Charming the Prince Page 8

  Bannor sank into a chair, flinging one of his long legs over its arm. Once he might have welcomed the end of the war. Welcomed the chance to be a real husband to a woman like Willow. But all of that had changed five years ago when the sins of the father had finally been visited upon the son.

  Bannor straightened, that bittersweet memory strengthening his resolve. As long as Willow stayed at Elsinore, he was determined to stay away from her.

  ———

  As Willow strode across the meadow, her face tilted skyward to drink in the sun’s warmth and a genial breeze teasing her hair, she felt the stirrings of an emotion she hadn’t felt in a very long time—hope.

  It had naught to do with Bannor’s amused indifference toward her beautiful stepsister, she told herself sternly. ‘Twas simply the blessing of a fickle autumn day that had chosen to flirt with the pleasures of summer rather than surrender to the icy embrace of winter. Her strides grew longer as she kicked her way through the rustling grasses, and before she knew it, she had lifted her skirts high and broken into a run. She’d never been allowed to run at Bedlington unless she was chasing a child or rushing to do her stepmother’s bidding. The pure, sweet freedom of the motion made her heart sing with delight.

  Until she went tearing over a hill and ten scowling little faces swiveled around to glare at her, reminding her that her freedom was only an illusion.

  Willow stumbled to a halt. Bannor’s children were scattered across a shallow dip in the land—some sitting with their chubby legs crossed, others lying on their stomachs with their chins propped on the heels of their hands. A woven basket perched in their midst, spilling tarts, walnuts, dates, and apples across the carpet of fallen leaves. The children didn’t seem to be suffering for her neglect. They appeared to be plump and well fed, and she doubted the dirt embedded in the creases of their rosy skin could have been removed in a single scrubbing, no matter how vigorous.

  “What have we here?” she exclaimed, struggling to inject a note of false cheer into her voice. “It looks suspiciously like a band of pixies to me.”

  Her teasing failed to brighten their dour expressions or break their stony silence. They continued to eye her as if she were a small green worm that had wiggled its way out of one of the apples. The hardest face belonged to the freckled boy who reclined in the crook of a gnarled old oak. A crow with one splinted wing perched on his shoulder, and a huge yellow tomcat with a torn ear and one malevolent gold eye was draped across his lap.

  “You, sir, must be their king,” Willow ventured, bobbing an exaggerated curtsy. “One must always curtsy in the presence of royalty, you know.”

  The boy and the cat eyed her with identical contempt, the cat’s tail twitching lazily. The crow cocked his sleek head, his beady gaze making Willow feel as if she were a particularly enticing scrap of carrion.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper just loud enough for the other children to hear. “If I fail to show you proper respect, you might decide to have me carted off to the dungeon, or shout ‘Off with her head!’”

  A wicked sparkle lit the boy’s green eyes, revealing that he would have liked nothing more. But his lips remained locked in a mutinous line.

  Sighing, Willow turned to the blue-eyed, golden-haired moppet sitting cross-legged on the ground beneath the tree. “If that handsome lad is the king of this band of pixies, then you must be the fairy princess. But where are your wings?” She peered over the little girl’s shoulder, frowning in mock dismay. “Did you leave them under your bed?”

  The child cupped a hand over her mouth, but not before a merry giggle could escape.

  “Mary Margaret!” spat the boy in the tree.

  Shamed by her brother’s rebuke, Mary Margaret ducked her head and muttered, “Sorry, Desmond.”

  “ ‘Twould appear the king is a tyrant,” Willow murmured as Desmond dislodged both cat and crow and slid off the branch, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

  She could tell he regretted the maneuver almost immediately, for he was forced to tip back his head an inch to look her in the eye. But his chagrin didn’t stop him from drawing nearer, his swagger an unconscious imitation of his father’s.

  “His Highness is displeased.” Willow folded her arms over her chest, mirroring his posture. “Perhaps he’ll be gracious enough to tell me what I’ve done to offend him?”

