Page 6 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

M orwenna leaned back against the hard stone wall, her pulse pounding with fear as the earl’s words echoed through her mind.

I’ll have no talk of witchcraft here. Not even a whisper of it. Such talk stirs up evil and brings it to our door.

Worse than the words themselves was the anger which had rippled through his voice. The very idea of witchcraft made the man twisted with rage.

She had to leave.

Alone and unobserved, Morwenna stumbled into the darkness of the barn and allowed her grief to surface. Her face crumpled and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, leaving a salty sting on her lips. Grandmother was right, fortune’s wheel never stopped turning. But the good fortune that had found her honest employment and regular coin, together with a roof over her head and a way to restore her reputation, had morphed into luck of the very worst kind.

She was living in the home of a judiciary.

Not a fair-minded and balanced lawmaker, as she had once hoped the Earl of Wolvesley may be, but one fired up with hatred of witches and superstition. Not a doubt remained in Morwenna’s mind that the earl would lock her up as soon as a whisper of suspicion about her reached his ears.

She should have left several days earlier, as soon as she realised his profession. The only things that kept her here were her growing bond with the chestnut horse; and the thought of her wages. The coin she so desperately needed to pay for repairs to her roof, would be hers in a matter of days.

Two days to be precise.

The grooms had rejoiced that this year’s joust would fall on the very day that Jacob was due to hand out their wages. Over mealtimes, which she now took with the young stablehands, there was much talk of a trip to the tavern to celebrate their hard work. Gerrault was convinced he would be celebrating a win for his new master, Sir Henry. Morwenna had listened to it all, daring to feel safe amongst so much banter and distraction.

Mayhap she had been deluded, but the fact remained, she needed the coin.

Two more days.

She bit down on her lower lip until she could taste blood, turning the idea over and over in her mind.

Was it safe?

Nay , but it wasn’t safe anywhere for a woman with no protector. She had learned this long ago.

She’d be as safe in the stable yard of Wolvesley Castle as anywhere else.

Morwenna pulled down her sleeve and used it to wipe her eyes, sniffing away her tears. She’d been working hard at blending in with the other grooms and stableboys; and had yet to see any of them sobbing.

Pull yourself together , she ordered silently, rubbing her arms to chase away the chill of the barn and then gripping her leather cuff.

As her emotions settled, she began to see her situation more clearly.

So the men thought the chestnut horse was cursed!

This was news to Morwenna. News she was quick to dismiss as ridiculous. The horse had been frightened half to death, but by men, not by witchcraft.

And Morwenna should know. She’d lived most of her life with a woman who recited incantations to repel ill fortune and openly conversed with spirits from the other realm. Her grandmother had the Sight, and in the eyes of the law, that made her a witch.

And in the judgemental gaze of Escafeld, Morwenna was a witch too.

But now, the grooms of Wolvesley were worried that some witch’s curse may be rubbing off onto her !

Despite her distress, Morwenna couldn’t help a smile.

In little more than a sennight she’d gone from being a suspected witch to a suspected victim.

That was progress of sorts .

“Morwenna, is that you in there?”

Startled, she placed a hand over her fluttering heart and turned back towards the daylight.

“It is.” She shielded her eyes against the slanting glare of the sun.

The man shifted his stance, folding his arms and gazing down at the floor. She would recognise that uncomfortable shuffle anywhere. It was Jacob, no doubt come to find her with a message to speak to his lordship. She must not give him reason to suspect she had overheard their private conversation.

He cleared his throat, still peering into the gloom of the barn. “You’ve been summoned to the earl,” he told her bluntly. “Best to make yourself presentable and go right away to the great hall.”

Still conscious of her flushed cheeks and red eyes, Morwenna hung back. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked quietly.

“Most likely he wants to ask you about the horse,” Jacob answered. “Quick as you can now.”

She waited until he had walked away before emerging back into the day. Glancing around the empty yard, she ran to the safety of her chamber, where she splashed water onto her cheeks and tidied her hair. Her pulse beat quickly at the thought of standing before the mighty earl, with his commanding presence, golden hair and piercing blue eyes.

With his hatred of witchcraft.

Two more days.

