Page 9 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

M orwenna felt as if she might be sick, even though she’d eaten nothing since breaking her fast soon after sunrise. Her stomach rolled and her head pounded in time with her feet as she paced back and forth across her narrow bedchamber.

She should have left at noon, straight after Jacob handed over her wages. She’d tucked the cloth bag of precious silver marks inside her belt, where it rubbed reassuringly against her hip bone. With everything in place, there was nothing now to stop her slipping away from Wolvesley into safe anonymity. She would go first to York, or even Lindum. Somewhere she could perchance find work until any efforts to locate her were abandoned. Within weeks, at most, she would be back home in Escafeld.

Her narrow face contorted into a grimace as she reflected that she didn’t know who– or what– she was the most conflicted over.

This was the first time she’d held a position of respect; one which came with a roof over her head and regular coin. She was just beginning to feel at home in Wolvesley, relaxing in the presence of the grooms and confidently striding about the paddocks. The reality was, she didn’t want to leave the castle for a leaking hut– no matter how many memories were held within its fragile walls. Nor did she wish to leave a job half done when so much trust had been placed in her abilities.

Trust. That was the crux of it.

No one trusted her in Escafeld, but here she was treated with respect; her judgement was valued. She was even beginning to trust herself more, to be less frightened of what the future may hold. Was even, mayhap, making friends. The pale blue hem of Molly’s dress peeked out beneath her own neatly folded clothing. Morwenna couldn’t decide whether it would be better manners to leave the dress here or take it with her. Either way seemed a betrayal of sorts.

She didn’t want to betray anyone, least of all Fauvel, especially when she had so recently earned his trust. Abandoning him now was nothing short of cruel. Especially when she’d heard with her own ears the earl promising to gift him to Sir Maxton if his own efforts came to naught.

Maxton had reminded her of a wolf, with his greying pelt of hair and avaricious eyes. She didn’t like him, and neither did Fauvel. Although, she reminded herself, one hand roaming to her belt to check the bag of coin was still in place, she didn’t know Maxton. And Fauvel was afraid of almost everyone.

The truth was lurking in her gut, waiting for her to acknowledge it. She didn’t want to leave the earl.

Morwenna clamped her hands over her mouth as if to keep the shocking words inside.

Had she lost her wits entirely?

This unfitting attraction was all the more reason for her to leave the castle with the greatest of haste. She shouldn’t be craving the presence of the Earl of Wolvesley; like a drunkard staggering towards a tavern. She should be putting all possible distance between herself and a man with the power to imprison her.

But the weight of her alleged crimes would increase tenfold if she ran away. E’en more so if she were caught.

Morwenna was so deep in thought that she jumped in shock when a knock sounded at her door. In her confusion, she half-believed it was the earl himself come to arrest her. Or to hold her, like he had in the great hall. His muscular arms curling around her slight frame, holding her up as if she weighed almost nothing.

“Morwenna?” A familiar voice spoke through the wood.

It was Gerrault.

Unsure whether her relief outshone her disappointment, Morwenna opened the door.

“Gerrault.” She summoned a smile.

He was all boyish enthusiasm, his face and neck scrubbed clean for the occasion. “We’re going over there now.” He nodded in the direction of the jousting arena. “Would you like to join us?” The tips of his ears glowed endearingly pink.

Morwenna looked at him properly, noticing his newly acquired height and bulk. The boy she’d known all her life was becoming a man.

“I’m not sure I’m going.” She hoped it would not be obvious that she had so recently emptied out her chamber. She rubbed at her temples. “I have a headache.”

Gerrault’s face creased with understanding. “I know some of the lads can be noisy, but they all mean well, I promise.”

“I know that.” She nodded emphatically. “I’ve never felt otherwise.”

“It’s going to be a grand occasion.” He folded his arms over a freshly laundered tunic. “I never thought the likes of me would get to sit and watch the Earl of Wolvesley in the jousting ring.”

She felt her mouth dry up. “Me neither.”

“It would be a proper shame to miss it.” Gerrault politely offered her his arm and cocked his eyebrows expectantly.

She couldn’t deny that she felt the same. Morwenna found herself taking Gerrault’s arm and stepping out of her chamber, leaving her packed bundle of clothing sitting neatly at the foot of her bed.

