a damned May fair to walk amongst them.”
“And you the beribboned Maypole, towering above them all,” Ian teased good-naturedly.
“You could use some peacocking yourself,” Will retorted, giving his brother’s ringless hands and dark blue surcoat a candid once-over. “If you would not shame me, at least wear something other than those boots when you go to take the evening meal.”
“Nay, I’d look the fool in shoes such as yours, falling flat on my face every time I tried to take a step.”
Will lifted a huge foot clad in felt slippers with toes so long and pointed they had to be curled back and caught with garters below his knees.
“’Tis a ridiculous fashion,” Will agreed with a laugh. “But a fellow must wear them, or look the country bumpkin to all the ladies.”
“You’ve much yet to learn of women, if you think ‘tis your shoes that interests them.”
To Ian’s surprise, Will failed to respond to his wry comment. The laughter faded from the boy’s face, to be replaced by an expression containing an equal mixture of earnestness and defiance.
“I know I have much yet to learn of women, Ian, but I’m not quite the fool our mother thinks me. I’m neither besotted nor bewitched. Nor do I need you to turn me from my ‘silly’ infatuation.”
Ian stifled an oath as he surveyed his brother’s stiff countenance. Evidently the Lady Elizabeth had written to advise Will of her misgivings and of her request for Ian’s intervention in his brother’s affairs. Shrugging off a momentary irritation at his mother’s interference, he led the way to two armchairs set before the fire. He poured two goblets of wine, passed one to Will, then stretched his long legs out to the fire.
“I’ll admit I’ve had some difficulty visualizing myself in the role of protector of your virtue,” he said lazily. “Especially since I was the one who sent two eager kitchen wenches to the barn to help you lose it some years ago.”
Will sputtered into his goblet, and an ebullient smile once more brightened his face.
“I didn’t think you’d dare come down heavy on me, Ian. You, of all people! You’ve not been exactly continent since your lady wife died these many years ago. Still, my mother’s latest missive all but shriveled my manhood with dire threats of what you’d do if I did not cease my…my preoccupation with the Lady Madeline.”
Ian’s lips twitched. “Mothers do tend to see these things differently.”
“Yes, well, this…this is somewhat different, Ian.” Will’s broad smile took on a tentative edge once more, and he leaned forward in his seat. “The Lady Madeline is different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“That’s what you said about the chandler’s daughter, the one with the astonishing repertoire of tricks with candles,” Ian commented dryly.
“She’s not like that!”
“Nay? Nor like the two sisters of the count de Marbeau, the ones who—?”
“I would not have you speak of the Lady Madeline in the same breath as those two.”
The cool command in Will’s voice made Ian’s brow arch in surprise. He set aside his wine and studied his brother. The boy’s—no, the young man’s—face wore a mask of wounded dignity. Ian had enough years of experience dealing with youthful squires and pages, guiding their transition from boy to knight, to know when to prick their pretensions and when to listen.
“Very well, I will not speak of her thus,” he told Will easily. “You speak, instead. Tell me of this paragon who has you arrayed in your finest velvet robes and gold rings.”
“She’s…she’s special, Ian. Charming and gracious, with a laugh like silver bells carrying on the summer breeze.”
Ian’s brow inched up another notch, and Will leaned forward, his blue eyes shining with sincerity.
“She’s not beautiful, exactly, but makes all other women pale in her company. And kind—she’s kind to a fault.”
“She’d have to be, to pay any attention to a clumsy-footed clunch such as you,” Ian agreed.
Will nodded, in perfect accord with this description of one whose inheritance rivaled those of the wealthiest knights in England and whose form was fast fulfilling its promise of raw strength and masculine beauty.
“She tells me I’m but a callow cub, as well,” he admitted, sheep-faced. “But she’s given me her hand twice in the dance, and I have hopes of wearing her token in the tourney.”
As he proceeded to describe the Lady Madeline, Will’s stock of poetic phrases ran out long before his enthusiasm for his subject. By the time Ian had suffered hearing how her hair gleamed like the glossy bark of a towering chestnut tree for the third time, and how her eyes sparkled like the veriest stars several times over, he’d heard enough to make him distinctly uneasy.
To his experienced ears, it sounded as if the lady but played with Will. She enticed him with smiles, yet kept him at arm’s length with a show of maidenly reserve. Such false modesty from one who had buried two husbands and was rumored to bed with the king’s son grated on Ian. Hand upraised, he called a halt to Will’s paean to the lady.
“Enough, man, enough! You make my head ache with all your mangled poetry. Let’s go down and seek out this exemplar of womanly virtues. I would see if she lives up to half of your honeyed words.”
Will clambered to his feet with boyish eagerness. “Aye, let’s go. I’m anxious for you to meet her.”
“No more than I am,” Ian responded easily, but his eyes were hard as he followed Will from the chamber.
They made slow progress across Kenilworth’s vast hall, as many acquaintances called greetings to Ian. All the great barons owing homage to King Henry were summoned thrice yearly for these state occasions, held in conjunction with church feast days. It was an opportunity for the king to consult with his barons, and for the lords themselves to share news and gossip. Those who had not provided knight’s service in the latest war were anxious to hear Ian’s account of the action. Will lingered by Ian’s side for a while, then spotted a small knot of courtiers at the far side of the hall. He nudged his brother in the side with an elbow.
“’Tis her, Ian. The Lady Madeline. I would go and speak with her. Join me when you can.”
From a corner of his eye, Ian watched his brother’s passage across the hall. His lips tightened at the fatuous expression that settled on Will’s face as he bent over the hand of a slight figure in a flowing crimson gown.
Seeing her from across the hall, Ian’s first impression of the Lady Madeline was that she hadn’t changed much from the mousy young maid he half remembered. Surrounded by a ring of richly dressed men and elegant women, her slight figure was barely visible. He could just make out her profile, with a nose more short and pert than aquiline, and a chin more distinguished by its firmness than by soft, rounded feminine beauty. From the little Ian could see of her braided hair, caught up in two gold cauls over her ears and covered with a silken veil, it appeared more brown than the bright chestnut Will had rhapsodized over. Some of the tension in Ian’s body eased. Whatever the rumors about the Lady Madeline’s