Then she could make her way back to Escafeld with enough coin to fix her roof and purchase supplies before the chill of winter set in.

Morwenna closed her mind to everything else. This was her goal. To go about her work until the day of the joust.

She straightened her tunic and used a rag to polish her boots, feeling her resolve strengthening as she went about the regular tasks. The joust would mayhap be a fine occasion to slip away unnoticed, as everyone else in Wolvesley would be caught up in the action.

Two more days.

The phrase became a mantra in her mind as she made her way up from the stables, passing beneath the high archway and entering the immaculate inner courtyard. She deliberately looked neither left nor right, knowing the display of grandeur would wither her resolve. But the musical splashing of the fountain was hard to ignore, as were the intricately carved stone lions guarding the sweeping steps to the keep.

Swallowing hard, she began to climb, conscious of the clump of her boots on the stonework and the focused activity all around her. Wolvesley Castle was busier than Escafeld on market day, especially in the run-up to the joust. Delivery men and liveried servants walked briskly by, while uniformed soldiers stood smartly at every corner. Her groom’s attire meant no one spared her a second glance. She was anonymous amongst the crowd, as she had always wished to be.

But once she stepped inside the vast arched doorway, her courage faltered. She had never seen wealth such as this. The floor beneath her feet was marble; the roof so high above her head she had to crane her neck to see it. And this was just the entrance hall.

Despite her new-found determination, anxiety tapped her on the shoulder. How could she hoodwink a man with so much power?

She would have turned back, but for a kindly, young serving girl who noticed her discomfort.

“Are you lost?” the girl asked. Even wearing her servant’s cap, she was a head shorter than Morwenna. But her cheeks were full and her smile was confident.

“I am trying to find the great hall.” Her voice only trembled a little.

“That’s easy.” The girl grinned. “Follow the passageway.” She pointed to Morwenna’s left. “You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

With another bright smile, the girl slipped away. Morwenna forced herself to join the milieu of people heading down the marbled passageway. At either side of her, intricate carvings graced high walls alternately patterned with bright frescoes.

She had heard talk of the wealth of the Earl of Wolvesley. But never had she expected anything like this.

The great hall took her breath away. It was a vast space featuring not one, but two enormous stone fireplaces. The floor, again, was marble, interspersed with smooth stone pillars reaching up to a vaulted ceiling. In one corner, a troop of musicians played a lilting melody and a small table of squires, already well into their cups, sang along to the tune. Her gaze followed long lines of trestle tables to the raised dais at the far end of the hall. Her pulse quickened, for there sat the earl; his height and bearing making him instantly recognisable.

As if she had stood back and shouted his name, the earl’s eyes lifted to hers. And even from that great distance, she felt the heat of his gaze. He wore his emerald green cloak over a plain dark tunic; and his hair shone gold in the light pouring in from a series of high, narrow windows set just behind the dais.

He was waiting for her.

But she could not force her feet to move forwards.

Morwenna realised that every time she had conversed with the earl, it had been in the relative safety of the stable yard or outside, where all men are equal under the trees and the sky. She had always known him to be a rich and powerful man, but this was the first time she had come face to face with the everyday reality of his wealth and status.

It dazzled her; daunted her. Robbed her of rational thought. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and run away.

Which would be as good as an admission of guilt. And she had nothing to feel guilty about, she reminded herself, bidding her legs not to tremble as she began the long walk towards the dais.

Members of the household seemed to melt away before her; mayhap because of the burning gaze of the earl, which never left her face. Her cheeks were hot from his scrutiny by the time she reached the low wooden steps. Here, she hesitated, one foot placed on the first step. Were the lower orders allowed onto the dais? She had no schooling in castle etiquette.

Before she could ponder this further, the earl took matters into his own hands by beckoning her forwards. She scrambled upwards and stood before him, hands clasped behind her back and head bowed low. All she could see was his emerald-green cloak pooled around the ornately carved legs of his throne-like chair.

“Morwenna.” His voice was deep and rich. She couldn’t resist looking up into his searing blue eyes, although she flinched backwards as their gazes clashed together.