  “You married our father,” the boy said flatly, squaring his narrow shoulders. “We haven’t had a mama for a very long time and we don’t need one now. I take care of my brothers and sisters. We don’t need no mother”— he spat the word as if it were a profanity—”mucking about in our doings.”

  “Aye!”

  “‘Tis the truth!”

  “Don’t need no mama!”

  The other children chimed in, coming to their feet to support their brother. A solid little boy of about nine, with dull reddish hair and bashful brown eyes, was the last to rise.

  Willow refused to be daunted by their show of unity. “Your father believes you do.”

  Desmond snorted. “How the hell is he to know what we need? He can’t even remember our names. He’d rather be somewhere in France lopping off heads and licking the king’s boots than spend so much as an afternoon in our company.”

  Willow was less disturbed by the boy’s insolence than by the nearly imperceptible quiver of his chin. “You shouldn’t speak of your father so,” she said gently. “If he didn’t care for you, he never would have married me.” The confession stung, but she made it anyway, hoping it would soothe the boy’s wounded pride.

  A nasty smile curved Desmond’s lips. “We heard he bought you, just like his men-at-arms plunk down their coins for a roll in the feathers with old Netta down in the village.”

  His boldness earned snickers from all of his siblings, except for the lad with the bashful eyes.

  Willow could feel her own smile begin to fray at the edges, but she struggled to curb her temper. “My papa couldn’t afford a dowry, so your father paid a bride-price for me. Tis an honorable custom, if a somewhat ancient one.”

  Desmond shrugged lazily. “Why would he be willing to pay for something he can get for free any time he wants it?” He jerked his head toward three of the smallest children. “Meg and the twins there are proof that there’s not a woman in the village who wouldn’t welcome my father into her bed.”

  ‘Twas no great boon to Willow’s pride to discover that Bannor apparently found every woman he encountered irresistible. Every woman but the one he had wed. As her smile faded, the children huddled closer together, as if fearing she might fly at them in a rage.

  Instead, she leaned forward until her nose nearly touched the freckled tip of Desmond’s and said softly, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you don’t need a mother as much as you need to be taught some manners.”

  Whirling around, she gathered her skirts and began to march back up the hill.

  She’d nearly reached its crest when Desmond’s voice rang out, freezing her in her tracks. “Whatever he paid for you, ‘twas more than you’re worth.”

  Willow might have challenged the taunt if, somewhere deep in her heart, she didn’t believe he just might be right. There was nothing left for her to do but keep walking, head held high, until she could no longer hear the mocking echo of Desmond’s laughter.

  ———

  When Willow trudged into her bedchamber late that evening, she found Beatrix buried up to her pert nose in a tub of myrrh-scented water.

  Her stepsister’s mouth was already moving when it emerged. “Oh, Willow, thank heavens it’s you! For a moment I thought you were that vicious little leprechaun come back to torture me. Can you believe she made me draw my own bath? She would have begrudged me the water itself if I hadn’t lied and told her the bath was for you.”

  “You poor dear. It grieves me that you should suffer so,” Willow said dryly, remembering all the times Beatrix had ordered her to lug bucket after bucket of freshly boiled water up the long, winding stairs
at Bedlington.

  She crossed to the cupboard, perfectly willing to forgo her bath until morning. She longed only to crawl into bed, draw the pelts up over her head, and pretend she had never crawled out of it that morning.

  “Just look at my fingernails!!” Beatrix demanded, extending the claws in question over the rim of the cloth-lined tub. “They’ve been shredded like so much cabbage. Of course, that’s partly your fault for insisting that evil troll make me scrub out the privy. She all but cackled with glee every time she heard one of them snap.” Beatrix’s lips pursed in a reproachful pout. “You needn’t have been so petty, you know. If I was going to play the role of your maidservant, I thought it only fitting that I swear my fealty to your lord.”

  “The way you threw yourself at his feet, I would have sworn ‘twas the role of his paramour you were seeking,” Willow retorted, drawing a clean chemise from the cupboard.

  Beatrix breathed a besotted sigh. “I’d be content to spend only a few glorious moments in the company of a man like that.”

