furnished only with the table and two stools. A grimy window looked onto the stable yard but the rough, white-washed walls held no further ornamentation. The scent of hay mingled with horse manure drifted up through the floorboards.

“Forgive me,” said Angus, noticing her eyes widen with alarm. “I did not mean to surprise you.”

She lowered her head awkwardly, but said nothing. After a pregnant pause, Angus indicated her bowl of stew. “You can finish your meal.”

She stood frozen to the spot until Angus kicked a stool closer towards him and perched down upon it, realising a moment too late that the diminutive furniture had not been made with his large frame in mind. Bending his long legs at the knee and folding his large hands upon them, he again nodded towards her abandoned meal. “My mother always told me it was a sin to waste food,” he commented mildly.

Morwenna’s eyes opened even wider. “My grandmother said the same,” she whispered, the words rasping from her throat as if she hadn’t made conversation for some time.

“Well then,” he said. And at last, she perched back down onto the stool and picked up her wooden spoon. Now their eyes were on a more similar level, allowing Angus to take in the finer details of her pale face. Her cheekbones were high, her eyelashes thick and blonde. As Angus watched, her lips closed around a spoonful of broth and, as if sensing his attention, her emerald-green gaze flew to his in fresh alarm. His pulse sped up as their eyes met over the scratched wooden table and a faint flush stained her cheeks.

What lunacy was this?

His mind had wandered off on an adventure all its own, bringing Angus to an uncomfortable place of stirring attraction for a young woman here at his bequest and under his protection.

God’s bones, what was happening to him?

He cleared his throat, trying hard to stem the tide of inappropriate thoughts. “Morwenna, isn’t it?” he tried again.

She nodded promptly, her wide-set eyes fixed on the bowl. “Yes, my lord.”

She spoke well, he noticed.

“I owe you an explanation,” he began, one hand reaching up to loosen his cloak. It was damned hot up here. “I have brought you to Wolvesley for an important reason.” His next words died on his tongue as the spoon clattered down onto the table and Morwenna pressed her trembling fingers to lips which had turned almost white. “What is it?” he demanded, rising to his feet and all but banging his head on the overhanging low beam.

She tightened her lips and shook her head, unable or unwilling to articulate her fears. “What is the reason?” she whispered.

Bewildered, he sat back down. What manner of reputation must he hold in Escafeld for her to be so afraid of him?

“A boy named Gerrault has told me that you can speak to horses,” he began.

But Morwenna spoke up with a high, quailing voice, preventing him from going any further. “It isn’t true, my lord. I promise.” She clutched her hands together and dipped her head.

“Alas, then I owe you an apology.” Impatience flared within him. What a waste of time this had been.

She lowered her hands, her eyes fixed on his as if trying to read his mind. Seconds passed before she spoke.

“An apology?” she repeated, biting down on her lower lip. “How so?”

“For bringing you here, far from all that you know.” Angus pushed himself up from the stool and stood with his palms flat upon the table. He was unaccountably disappointed. “I had hoped you might make progress with a wild horse recently come to my yard.”

She glanced up at him, as if testing the truth of his words. “Is that why I was brought here?”

He frowned. “Was that not explained to you?”

She slowly shook her head, her expression unreadable.

Angus could feel the heat of the small room wrapping around him, and wished he had divested himself of his cloak before coming up here. He reached out for the pitcher of ale, poured himself a small cup and raised it to his lips. It was sour and tasted old. He screwed up his face and put it to one side, before forcing himself back down onto the diminutive stool.

“A friend of mine has sent me a horse,” he stated, wanting to stretch out his long legs but conscious of the lack of space. “A horse which, it is claimed, no one can ride.” Now he had her interest. “I’ve been set a challenge,” he added. “And it is very important that I succeed.”

She picked up her discarded spoon and placed it neatly inside the bowl. “You have been challenged to ride the untameable horse?”

“That’s exactly it.”

“And you wish for me to help you with this?” Her voice wobbled slightly.

This was the moment of truth. He looked her straight in the eye. “Can you?”

She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I have never met a horse I could not tame.”

His shoulders relaxed. It was exactly as the boy had foretold. “Then perchance I have work to offer you.”

For a moment, nothing happened, but then Morwenna’s lips tugged upwards into the smallest of smiles. The smile transformed her face, bringing light and purpose to her sea-green eyes.

“You are offering me work, here in Wolvesley Castle?”

The edge of fear had gone from her voice. Indeed, it had all but gone from her person. She looked back at him steadily, calm intelligence shining from her face.

It was suddenly imperative to him that she stayed. Mayhap she would be the one to make a difference.

Angus spoke up again. “Of course, I will pay you for your troubles.”

She regarded him steadily. “In coin?”

“In coin,” he confirmed.

She clamped her lips together and focused her gaze on the grimy window. “How much coin?” she asked.

This was more like it. Angus knew where he was with people keen to divest him of coin. “I shall pay upon seeing results,” he stated firmly. “But have no fear, I will pay you generously.” He paused. “This may take some time. The horse is… complicated. I’ll have the stablemaster find you suitable accommodation. You will be safe,” he emphasised. “And fed. You will take your meals with the other servants.”

She nodded quickly, her pale hands fluttering to the table as she mulled over his words. “I should be pleased to assist you.”

He fished in his pockets and brought out a gleaming mark. “Here, take this.”

“But I have not yet started,” she protested.

He shrugged his shoulders, once again feeling the oppressive heat of the room. “You have travelled far from home,” he said softly. “And your word is good enough for me.” He leaned forwards and took hold of her hand ready to press the coin inside it, but as his fingers closed around her palm, a searing heat travelled up his arm straight to his chest. It was a frisson, like the flicker of a flame from a tinder box.

He dropped the coin into her hand and pushed himself up from the table, nodding abruptly to take his leave. He was desperate to get out of the room, to breathe freely outside.

Morwenna from Escafeld may or may not be able to talk to horses, but one thing was for certain; the effect she had on him was profoundly unsettling.