She was standing before a judiciary with a deep-seated hatred of witchcraft. And she, a suspected witch. It was the stuff of nightmares, yet her heart rate did not quicken through fear. There was another emotion coursing through her veins, catching her breath and making her freshly aware of how her snug-fitting tunic clung to her body.

“You asked to see me, my lord.”

He nodded slowly, still gazing at her like a hunter assessing his prey. She noticed the sharpness of his cheekbones and the rasp of stubble on his cheek, before quickly looking away. Behind them, the clamour of the singing squires lessened as the musicians began to pack away their instruments.

“How goes your work with my horse?”

Relief flooded through her. “It goes well, thank you.” She paused, noting he still looked at her expectantly. “He is quite tame with me now. I look forward to the day I can get upon his back.”

It was a bold claim, but one she was confident of.

Or will be, if I am not intending to abandon my work.

Morwenna silenced her thoughts before her face gave anything away.

The earl nodded thoughtfully. “I am pleased to hear it.”

She wondered if she was now dismissed. “Is there anything else your lordship wishes to know?”

The earl stroked his beard, considering her closely. Morwenna had never been so well inspected. He put his head to one side as if making a decision. “Have you any worries about the horse?”

“Worries?”

She bit her lip, fearful of what he may say next. Worries that the horse has been cursed by a witch , mayhap.

But he merely nodded.

“Nay, my lord.”

“He has not acted strangely?”

“I would not say so. He is merely distrusting.” He had been beaten within an inch of his life, but Morwenna could not reveal that now.

“And you are happy, here in Wolvesley?”

The question was fast and unanticipated. Fixed as she was by his piercing gaze, she struggled with the lie. “I am happy enough,” she managed.

The earl did not react, nor did he shift his gaze and she felt herself becoming faint with fear. Had she appeared ungrateful?

“Wolvesley is a beautiful place,” she added with a stammer.

He replied soberly. “It is.”

He did not need a girl from Escafeld to point this out.

The earl pursed his lips. “So you are happy enough in this beautiful place. And my horse is responding to your training?”

Wary of making another mistake, she merely nodded.

“Excellent.” He waved his hand and she noticed the gleam of his square-shaped fingernails. “I had heard that the horse was somehow troubled. And that you yourself were unhappy. I am delighted to learn otherwise.”

It was as if his blue eyes could see straight into her soul. Morwenna bit down on her bottom lip, unable to make another sound.

“But I always prefer to see such things for myself.” The earl stood up so suddenly, Morwenna darted backwards and all but fell from the dais, saved in the nick of time by the earl’s quick reactions. He caught her about the waist, supporting her weight with his large, capable hands. “Forgive me,” he said, his face hovering inches over hers, his warm breath fanning her cheek. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Startled.

Was that the name for the emotion surging within her? Morwenna didn’t know how to describe it. All she knew was she must put some distance between them. She must step free of his arms. Because this unanticipated proximity was making her heart flutter and dance. His blue eyes had her hypnotised; as if all her worries– who she was and why she was here– faded into nothing. The rational part of her expected him to set her down; to feel nothing in return. But the earl made no move to do so, as if it was right and natural to hold her in his arms.

“Forgive me,” he said again, thick eyelashes batting in surprise. He gently but firmly helped her upright before backing away. For the first time, he seemed unsure of what to do next. They both stood on the dais and looked at one another. An earl and a peasant.

A lawmaker and a suspected witch.

Morwenna was the first to come to her senses. She cleared her throat and prayed that her voice would not wobble. “Thank you for saving me from a fall.” She nodded towards the edge of the dais.

In truth, such a fall was unlikely to do her much damage. Mayhap a twisted ankle, nothing more. But a twisted ankle would have thwarted her plans to leave Wolvesley in two days’ time.

She must remember her plan.

He smiled; himself again as he scanned the room. “Without further ado, will you demonstrate your progress with the horse?” He returned his gaze to hers and she felt a traitorous heat rise up to her cheeks.

It was as if he were asking her to meet him in secret; not step out to the paddocks and show him how his horse would now walk to her side without fear. A job he was paying her to do.

And he had every right to inspect her progress.

But still. “He is not a trained circus animal, my lord.”

He raised his eyebrows a little and she marvelled at her daring, but concern for Fauvel over-rode any concerns over social etiquette.

