The Maiden by Jude Deveraux
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Chapter One
1299 England
WILLIAM DE BOHUN stood hidden in the shadows of the castle’s stone walls and looked at his nephew, who sat in the window enclosure, Rowan’s golden hair bathed in sunlight, his handsome face frowning in concentration as he studied the manuscript before him. William didn’t like to think how much this young man had come to mean to him over the years. Rowan was the son he wished he had been able to breed.
As William looked at the tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, handsome young man, he once again wondered how that dark, ugly Thal could have bred someone like Rowan. Thal called himself King of Lanconia but he wore animal skins, his long dirty hair hung past his shoulders, and he ate and spoke like the barbarian he was. William was disgusted by him and only allowed him to remain in his house at the request of King Edward. William had given the man the hospitality of his estate and had instructed his steward to plan entertainments for the loud, crude vulgarian, but William himself had stayed as far as possible from the hideous young man.
Now, looking at Rowan, William’s stomach tightened in remembered anguish. While William was busying himself far away from the barbarian king, his beautiful, kind, dear sister, Anne, had been falling in love with the odious man. By the time William realized what was happening, Anne was so deeply bewitched by the man that she was vowing to kill herself if she could not have him. The stupid barbarian king didn’t even seem to realize that Anne was endangering her immortal soul by the mere mention of suicide.
Nothing William said could dissuade Anne. William pointed out the repulsiveness of Thal’s person and Anne looked at him as if he were stupid. “He’s not repulsive to a woman,” she had said, laughing in a way that made William slightly queasy as he thought of that dark greasy man’s hands on Anne’s slim, blonde person.
In the end, King Edward had made William’s decision for him. He said there weren’t many Lanconians but they were a fierce lot, and if their king wanted a rich English bride, he should have her.
So King Thal married William’s beautiful sister Anne. William stayed drunk for ten days, hoping that when he sobered it would all turn out to be his imagination. But when he woke from his drunken stupor he saw Thal, a head taller than his tall sister, swooping down on her, enveloping her fair loveliness with his darkness.
Nine months later Rowan had been born. From the first William had been inordinately fond of the pretty blond child. His own childless marriage made him hungry for a son. Thal showed no interest in the babe. “Bah! It screams at one end and stinks at the other. Children belong to women. I’ll wait until he’s a man,” Thal had grunted in that strangely accented English of his. He was much more interested in when Anne would be well enough to return to his bed.
William had adopted Rowan as his own, spending endless hours making toys for the boy, playing with the child, holding his chubby fingers as he took his first steps. Rowan was fast becoming William’s reason for living.
When Rowan was just over a year old, his sister Lora was born. Like her brother, she was a pretty blonde child, and looked as if she had inherited nothing from her swarthy father.
When Lora was five days old, Anne had died.
In his grief, William saw nothing but his own misery. He did not see the brooding emptiness of Thal. All William knew was that Thal was the cause of his beloved sister’s death. He ordered Thal from his house.
Heavily, Thal had said he would pack his men and children and leave in the morning to return to Lanconia.
William had not comprehended Thal’s words, but when he heard noise in the courtyard below, he realized that Thal meant to take Rowan and the new baby from him. William went berserk. A normally sane man, he acted out of rage, grief, and fear. He gathered his own knights from the barracks and attacked Thal and his personal guard while they slept.
William had never seen men fight as these Lanconians did. They were outnumbered four to one but still, three of them, including Thal, managed to escape.
Dripping blood from several deep slashes in his arms and legs and one across his right cheek, Thal stood on the castle wall in the pink light of dawn and cursed William and his issue. Thal said he knew William wanted Prince Rowan but he would never get him. Rowan was Lanconian, not English, and someday Rowan would come home to him.
Then Thal and his men had escaped over the wall and disappeared into the forest.
William’s bad luck began with that night. Where once his life had been touched with gold, it soon turned to lead. His wife had died of the pox a month later, then the pox had killed over half his peasants, leaving the grain unharvested in the fields. An early snow left the fields rotting.
William married again, this time to a fat healthy fifteen-year-old who proved to be fertile as a rabbit. She gave him four sons in four years then conveniently died with the last one. William did not grieve since he had found that when his infatuation with her beautiful young body had worn off, she was a stupid, frivolous girl who was no companion.
William had the care of his own four sons and Anne’s two children. The contrast was stark. Rowan and Lora were tall and beautiful, golden-haired and handsome. They were intelligent, eager to learn, polite, while his own sons were stupid and clumsy, sullen and resentful. They hated Rowan and teased Lora viciously. William knew this was his punishment for what he had done to Thal. He even began to believe it was Anne’s ghost repaying him for his crime against her husband.
When Rowan was ten, a man came to William’s castle, an old man with a beard hanging to the middle of his chest, a circle of gold set with four rubies on his head. He said his name was Feilan and that he was Lanconian and that he had come to teach Rowan Lanconian ways.