Mayhap she could slip away under cover of darkness, she reasoned desperately as they walked together through the unusually quiet stable yard.

Mayhap that was a better plan after all?

It couldn’t be that she had lost all her senses and would prefer to sit and admire a titled peer playing wargames than take action to save her own skin?

Though her wellbeing was hardly assured on an unknown road, all alone. Even less so were she to reach the safety of Escafeld.

Morwenna’s stomach churned again. Her path forwards had never been more unclear.

As they passed under the arch, a gaggle of stable boys led by young Isaac swallowed them up and Morwenna found herself swept along in a tide of excitement and banter. It was hard to hold onto her bleak despair while surrounded by so much pink-cheeked enthusiasm, and some of the tension had left her shoulders by the time they reached the stands. Here, the smell of horse sweat and sawdust mingled with tastier aromas of hot meat pies and pastries, sold from a number of wooden carts which had been welcomed into the bailey for the afternoon. Throngs of villagers were walking arm-in-arm, all turned out in their Sunday best to watch the Wolvesley joust. The swell of conversation, together with shouts from the stall-holders, reverberated around her. After the peace of the paddocks, this was as foreign as another land.

Anticipation began to outweigh her nerves.

“Look out.” Gerrault nudged her out of the way of a lumbering villager who had already consumed too much ale. He took in her wide green gaze. “We’ll be better once we’re sitting down.” Taking her more firmly by the elbow, he steered her into the stands and she found herself squeezed between him and young Isaac, who gave her a wide, gap-toothed smile.

“Are you excited?” Isaac asked.

“Yes.” Morwenna gave the simplest answer.

Isaac nodded. “His lordship would win easily, because he’s the strongest and he has the fastest horse. But seeing as he’s not competing, it will be Sir Henry.” To Isaac, it was very simple.

Gerrault visibly swelled with pride. “I gave Sir Henry’s horse extra oats this morning.”

Morwenna thought to ask Isaac if Molly was here. Looking about, she couldn’t see her. Could see hardly any women, in fact, amidst the swelling tide of men. But when she turned towards him, Isaac was wrapped in conversation with an older groom sitting on the other side of him.

The thunder of hooves soon joined the cacophony of sound resounding through the bailey and encasing Morwenna as if in her own personal bubble. Everything was heightened, from the narrow hardness of her wooden bench, to the press of hot bodies and the appreciative roar of the crowd. Everyday reality faded away, she was aware of mahogany-curled Isaac abandoning his seat to jump up and down in excitement; of Gerrault on her other side, clasping his hands together in a frantic prayer as Sir Henry first rode into the ring.

He has found his place in Wolvesley , she thought.

If only it could be that easy for her.

But could it? a little voice whispered in her ear. Could she let go of her fears and allow herself to feel at home?

As Sir Henry lowered his visor and readied his lance, Morwenna’s gaze shifted upwards and suddenly the tumult around her vanished.

There he was, the Earl of Wolvesley; clad in a rich ceremonial cloak of emerald green worn over gleaming plate armour. His golden hair shone brighter than the sun and his piercing blue gaze swept straight through the competitors to scan the crowded stands opposite his seat of honour.

Was he looking for her?

A spiky ball of excitement lodged in her stomach at the very idea.

It was a preposterous idea. One she should chase away and never again own.

But even as she shrank back on her narrow bench, willing Isaac’s exuberant jumping to hide all traces of her, somehow she knew deep down that it was true.

His eyes were seeking hers, which meant she should look away, gaze at the ground, look anywhere but at him. But she didn’t want to do that. Instead, Morwenna’s eyes met the blue gaze of the earl across the busy jousting arena, and she was immediately transfixed. She couldn’t have broken her gaze, not even if she were offered a whole sack full of gold coins. Tremors ran up and down her body, her lips parted voluntarily and her breath caught in her throat.

He was looking for me.

He was looking at her now. And just like Morwenna, the earl seemed unable to look away.

She grew hot and cold at the same time, as if infected by a fever. The width of a jousting ring separated them; yet it was as if the earl stood just feet away. As if there were just the two of them here.

