By Right of Arms by Robyn Carr Page A

Lavergne and Sir Girvin close at their heels. The door was tightly shut and Hyatt seated her before the hearth. Lord Lavergne slowly found a place near his daughter, and Girvin stood at the closed door, his arms crossed over his massive chest.
    Aurélie’s father sighed heavily as he adjusted himself in his seat. Hyatt stood a generous distance from them, leaning casually against the wall.
    “Ahem,” Lavergne coughed. “I am most grateful to see you are fit. You, above all, have some right to this keep. Your dowry saw the building of the church and much of the outer wall. It shall be preserved in your name. There is no heir save the widow.”
    Aurélie looked down into her lap, trying to keep her hands demurely folded and her heart still. “There are no heirs in war, Father,” she whispered.
    “That you are mistress of this hall need not be questioned again. You shall remain so.”
    She looked up at her father in astonishment. “That will be most awkward, Father,” she said, trying not to ridicule him too openly for this absurd suggestion. “I doubt Sir Hyatt could bear my chafing presence.”
    “But he insists on your presence. You know the town, the people, and the lands better than any servant.”
    She quickly looked at Hyatt to find him listening to the conversation with quiet interest. She tried to read his eyes, but they concealed his thoughts.
    “Then we must soon find another,” she hastened, feeling her pulse quicken. “We must leave this man to rule his conquered lands.”
    “You are best suited to aid his leadership, daughter,” Lavergne said. “And best suited to protect the interests of these people. You know them.”
    She neared panic at the thought. Hyatt’s gaze, resting on her with enough heat to warm her, did not betray him. He seemed perfectly calm. “I am the enemy,” she said slowly, trying to keep the anger from her voice. “With all best intention, with the help of God, I cannot be suited to aid Sir Hyatt. Father, I would not be a good choice. The people here would suffer as I would.”
    “Daughter,” he softly pleaded, “pray do not further injure yourself by rejecting Sir Hyatt’s compassion.”
    “Nay,” she nearly cried, feeling herself becoming more agitated, more afraid. “It would bode ill for me to remain a prisoner here and …”
    “You shall wed the man,” Lavergne said evenly.
    Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened. She looked quickly at Hyatt, the question on her lips. His mouth was firm, his eyes level, and she thought she noticed an almost imperceptible nod, but she could not be sure.
    Her eyes were on her father again and she reached out to grasp his hands. “Oh Father, you must not. If I cannot leave here with you, let me take the veil. I shall never ask another thing of you.” She looked pleadingly at Hyatt. “My lord,” she nearly choked, “I yield all, but I beg of you, there is not wisdom enough in all Christendom, nor grace enough in all heaven for me to yield this. ’Twould be a bed of thorns.”
    He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unchanged. He appeared as unmoved by her plight as though he were watching the shoeing of one of his horses. “We shall manage, lady,” he finally said.
    Aurélie felt hysterical laughter coming to her lips. “But I am barren,” she said victoriously. “Surely a knight so powerful must wish to sire many sons?”
    “It is better thus, for I have a son. In himself, he is the equal of ten.”
    She looked back at her father, angered at finding no help in his resigned expression. She whispered in strained agony, “Flanders or the convent, Father. I beg you!”
    He simply looked down and shook his head.
    “Father,” she whispered urgently, “you would have me wed this English bastard and …”
    “Bah! He is no more bastard than you or I. ’Tis but a family disagreement. Perhaps it will be eased.” He looked uncomfortably toward Hyatt, then back to his daughter. “His family