William had been ready to run the old man through with a sword until Rowan had stepped forward. It was almost as if the boy had known the man was going to come and had been waiting for him. “I am Prince Rowan,” he had said solemnly.
In that moment William knew he was losing the most precious thing on earth to him—and there was nothing he could do to prevent the loss.
The old Lanconian remained, sleeping somewhere deep within the castle—William didn’t ask where—and spent every waking moment with Rowan. Rowan had always been a serious child, had always taken whatever duties William gave him seriously, but now it seemed that Rowan’s capacity for study was limitless. The old Lanconian taught Rowan both in the classroom and on the training field. At first William objected because some of the Lanconian methods of fighting were, to a knight like William, entirely without honor. Neither Rowan nor Feilan paid him any attention and Rowan learned to fight on his feet with sword and lance, with a stick, with clubs, and, to William’s horror, with his fists. No knight fought except from the back of a horse.
Rowan did not foster as other aristocratic young men did but remained at his uncle’s castle and studied with the Lanconian. William’s own sons left, one by one, to live with other knights and train as their squires. They returned with their spurs and their knighthood, their resentment for Rowan even stronger. One by one, William’s sons reached manhood and challenged Rowan to a tilt, hoping to lay him low and so gain their father’s esteem.
There was no contest as Rowan easily knocked each young man from his horse then returned to his studies without so much as raising a sweat.
William’s sons loudly protested their cousin’s presence in their home and William watched as his ignorant sons put burrs under
Today William was looking at Rowan. It was twenty-five years since a golden child had been born to William’s lovely sister and in that time William had come to love the boy more than he loved his own soul. But it was over now, for outside stood a hundred of the tall, dark, scarred Lanconian warriors, sitting atop their short-legged, barrel-chested horses, each man wearing a grim expression and a hundred pounds of weapons. They were obviously prepared for a fight. Their leader rode forward and announced to William that they had come for the children of Thal, that Thal lay on his deathbed and Rowan was to be made king.
William’s inclination was to refuse, to fight to keep Rowan until he had no more breath, but William’s oldest son had pushed his hesitant father aside and welcomed the Lanconians with open arms. William knew defeat when he saw it. One could not fight to keep something that did not want to be kept.
With a heavy heart he went up the stairs to Lora’s solar, where Rowan sat in the window enclosure studying. His tutor, old to begin with, was now ancient, but when he saw William’s face, he eased his arthritic body from the chair and went to stand before Rowan, then slowly dropped to one knee. As Rowan looked at his old tutor’s face, understanding came to him.
“Long live King Rowan,” the old man said, his head bowed.
Rowan nodded solemnly and looked at Lora, who had dropped her sewing. “It is time,” he said softly. “Now we go home.”
William slipped away so the tears in his eyes would not be seen.
Lanconia
Jura stood very still in the knee-deep water, her light spear held aloft, poised above the lazily swimming fish, waiting for the moment to skewer the fish. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, just enough to silhouette the Tarnovian Mountains behind her and the shadowy fish at her feet. She had discarded the loose trousers to her warrior’s uniform on the bank and now wore only the soft, embroidered tunic that was the badge of her profession, her legs bare from the middle of her thigh down. The water was icy cold but she was used to discomfort and had been trained from an early age to ignore pain.
To her left she heard a footstep and knew someone was coming, a woman by the lightness of the step. She didn’t show any outward sign of movement but her muscles tensed, ready to spring. She continued holding the spear above her right shoulder but now she was ready to turn and cast the spear at the intruder.
She smiled without moving her face. It was Cilean. Cilean, her teacher and her friend, was soundlessly—almost anyway—moving through the forest.
Jura speared a fat fish. “Will you join me for breakfast, Cilean?” she called as she pulled the flopping fish from the spear and walked toward the bank. Jura was six feet tall with a body made magnificent by years of hard, demanding exercise.
Cilean stepped from the trees and smiled at her friend. “Your hearing is excellent, as always.” She also wore the white tunic and trousers of the Irial warrior, soft leather boots reaching to her knees, wrapped with cross garters from ankle to knee. She was as tall as Jura, with long, lean legs, high, firm breasts, a supple spine, and she held herself as erect as a birch, but her face did not have that startling quality of beauty that Jura’s did. Her face was also beginning to show her age of twenty-four when she was next to Jura’s fresh eighteen.
“He has come,” Cilean said softly.
The only indication Jura gave that she had heard was the slightest hesitation as she arranged the twigs to build a fire to roast her fish.
“Jura,” Cilean said, her voice pleading, “you have to face this someday.” She spoke in the Irial dialect of Lanconian, a language of soft sounds and rolled l’s. “He will be our king.”