And he was as aware of this as she was. He was feeling it too; she would wager her last mark upon it.

The tension rising inside her was almost unbearable, but then Gerrault grabbed her arm and broke the spell.

“He won,” Gerrault cheered, jostling her elbow with his clumsy excitement.

“He did,” she agreed breathlessly, although she’d paid no attention to the match.

“Didn’t he look well? The horse, I mean.”

“Aye.” Morwenna nodded weakly.

Gerrault received a congratulatory punch on the shoulder from the groom on his other side and his attention left Morwenna. When she gathered her courage to look back towards the earl, he had gone.

Gone.

Her eyes raked over the enclosure, which was much grander and more spacious than the cramped stands on this side. There was no sign of the earl and her heart thudded with loss.

But she hadn’t imagined it. She wasn’t losing her wits.

Her gaze twitched back to the ornately carved chair on which he had been sitting just moments earlier. It had a high back, emblazoned with the golden lion of Wolvesley. The man was the personification of wealth and power; the very last person she should be making eyes at.

The earl’s carved chair swum in and out of focus as her vision blurred. Memories of his anger in the courtyard over the simple matter of a horseshoe raced through her head. He had been enraged over nothing more than a foolish, ages-old superstition. What then would he say were he to hear of her recently tarnished reputation?

Her left hand clamped over the cuff on her wrist, twisting it around and settling her fingers into the familiar grooves.

Grandmother , she begged silently, what should I do?

As if hearing her prayer, the woman sitting to the right of the earl’s chair suddenly got to her feet with her arms outstretched in welcome. She was white-haired and frail, but still stood with an air of grace. Morwenna watched as she tilted her face upwards, smiling happily.

Who could this woman see?

Immediately her pulse began to beat faster.

The woman was conversing with someone who wasn’t there. Just as she had seen her grandmother do in her younger days. And this wasn’t just any woman, Morwenna realised, one hand still clamped around her grandmother’s cuff. She was clad in emerald green satin, with precious jewels sparkling at her neck.

Was this the earl’s mother?

Morwenna must have made some exclamation of surprise, for Gerrault turned to her with his eyebrows raised questioningly.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” She swallowed. “Who is that lady over there?” She nodded cautiously to the stand opposite, noting that the lady had once again sat down and was leaning forwards, her attention fixed on the ring below.

“Who? The one with the jewels?” Gerrault half laughed. “That’s the Lady Violetta, of course. The dowager countess. Who else around here would own a tiara?”

Morwenna shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Usual rule, if they’re covered in jewels, they’re related to the Earl of Wolvesley.” His gaze switched to the next competitors trotting into the ring. It was Sir Maxton against one of the knights of Wolvesley.

“His mother?” She wanted to be sure.

“The very same. The poor woman took the loss of Lord Lucan hard. They say she’s not been out of her bedchamber in weeks.”

Lord Lucan.

The earl’s older brother.

In a flash, Morwenna glimpsed the outline of a muscular warrior seated in the earl’s chair beside his mother. He was broad-chested and had long golden hair curling onto his shoulders. Despite his obvious physicality, the smile he bestowed upon Lady Violetta was gentle.

She blinked and he was gone. It could have been mere fancy on her part. Mayhap a trick of the light. She’d seen such flashes once or twice before, but she had never given them much credence. Still, Morwenna couldn’t shake the conviction that Lady Violetta de Neville was talking to her deceased son.

Which meant the earl’s mother had the Sight . Just as her own grandmother had.

Morwenna felt as if her world had tilted. How can that possibly be? She glanced around at the crowd, but everyone was focused intently upon the jousting. No one spared the grieving Violetta de Neville a second look.

A gasp reverberated around the stands, pulling Morwenna’s attention back to the ring. Sir Maxton was lifting his lance in celebration as the horse beneath him gave a tremendous buck, all but unseating his rider. Sir Maxton, who had just ridden to victory, wobbled precariously, dropping his lance onto the turf and knotting his fist into the horse’s mane in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.

“He’s going to fall,” exclaimed Isaac beside her, his brown eyes glued to the scene.

But Sir Maxton righted himself, plunging his spurs into his horse’s sides and making the creature’s eyes bulge with shock.