  Willow jerked her kirtle over her head. “ ‘Twould be more than I’ve enjoyed. Lord Bannor spent the day locked in his chambers with Sir Hollis, while I strolled alone in the garden, prayed alone in the chapel, and supped alone in the great hall.”

  Even more disconcerting had been the peculiar sensation that she’d never truly been alone. Although she hadn’t caught so much as a fleeting glimpse of Bannor’s children since their disastrous meeting in the meadow, she had whirled around more than once during that interminable day, convinced she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye or heard the ghostly echo of a giggle. ‘Twas like being hunted through an enchanted castle by a band of invisible sprites.

  While Willow drew the fresh chemise over her head, Beatrix stood without a hint of shyness, streaming water from her skin like some pagan goddess rising from the sea. Unable to bear the sight of all that rosy perfection, Willow jerked a linen towel out of the cupboard and tossed it over her stepsister’s head.

  Beatrix used it to blot her waterfall of flaxen hair. “I can assure you that supping alone in the great hall is better than having to choke down a cold bowl of broth and a stale oatcake while standing up in the kitchens. Although I must confess ‘tis the best place to glean all the latest gossip.” Wrapping the towel around her and stepping out of the tub, she slanted Willow a coy look. “Is what they say about Lord Bannor true? Has he really sired a dozen babes?”

  Willow frowned, tallying children on her hands until she ran out of fingers and had to begin again. “I suppose so.”

  “Want to hear something truly delicious?” Beatrix asked. “Some of Lord Bannor’s children are baseborn. It seems that shortly after Lady Margaret died, babies began to arrive at the castle gate in baskets. They’re believed to be the result of Lord Bannor’s dalliances with several of the village maids. He’s taken in five of them so far.”

  Willow kept her expression bland. “Lord Bannor doesn’t seem to make any distinction between his children, no matter which side of the blanket they happened to be born on. ‘Tis a most admirable quality. Most men don’t even bother to claim their bastards, much less welcome them into their homes.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t feel ‘twould be fair to deny them, when he’s naught but a bastard himself?” Beatrix clapped a hand over her mouth. “He did tell you, didn’t he?”

  “Of course he told me.” Willow snapped, unable to bear her stepsister’s pity. “I simply thought he was referring to his temperament, not the circumstances of his birth.” She padded toward the bed.

  Beatrix went around to the opposite side of the bed, preparing to shed the towel before she climbed into it. “They’re already laying wagers, you know, on how soon you’ll be breeding.” Her stepsister stole a sly glance at Willow’s stomach. “Since their lord paid a visit to your chambers last night, some of them are whispering that you already are.”

  Willow might have indulged herself with a bitter laugh if she hadn’t been distracted by the small, dark shapes clearly visible beneath the sheet.

  “Fiona,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Perhaps the sentimental old fool will soon learn ‘twill take more than a handful of rose petals to lure her lord into my bed.”

  Weary of hiding her hurt, Willow yanked back the sheet. She was still trying to figure out why the rose petals had suddenly began to chirp when the first cricket took flight, striking Beatrix square in the nose.

  ———

  High above the castle in the refuge of the north tower, Sir Hollis was desperately seeking a maneuver that might save his queen from the ruthless clutches of Bannor’s knight when a bloodcurdling scream shattered the cozy silence.

  “Good God!” Hollis shouted, bounding to his feet. “It sounds like someone’s being murdered!”

  As the screams—shrill, feminine, and punctuated by hysterical shrieks and a peculiar stamping sound—welled in intensity, he fully expected his companion to snatch up his sword and race for the door.

  But Bannor acknowledged the interruption with nothing more than a wary flicker of his eyelids. “ Tis your move.”

  Hollis slowly sank into his chair, groping for his rook with a trembling hand. He slid the piece into the square next to it, realizing even before Bannor murmured “Checkmate” that he’d surrendered his queen to the rapacious white knight and left his king helpless before the onslaught of one of Bannor’s craftier pawns.

