‘Yes.’ She took a step backwards, willing her pulse to slow down. ‘Of course.’
‘I won’t be long. From what Ulf tells me, you have four months’ worth of sleep to catch up on.’
‘There’s no need—’
‘There is,’ he cut her off. ‘From now on, we’ll take turns to look after him. No arguments, my lady.’
He made for the door and then stopped, half-turning his head as if another thought had just occurred to him.
‘For what it’s worth, I never meant to imply you weren’t a fit chatelaine. Under the circumstances, I’d say you were one of the best I’ve ever met.’
She stood rooted to the spot in silence, waiting until he left the room before letting the tears roll down her cheeks. Despite everything else he’d taken from her, somehow she felt as if he’d just given her the best present of all.
Chapter Seventeen
‘We need more arrows.’
Lothar ran an experienced eye over the armoury, over the long rows of bows and crossbows, swords and slingshots, assorted knives and shields. It was a decent selection, not bad for such a small castle, in reasonable condition, too, without any traces of rust, but there was still no harm in being over-prepared.
‘I’ll see to it.’ Ulf nodded curtly.
‘More missiles, too.’ He peered into a barrel filled to the brim with assorted shapes and sizes of stones. ‘We have the space. We might as well fill it.’
‘I’ll send some men out.’
‘Be sure to send lookouts with them. I don’t want Stephen catching anyone by surprise.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Otherwise, I’m impressed.’ He gave the Constable a nod of approval. ‘I didn’t expect your armoury to be so well maintained.’
‘Lady Juliana insists on everything being kept in good order.’
‘Then I’ll be sure to compliment her on it later.’
He watched the Constable go with the ghost of a smile. He’d told him that Lady Juliana wasn’t a prisoner, but Ulf and his men still seemed determined to heap as much praise upon her abilities as chatelaine as often and as loudly possible. At this point he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear she’d built the castle herself. Not that he disagreed with them. She was clearly well suited to the role and certainly nothing if not organised. Now that he’d commandeered the bulk of Sir Guian’s provisions—a fact that the Baron would no doubt be reporting to Matilda within days—there was very little for him to do. Which was probably the way Lady Juliana would want it.
He picked up a sword and ran his finger down the flat side of the blade. After a long night spent thinking about their predicament he’d decided to focus on practical matters that morning instead, though the fact that he’d countermanded the Empress’s orders still lay heavy on his mind. He’d had no choice, but he could only hope Matilda would understand that. If she didn’t—if she sent Sir Guian back and summoned him to Devizes instead—what then? He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The earlier message he’d sent her warning about Stephen’s possible return into Herefordshire ought to explain his remaining there, and she’d always trusted his judgement before. William wouldn’t last much longer, that was obvious, and after that...
He swore vehemently. If Lady Juliana would only renounce her allegiance to Stephen then it would help her cause with the Empress a little, but she refused to consider it, and he could tell it was useless to argue. The stubborn glint in those green eyes was exactly the same as her father’s when he’d made up his mind about something and there had never been any chance of budging him either. The last thing he needed was another stubborn woman in his life, yet he couldn’t help but admire her as well. Amidst all the self-seeking opportunists in this war, she’d sided with Stephen simply to protect her father. She’d even been willing to tolerate Sir Guian if it had meant keeping her word. Under the circumstances, it was hard to see what else she could have done. The only question was whether Matilda would forgive her refusal to switch sides again...
He sighed. It wasn’t his job to defend or protect her. She’d made her own bed. He ought to let her lie in it, though he already knew that he couldn’t. He hadn’t even been able to leave. He’d told her that he’d stayed for her father, though in truth it had been just as much for her. He couldn’t abandon her, even if he had no idea what to do with her either. If she wouldn’t renounce her allegi
ance, then there was no way he could let her remain at Haword once the crisis was over. He could still send her to Stephen, though now that she’d revealed the truth about her father as well as surrendered the castle, there was no knowing what he’d do with her. Besides the fact that he’d have to tell Matilda about William eventually—and once he did that, he knew that she’d want to confront Lady Juliana herself. Neither option was very appealing. He doubted either side would be sympathetic, which left Lady Juliana trapped in a precarious position somewhere between the two. Not to mention him stuck in the middle defending her. Hell’s teeth!
Distracted, he sliced his finger along the edge of the blade, grimacing as blood dripped into the rushes below. Damn it, this was what came of thinking and not acting. He ought to stick to what he was good at, not waste his time in useless speculation. There was nothing he could do for now except defend the castle against Stephen and help take care of William as best he could. Lady Juliana’s fate, uncertain as it was, would have to wait. He tossed the sword back on to its pile and strode out of the armoury, slamming the door behind him as he made his way back to the keep and up to her father’s chamber. There was no need for him to return there so soon, but he seemed unable to stay away, as if his feet were moving of their own accord. As he’d expected, she was sitting just where he’d left her, folding squares of material on her lap as she murmured the words of a poem. He stopped in the doorframe to listen, surprised by the melodious timbre of her voice, so different to the defensive tone she usually adopted around him. It sounded natural, relaxed, and so soothing that he wanted to sit down and listen...
‘I thought you didn’t know any poetry?’ He clapped his hands as she finished.
‘Poetry?’ She looked faintly embarrassed, though her voice had a smile behind it. ‘No, that’s an old Saxon ballad. Father taught it to me as a child. I thought the words might comfort him.’
He glanced down at the bed and wondered if she was right. The lines around William’s mouth seemed to have eased slightly. He even had more colour than before.
‘What’s all that?’ He gestured at the pile of material in her lap.
‘Bandages.’
‘Are you preparing for battle?’