“Indeed. But you are training him, are you not?”

“I am.” She nodded for emphasis. “I ask only that you make allowances for any hesitation on his part.” She sent up thanks that her voice came out level and strong.

A smile flickered over his lips and Morwenna wondered how often the Earl of Wolvesley was challenged, even in such a tiny way as this.

“If I agree to your terms, may we go?”

Morwenna clutched her hands together. “I should be pleased to do so, my lord.”

Cloak billowing behind him, the earl led the way back through the great hall and out into the courtyard. They strode past the fountain and down through the cobbled stable yard, Morwenna having to jog to keep up. He was a tall man with a long stride and a natural propensity to hurry. She was much shorter and still shaken from all that had passed. But she was pleased he did not slow his pace, for a more leisurely stroll would have necessitated conversation. And she did not feel equal to conversation.

In no time at all they reached the circular paddock, where Morwenna had spent so much of her time in Wolvesley. The horse was cropping at the lush grass, but he picked up his head and watched their arrival, a note of wariness showing in his widened eyes.

Morwenna slowed down as soon as they crested the hill; gratified that the earl followed her lead. Her status could never rival that of the Earl of Wolvesley, but out here in the fresh air, approaching the wild horse she had successfully befriended, she felt her shoulders naturally straightening. She had faith in her skills and would not cower.

The horse recognised her, but was unsure of her companion. Morwenna kept her pace steady, her body language exuding calm. Without her asking him, the earl paused beside a nearby tree, allowing her to proceed undisturbed.

She had not anticipated such implicit understanding.

Morwenna allowed herself a small glow of gratification, before chasing down her emotions and presenting an unruffled exterior to the nervous animal.

She and the horse had grown to trust one another. The trust had been hard-won, and was all the deeper for it. Breathing deeply, she unlatched the gate and stepped inside the paddock. The earl’s gaze was like a beam of light shining on the back of her neck, but she ignored it and concentrated on the chestnut horse.

“Come, Fauvel,” she said, her voice clear and calm.

The horse lifted his head higher, assessing the risk. She saw the questions racing across his liquid brown eyes and the tension in his finely boned forelegs.

The horse was ready to run. If the earl moved or made a sound, this demonstration of her success would take an entirely different turn.

“Come, Fauvel,” she repeated. She had an apple in her pocket, but reaching for it would cause alarm.

Seconds ticked by, but just as Morwenna was resigning herself to defeat, Fauvel lowered his head and walked steadily towards her. He reached her side and sighed, as if releasing his worries, before nudging gently at her pockets.

“You’re a good boy,” she told him, carefully extracting the apple and holding it out on a flattened palm.

Fauvel crunched up the fruit, his attention fixed wholly upon her as if he had decided the earl posed no threat to his safety. Morwenna stroked his neck, running her hand over his withers and admiring the honey-coloured hue of his thick mane. His winter coat was just beginning to grow.

“A good boy and a beauty,” she added.

In that moment, she allowed herself a rare acknowledgement of happiness. The warm sun shone down like a caress; Fauvel was trusting and content; the earl himself had borne witness to her success. It was as if the perils of the world had receded. From the corner of her eye, she noted the earl stepping out from behind the tree and walking hesitantly towards them. So long as he made no hurried movements, she suspected Fauvel would allow it.

“You have him under your spell,” he declared.

His voice was low and quiet so as not to scare the horse, but his words pierced her hard-won composure.

Was this an accusation?

“Not a spell, just the build-up of trust,” she corrected, keeping her gaze fixed on the horse.

“I have only ever known the will of a horse to be broken by force.”

She risked a glance in his direction, but the earl was entirely focused on the horse.

“I do not work that way.”

He laughed quietly. “As I said, you have him under your spell.”

Her cheeks burned, but she kept her voice level. “There is no sorcery here, my lord.”

“Of course not.” He looked surprised at the denial. “I was not suggesting…” He trailed off. “But how have you bent such a powerful creature to your will?”

Now she had done it.

How should she answer that? The question was dangerously close to Gerrault’s innocent query back in Escafeld. A query which had propelled her along the road to ruin.

Morwenna’s hands trembled and the horse’s ears flicked backwards as he picked up on her distress.