Jura straightened and whirled to face her friend, her black, braided hair moving and her beautiful face showing her rage. “He is not my king! He will never be my king. He is English, not Lanconian. His mother was a soft weak Englishwoman who sits by the fire all day and sews. She did not even have the strength to bear Thal many children. Geralt is the rightful king. He had a Lanconian mother.”
Cilean had heard this a hundred times. “Yes, Astrie was a wonderful woman and Geralt is a great warrior but he was not the firstborn son nor was Astrie the legal wife of Thal.”
Jura turned away, trying to get her anger under control. In training she could be so cool, could keep her thoughts clear even when Cilean devised some trick, such as ordering five women to attack Jura at once, but there was one area where Jura’s fury at the injustice of it could not be controlled, and that was when she thought of Geralt. Years before Jura was born, King Thal had traveled to England to talk to the English king, to try to make an alliance with England. Instead of attending to the purpose of his journey, he had neglected Lanconian business and fallen under the spell of some vapid, weak, useless Englishwoman. He had married her and remained in England for two years, producing two puny, mewling brats who were too weak to return to Lanconia with him after his frail wife had died.
People said Thal was never the same after he returned from England. He refused to marry a proper Lanconian woman, although he spent some time in bed with the beautiful, nobly born Astrie. She bore him Geralt, a son who was everything a man could want, but Thal still kept brooding. In despair, hoping to force him into marrying her, Astrie asked permission to marry Johst, Thal’s most trusted guard. Thal barely shrugged his shoulders as he agreed. Three years after Geralt’s birth, Astrie gave birth to Jura.
“Geralt has the right to be king,” Jura repeated, her voice calmer.
“Thal has made his choice. If he wants his English son to be king, then we must honor that choice.”
Jura was angrily scaling the fish with her knife. “I hear he has white skin and white hair. I hear he is as thin and frail as a stalk of wheat. He has a sister too. No doubt she will cry and whine for her English comforts. How can we respect an English king when he knows nothing of us?”
“Thal sent Feilan to him years ago. I have heard legends of the man’s wisdom.”
“Bah! He is Poilen,” Jura said with contempt, referring to another tribe of the Lanconians. The Poilens believed they could fight wars with words. The young men trained with books and learning rather than with swords. “How can a Poilen teach a man to be king? No doubt Feilan taught him to read and tell stories. What does a Poilen know of battle? When the Zernas attack our city, will our new king try to tell them fairy tales until they fall off their horses in sleep?”
“Jura, you aren’t being fair. We haven’t met the man. He is Thal’s son and—”
“So is Geralt!” Jura spat. “Can this Englishman know half what Geralt does about Lanconia?” She gestured to the mountains to the north, those beloved mountains that had protected Lanconia from centuries of invaders. “He has never even seen our mountains,” she said as if this were the final disgrace.
“Nor has he seen me,” Cilean said softly.
Jura’s eyes widened. Thal, long ago, had said he wanted his son Rowan to marry Cilean. “Surely Thal has forgotten that. He said that years ago. You were only a child at the time.”
“No, he has not forgotten. This morning when he heard his English son was near the Ciar River, he revived enough to send for me. He wants Daire and me to meet him.”
??
Cilean gave her friend a look of disgust. “Your concern is only for the man you love? You care nothing that I am being ordered to marry a man who you have described as weak, puny—”
“I am sorry,” Jura said, and felt guilty for thinking only of herself. It would truly be awful to have to marry someone one did not know. To think of living day in and day out with a man whose every movement, every thought was strange and abhorrent to her. “I apologize. Did Thal really say he planned for you to marry this…this…?” She could think of no description for this foreigner.
“He said it is what he has always planned.” Cilean sat down on the ground by the little fire Jura now had going and her face showed her anguish. “I think Thal fears what you fear, that this son of his that he has not seen in over twenty years will be all that you think he is. But Thal is determined to have his way. The more people who try to dissuade him, the more adamant he becomes.”
“I see,” Jura said thoughtfully, and looked at Cilean for a long moment. Perhaps Thal wasn’t such a doting fool after all. Cilean was a logical, intelligent woman who had proved herself on several battlefields in the past. Cilean was able to control her emotions, and, most important, her temper, under the most stressing of conditions. If this English prince was as weak as people said, Cilean’s intelligence and wisdom could perhaps keep Lanconia from falling under his rule. “Lanconia may get a sulking English brat for a king but we will have a wise Lanconian woman for queen.”
“Thank you,” Cilean said. “Yes, that is what I think Thal has in mind and I am honored by his trust in me but I…”
“You want a man for a husband,” Jura said with feeling. “You want someone like Daire: tall and strong and lusty and intelligent and—”
Cilean laughed. “Yes, I can admit to you, my closest friend, that on one hand I am greatly honored, but on the other, I am thinking with the softness of a woman. Does this Englishman really have white hair? Who told you that?”