Morwenna dragged her eyes away from the red ribbon of blood spreading across the dapple-grey flanks.

“The earl looks none too pleased about this,” Gerrault observed.

“It’s because he doesn’t want Maxton to face Sir Henry,” Isaac opined.

Gerrault bristled. “Sir Henry will easily defeat him.”

Morwenna’s gaze wandered over to the side of the ring, where the two boys were gesturing. There stood the earl; imposingly tall even beside two prancing chargers. Gerrault was right, he looked mightily displeased, fearful almost. But as she followed his gaze, she realised he wasn’t looking at Sir Maxton. He was looking at his mother.

Did he see what I did?

Morwenna felt her breath catch in her throat as she recalled how he had spoken of his mother in the past.

She was an unusual woman.

He needed to ensure her security.

She only found comfort in her memories of Lucan.

What if they weren’t memories, but visions? That would explain the darkness that had crept into his tone.

With a growing sense of bewilderment, Morwenna understood that the Earl of Wolvesley knew that his mother had the Sight.

*

The next minutes passed in a blur. Morwenna sat silently on the narrow bench, oblivious to the unfolding spectacle of the joust; thinking only of what she had discovered.

The earl hated witchcraft. Did that mean he hated his own mother?

Nay , he had told her just days earlier that he wanted to secure his mother’s future. And he had taken his seat beside her, in full public view, even though he was obviously aware of her powers.

None of it made sense.

She clasped her hands together, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. What should she do?

This changes nothing , she told herself angrily. She still had to leave Wolvesley at the first opportunity. She had no doubts about what she’d heard at the stable yard, and the expression on the earl’s face just now had been thunderous.

She should never have allowed herself to become distracted by the joust. By foolish notions of… of what? Of attraction? Between herself and one of the wealthiest men in England?

Morwenna felt her cheeks sting at her own foolishness, even though no one else knew how her heart had raced at the mere sight of him.

She had to leave. Now. But she was hemmed in on all sides on the narrow wooden bench by the excited press of the crowd. A great roar took hold of the arena and she realised belatedly that the joust was over. Sir Henry’s horse was being led away while the knight himself was helped up from the ground. Beside her, Gerrault was grey-faced with worry.

“He’ll be grand in the morning,” young Isaac sagely advised.

Sir Maxton swung his helm high above his head as he performed the expected lap of victory. His dark eyes gleamed with triumph.

“It’s over,” Morwenna stated, rising up from the uncomfortable bench “We can leave.”

“Ach no.” Isaac put a hand out to stop her. “The earl himself is about to enter the ring. ’Twould be more than your job’s worth to leave now.”

Sickened, she lowered herself back down. There was nothing she wanted to watch less than the Earl of Wolvesley pitching himself against Sir Maxton of Dunlore. But it didn’t look as if she had any choice.

Morwenna kept her emotions at bay as the earl came into view. His horse was a high-stepping bay, with bright eyes and a lustrous black tail. A resounding cheer erupted as he cantered into the ring; halting only to acknowledge the crowd and bow his head in a mark of respect to Lady Violetta.

His mother.

She didn’t allow herself to ponder anything more. The man was a gentleman. Nay, he was more than that. He was a peer of the realm. Of course his manners were impeccable.

Her nails dug again into her palms as Sir Maxton joined him and the two men shook hands.

Let them get it over with, quickly , she willed.

She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, focused on the point where the two warriors inevitably clashed in a great splintering of wood. But neither of them fell. The horses were spun around back to the starting point and the crowd hushed before the starting flag went up a second time.

The thunder of hooves seemed to come in slow motion. Morwenna saw the bay horse fly towards its target, like an arrow shot from a bow. The dapple-grey was tiring; his pace was slower. As the earl leaned forward to deliver his blow; his muscular arm braced for impact; his balance impeccable; she knew in her bones what would happen.

The crowd let out a collective gasp as Sir Maxton fell sideways, dangling dangerously from his stirrups for several seconds before his boots came free. He hit the ground with a discernible thump and a great swell of applause recognised the earl’s victory.