Breathe , she told herself. Stay calm.

She had convinced Fauvel to trust her. She must do the same with his owner.

“My methods are not entirely conventional.”

The earl leaned over the high paddock gate, linking his long fingers together.

“Tell me more.”

She had piqued his interest. The last thing she should have done.

Morwenna’s mind churned. How could she give a satisfactory answer and dispel his curiosity at the same time? Not with the truth, certainly.

She had always been able to read animals. In the same way that some people could enter a room and sense the mood of anyone in it, Morwenna could hear a horse’s story through the way it stood and moved. Sometimes, if she kept her mind blank like a slate, pictures would appear upon it. Horses had always been able to communicate with her, and deep down inside she suspected this was a skill that most people probably could have had, with some practice. They’d just never learned to listen for it.

But she couldn’t explain all of that to the earl. Not if she expected to keep her freedom. Still, she would not be cowed into a bashful silence.

“I talk to him, my lord.”

She lifted her chin and met his gaze defiantly, even though a chill of apprehension chased down her spine at the disbelief showing in his face.

“You talk to him?”

She nodded, patting the horse’s neck and pretending to be unfazed by this line of questioning.

“But what is your method? Whose learning do you follow?”

She frowned. “I do not follow anyone’s learning. None but my own.”

He folded his arms, watching her closely as if she had begun speaking a foreign language. “Perchance I have not explained myself.” He cleared his throat. “Most often, those with a profession, or a trade.” He waved his hands towards her. “They follow a prescribed system of learning. Tested and refined by those that have gone before them.”

His words ignited a flicker of self-doubt, but Morwenna would not allow the flames to take hold.

Not when the doubt concerned her work.

“You explained yourself perfectly well, my lord. It is simply that in this particular area, I have confidence in my own abilities. They have never failed me yet.” She bravely met his eye as he nodded slowly, considering her words.

“You mean, you use your instincts?”

Exactly that.

She put a hand to Fauvel’s neck. “That is one way to explain it.”

“And you adapt your methods for each particular horse?” He looked genuinely interested in her answer.

“Of course.” His blue gaze was profoundly unsettling. “Each horse is an individual, with its own history, its own reasons for being troubled.”

“Remarkable.” He shook his head, a smile spreading across his lips. “Where most men use whips and force, you simply use your voice?”

“That is correct.” She folded her hands together to stop them from trembling and giving her away.

“And your method works, clearly.” He nodded towards the horse who was still standing calmly by her side.

Morwenna found a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was a long time since her abilities had been recognised and praised.

“He had been cruelly treated.” Her faint glow of pride receded as she recalled the awful visions Fauvel had shown her. Large men with horsewhips; a stone floor slippery with blood. Humans who used any means possible to dominate and subdue something stronger than themselves. “He needed to learn that not all people are bad.”

“You have done well.”

Four words which warmed her heart.

“How long before you put a saddle on him?”

“Tis difficult to put a time against these things,” she hedged.

“A rough guess, then?”

“Mayhap one more week,” she lied without hesitation, although her heart beat painfully at the realisation that this milestone would never come to pass if she left Wolvesley.

“Remarkable,” the earl repeated, sunlight glinting off his golden hair. “You have given this horse a second chance.”

But she would soon abandon him.

“Fauvel,” she interrupted desperately. “His name is Fauvel.”

“You have named him?” His eyebrows shot up his tanned forehead.

“It was forward of me, I’m sorry for it.” She lowered her gaze.

The earl regarded the horse. “It suits him. Fauvel may yet make me a fine charger, what do you think?” He placed the tip of a boot on the bottom rung of the gate and leaned closer, his body relaxed and easy.

Despair washed over her. Fauvel would make no one a fine charger when the only person he trusted disappeared from Wolvesley.

“He is a handsome animal,” she said tremulously.

“’Tis a pity he will not be ready before the joust,” he mused, switching his attention from the horse to Morwenna. “There is no chance of it?”

“None,” she answered firmly, glad to be finally speaking the truth even as she wilted under his blue gaze.

He thought for a moment, rubbing his blonde beard. “Before All Saints Day, will your work be completed?”