  Although Bannor seized his prize without hesitation, caressing the delicately carved queen between his thumb and forefinger, he found it impossible to take his usual satisfaction in his victory.

  Because, unlike Hollis, he knew the game hadn’t ended.

  It had only just begun.

  Nine

  Bannor was free.

  Free to joust and spar with his knights in autumn sunshine so bright it stung his eyes. Free to train his garrison of soldiers beneath the cottony clouds floating across the crisp blue sky. Free to gallop across the stubble of his shorn fields on his mighty white destrier and praise his grinning villeins for reaping such a plentiful harvest. Free to sup each night at the head of the high table in the great hall, surrounded by the angelic faces of his children.

  He’d never been so miserable.

  He might have been able to savor his freedom had Willow not been required to pay the price for it. Now that his children had discovered a more gratifying target for their mischief, they hastened to obey his every command, murmuring, “Aye, Papa,” “Nay, Papa,” and “As you wish, Papa” with all the humble piety of saints, all the while packing Willow’s cupboard, bed, and bath with enough bugs, rodents, and reptiles to rival any plague Moses had cast on the Egyptians.

  Bannor forced himself to turn a blind eye to their devilish doings, promising himself that every humiliation Willow endured at their hands would only serve to spare her pride when she was finally goaded into spurning him.

  When they dumped enough pepper in her stew to make her sneeze a dozen times in rapid succession, he commented upon its savory tang and handed her a kerchief to wipe her streaming eyes. When they loosed Mary Margaret’s favorite pig in her bedchamber, he behaved as if deaf to its shrill squeals, even going so far as to step absently over the beast as Willow and her scowling little maidservant herded it through the great hall. When they tossed a stinkpot down her chimney, he ignored the pungent odor of sulfur that clung to her mane of silky curls for days.

  After that first night, there were no more screams. Unable to bear the strained silence, Bannor would find himself standing in the shadows of the courtyard, waiting for the moment when Willow would throw open the shutters, her delicate nostrils pinched between thumb and forefinger, and calmly toss out the rancid eggs Desmond had stuffed in the toes of her shoes. Once or twice, he would have almost sworn he felt her accusing eyes searching the darkness, as if she sensed his presence.

  Bannor’s desperation grew as the fortnight approached its close without Willow making so much as a whisper of comp
laint. The winter snows would soon be upon them. If he was forced to spend the long, dark winter nights in her company, he knew a babe would come as surely as the spring.

  He was breaking his fast one cold, sunny morning, ringed by the bland faces of his impeccably behaved children, when Fiona marched into the great hall and slammed his trencher down on the table. “I’m afraid there isn’t any honey this morn, m’lord. Ye’ll have to eat yer bread dry.” She glowered at him from beneath her scraggly brows. “I hope ye don’t choke on it.”

  As Fiona stomped back into the kitchen, Bannor exchanged a wry glance with Hollis. He’d been forced to confide in his steward, but all the other denizens of the castle remained baffled by his thoughtless behavior toward his bride. Even his knights and men-at-arms, who would have never dared question his authority on the battlefield, had taken to muttering among themselves and casting him disapproving glances. If Willow didn’t spurn him soon, he might very well have a full-scale rebellion on his hands.

  Bannor had just taken a hearty bite of bread when Willow appeared on the broad stone steps that cascaded down into the great hall. For one moment, he believed he truly might choke. His labored swallow was audible in the stunned silence, as the eye of every knight, squire, and page who had chosen to break their fast in the great hall turned toward the stairs.

  It seemed the mystery of the missing honey had been solved.

  Golden gobbets of it dripped from Willow’s hair and clung to her throat and shoulders, draping her alabaster skin in a glistening amber veil. Bannor fought an absurd temptation to race up the stairs and lick her.

  As she descended, her slippers adhering to the floor with each painstaking step, Fiona emerged from the kitchen. The old woman threw up her hands to cup her horrified face. The earthenware platter she’d been carrying shattered on the floor. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, lass! Ye look like a banshee!”