Beside her, Gerrault and Isaac both leaped to their feet, as did the cheering villagers behind them. Galvanised into action, Morwenna slipped between the stableboys and the benches, gathering speed as she grew closer to the gate leading to freedom. Everyone was so focused on the jousting ring that no one questioned her bid to escape. Within seconds, she had pushed aside the wooden gate and was running as fast as she could back to her bedchamber.

She had a different plan.

A plan even crazier than before.

But there wasn’t time to think it through. There wasn’t time to do anything except act.

Breathing hard, Morwenna raced up the steps and kicked open her wooden door. There was her neatly packed bundle of clothing; waiting for her to scoop it up and go. Instead, she tore it apart, desperate to get her hands on the unassuming kirtle she’d worn on her last day in Escafeld.

There it was. The material felt thin and insubstantial beneath her fumbling fingers, but she couldn’t dwell on that. As quickly as she could, Morwenna pulled off her well-fitting boots, her warm tunic and practical braccae, replacing them with a shapeless grey smock and her once favourite kirtle. It was several days she’d last worn women’s clothes and she was immediately aware of how hampering and restrictive they were. She folded her groom’s uniform as neatly as she could before pulling on the too-small leather boots Gerrault had gifted her all those weeks ago.

She winced as the leather pinched her toes. But too-small boots were far better than no boots at all. And she wasn’t about to take anything else from the Earl of Wolvesley.

Stifling down a sob of dismay, she picked up the cloth bag of coin from where it had fallen on the floor. Her prized wages.

They would have to stay here as recompense, however small, for what she was about to do.

Morwenna placed the bag on top of her folded uniform and fled from the room, before she could change her mind.

She knew the path to the circular paddock well, even in the dimming light. An owl hooted overhead as she ran up the hill, past the regular paddocks full of curious horses who raised their heads to watch her progress. Her breath was coming in painful bursts now, but she couldn’t slow her pace. There was too much still to do.

And too much at risk.

Morwenna’s swirling clouds of indecision had narrowed to a single point of focus.

She couldn’t allow cruel Sir Maxton to get his hands on Fauvel.

The plume of crusted blood on the flanks of his dapple-grey charger had been reason enough for her to come to this decision. The fury in Maxton’s eyes as he fell to the ground was another. She knew, without waiting to bear witness to it, that the horse would be flogged as punishment for Maxton’s defeat.

If the earl passed poor Fauvel onto him, the horse would be a broken mess within a sennight.

She couldn’t let that happen.

What she was about to do was theft, pure and simple. And Morwenna had never stolen anything before, not even a heel of bread when hunger clawed at her stomach.

If she was caught stealing a horse, the consequences would be severe. Too severe for her to even contemplate.

But if she left Fauvel behind her in Wolvesley, he would not survive.

“Here, Fauvel,” she called quietly as she reached the gate. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and she could just about make out a tall horse-shaped shadow standing near the tree. But she was agitated and out-of-breath; she could hardly expect a horse famed for its nerves to obey her command.

She paused, centring herself in the moment. A cool breeze whipped around her legs and she flinched at the unaccustomed chill, before chasing such emotions from her mind. She breathed in the musty scent of early autumn, of dew forming on the long grass and leaves turning from green to gold. The world was closing in on itself, ready for the night. Darkness would be her friend.

Fauvel steadily walked over to her, breathing warm breath over her outstretched palms.

“Good boy,” she told him.

Moving slowly so as not to alarm him, she unhooked the halter from the gatepost and hung the rope around his neck. Uncaring, Fauvel nosed at her pockets for apples and she cursed herself for forgetting to bring some from the store.

Apples could have fed both her and Fauvel, at least for a while.

Swallowing down her fears, Morwenna clucked her tongue encouragingly. “Walk on,” she instructed.

Fauvel followed her, as obedient as a well-trained dog, and she knew a thrill of triumph.

She had gained his trust. That was the first hurdle passed, although many more remained. It was a shame they couldn’t sneak through Isaac’s hole in the hedge, but little Daisy had only just managed it. Morwenna’s heart beat hard as they walked through the open gate. With any luck, they could slip through the paddocks and beyond the castle walls while everyone was still at the jousting arena.

But she had barely cleared the gate when a deep, male voice spoke through the failing light.

“May I ask where you are taking my horse?”