“Aye,” she nodded, giving the question little consideration. She would be gone by then. Fauvel would… She closed her mind to what would happen to Fauvel.

“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together, before banging them on the gate for emphasis. “Then I will win my challenge.”

She had forgotten about the challenge that brought her to Wolvesley.

“And what will you win?” she asked politely.

His face changed, like a shadow passing over the sun. All at once, the air between them became thick and charged.

“I will win security for my family. My mother has never needed it more.” He spoke so quietly she wondered if she had misheard. It was a big departure from the earl’s usual larger-than-life countenance. And an expression of weakness, from one of the most powerful men in the land. It left her puzzled and frowning.

The earl frowned too, as if she had reminded him of something he would much rather forget.

Security. It was all she wanted as well.

But she lived in a hut with a damaged roof, not an imposing fortress guarded by hundreds of trained soldiers.

A cold, leaking hut which she must soon return to; chased away from the comfort of Wolvesley through fear of rumour and gossip.

“I should not have thought you lacked security,” she said shortly, before common sense had a chance to intervene.

If he was displeased by her outburst, his face bore no sign of it. He sought out her gaze, his face showing a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

“Sometimes appearances can be deceptive.”

“That I know,” she said with feeling.

“I lost my brother recently. My older brother,” he emphasised. “It was unexpected.”

“Lord Lucan?” she said tentatively.

He nodded, his eyes still locked with hers. Morwenna felt her certainties deserting her once again, just as they had on the dais of the great hall. Her pulse began to pick up speed as a brisk breeze flattened his tunic against his muscular chest.

He was a handsome man. A beautiful man.

A man who spoke to her as an equal, even though he was anything but.

A man she instinctively felt safe with, even though she was anything but .

She turned away, flooded with confusion.

Fauvel pressed his nose against her back, hoping for more treats. He also clearly felt safe around the earl.

And she had always found horses to be excellent judges of character.

“He was my friend as well as my brother,” he said, surprising her. “’Tis difficult to follow in the footsteps of such a man.”

Morwenna knew what it was to lose a loved one. In that moment, she forgot the differences in their station and wanted only to offer consolation. “The men in the yard speak well of him.”

“He was well loved by all,” he said emphatically. “My mother especially has taken his loss very hard.” He leaned against the gate, looking down at the flattened grass beneath them.

“I am sure you are a comfort to her.”

She must have said something amiss, for he pursed his lips and shook his head. “My mother only finds comfort in her memories of Lucan.”

She frowned. It was natural for a grieving mother to reach for memories of happier times, but Angus seemed to hint at something much darker.

“Everyone must find their own pathway through grief,” she said, softly.

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “You are right.” He paused. “Will you come and watch the joust?”

The question took her entirely by surprise. She turned back to him, her green eyes opening wide.

“I did not realise the servants were invited.”

“Everyone is invited.” He hesitated. “But I should especially like you to be there.”

His words made no sense to her at first. Then came a rush of pleasure closely followed by embarrassment.

“How so?” she asked simply, feigning an interest in Fauvel’s tangled forelock.

He pursed his lips and looked away at the distant woodland. “I have enjoyed our conversation.”

So have I. Although she could barely admit it to herself, let alone out loud.

“But we shall not have opportunity to converse at the joust.”

“True enough. I will be watching from the stands for the joust itself and then ride out once against the victor.” He smiled as if newly entertained. “I have never found myself justifying such a request before.”

A deep flush of humiliation washed over her. “Forgive me, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” He drummed his fingers on the gate, making Fauvel startle. “Now it is my turn to apologise.” He nodded towards the horse’s flickering ears. “In truth, Morwenna, I find myself surrounded by flatterers. With my brother gone, I cannot even compete properly in the joust for fear of my opponents yielding to my position. But you, I feel, will not flatter me.” He inclined his head until she reluctantly nodded her agreement. “Mayhap you will bring me luck.”

Her insides twisted with uncertainty. Was it advisable to be held in such regard by the king’s judiciary?

And a man who makes my pulse pound.

Nevertheless, once the joust was over, she would be gone. The Earl of Wolvesley would be a memory.

She would like to be able to remember him on horseback.

“I will be there,” she promised.