‘Arise, Sir Oliver. Here, take you these.’ Casually, Geoffrey threw a pair of golden spurs, the coveted badge of knighthood, at him. He grinned. ‘Anything amiss?’
‘Why, no,’ Oliver said, a stunned smile belatedly curving his lips as he blinked at the spurs. Sir Oliver. At last! ‘Thank you, sir, it is just that I never expected...not tonight...’
‘Never mind that, I need all the support I can muster. We can’t have Lord Gilbert thinking my knights are all bumbling fools and beardless boys. Accompanying Lord Robert to the East has served you well – you have experience under your belt and it shows.’ Sir Geoffrey put an arm around his shoulder and they headed for the door. ‘There’s a fine sword for you in the armoury, should be just your weight. I’ll send Ned for it.’
‘You’re very kind, cousin.’
‘Pssht! Kindness has nothing do with it. It’s part of the game. Tell me, sir, what do you make of Gilbert Hewitt?’
Geoffrey took precedence on the winding stair and Oliver replied to his balding head. ‘I only know of him by repute, so I couldn’t say. I shall consider him during the meeting.’
‘Do that,’ the baron flung over his shoulder. ‘He’s a man I’d rather have as friend than a foe. I’d rather like to put the seal on this blossoming friendship – I’ve a mind he might do for Blanche.’
‘I thought Lady Blanche was promised elsewhere?’
‘Nothing’s been written in stone. Anyhow, I want your view of Hewitt.’
‘Of course.’
‘And, cousin, don’t be forgetting you will be expected to fulfill your part of the bargain regarding my other sister,’ Geoffrey said, pushing through into the great hall.
Oliver gave a stiff little bow of acknowledgement and stepped onto the dais with his kinsman to take his seat at the council table. Ned went to find his new sword.
***
Night hung dark as death over Ingerthorpe Castle. The council meeting between Lord Geoffrey Fitz Neal and his ally, Lord Gilbert of Hewitt, had come at length to a close. Though no action would be taken until the morrow, friendships had been forged and strategies decided upon.
Seeking what respite they could, bone-weary men sought their pallets, mumbling and muttering among themselves as they scrambled for places. There wouldn’t be space for a mouse in the hall that night. There’d be no hard floor for Sir Oliver de Warenne, thankfully, the bedchamber was to remain his.
Oliver yawned as he headed for the spiral stairs. As he went up the first turn, he was absurdly conscious of the golden spurs tinkling at his heels. He was absurdly proud of the sword swinging at his hips – the steel came from the forges of Toledo, and the scabbard was made from Spanish leather. As it scraped against the wall he put his hand to the hilt to steady it.
The wall torches were burning low and he knew they’d be lighting a face that was grey with fatigue. He had no idea of the hour and felt he could sleep for a week, but there was little chance of that. They’d rouse him before cockcrow.
Thank God, his bedchamber hadn’t been allocated to one of Lord Gilbert’s comrades. A night with the rest of the men on the hall floor would be penance indeed. His mouth lifted at the corners. As one of his cousin’s household knights, he’d been given charge of leading a party to search for the traitor’s encampment. Thus, the small chamber in the tower was his to keep. They wanted him well rested, the better to fulfil his commission.
He’d reached the top. Softly, he lifted the latch. There was no need to waken Rosamund, though he had to admit he wanted to tell her his news. How would she react when she learned he’d been knighted? Most maids would be proud to have their lover elevated, but Rosamund was not like most maids. His unpredictable, unbiddable Rosamund...
He frowned. In the bailey she’d threatened to leave. She didn’t mean it, she would have forgotten their quarrel by now. An image of her naked body, all warmth and womanly curves, flashed through his mind – it was accompanied by an odd ache in his chest. Curse the girl, she was almost too distracting. Their disagreement had left him at odds with himself. He’d not been able to give the rebels the consideration they’d merited for thinking of her.
The bedchamber was empty and so was the bed. He shrugged, likely she was in the privy down the corridor. He unbuckled his swordbelt and peeled off his tunic. Settling on the bed, he leaned against the headboard to wait for her. His weariness had left him. If Rosamund was awake, he intended to make the most of it. If he took her again, he’d be better able to concentrate on the morrow. He wanted his mind clear – he must prove his worth and earn his knighthood. Sir Oliver de Warenne hadn’t been given a sinecure, he must work for his honour.