and bones, he might as well have a flock of gannets in the place.
His mind reeled. Desperately he tried to master his sense of doom. Think, man, think—"Father!"
Raising his eyes, he shuddered and groaned again. Hurrying out of the main door of the castle was a figure in rose silk and velvet, her gown and veil streaming in the wind. "Father," she called, "is it true? The King and Queen coming here?"
"Lienore, not now!" he bellowed furiously. "Get back to your quarters, and stay there till they've gone!" If the King meets a family welcome, he groaned inwardly, we'll never get rid of him. "Go back, I tell you!" he screeched. "I want you out of the way!"
But the shapely figure did not check her stride. Shaking with rage, the Earl watched her coming on. How was it that he could make boys faint and soldiers weep, and have no control over this bitch of a girl?
Look at her now, he screamed silently, knowing that the stable master and the men-at-arms were watching her raptly, too, taking in the wide eyes, the moist lips and open mouth, the gown straining across the bobbing breasts—
"Get about your business, fools!" He scattered them with a snarl, fighting the urge to take after them with his whip.
Behind Lienore now he could see a waiting woman following her out of the doorway, with a child in tow. God's blood and bones! A fresh burst of rage battered at his heart. "Take the bastard away," he howled, "and lock him in his room!"
"Your grandson, Father!" Lienore returned with sublime indifference. "Your own flesh and blood."
She came to a halt before him, stroking down her rosy skirts. In repose her pink cheeks, delicate skin, and round, girlish eyes looked soft and cherubic, tempting to any man. But Earl Sweyn knew how deceptive her softness could be. His gaze turned to the boy, a tall, sturdy child of seven or thereabouts. "So it's not enough to bring a bastard home? You want to shame us now in front of the King?"
"I only did what every woman does," said Lienore. She raised her lovely eyes in an innocent look. "What your mother did to give birth to you."
Oh, the impudent slut! Earl Sweyn's fingers itched. If he hadn't known his departed wife so well, he'd have doubted this trollop could ever be his child. But he'd married Lienore's mother for her Christian piety, and got more than he expected, a wife unhappy from the first to come to his bed. Their struggles between the sheets had convinced her that sex with him was an unrepeatable sin, and as soon as Lienore was born she had withdrawn to a nunnery, where she lived to this day. Nothing he could say had been able to change her mind. And the girl gets that stubbornness from her, he thought venomously. But at least his wife knew who had fathered her child!
"My mother," he said with cruel emphasis, "had a ring on her finger when she lost her maidenhead. She didn't get so befuddled with drink she lay down with a stranger in a Gypsy's tent!"
"It wasn't drink," said Lienore, with what he would have sworn was a sly relish. "It was the fumes the fortune-teller raised." She closed her eyes. "Fumes," she repeated. "The rarest scent you ever smelled—"
"Fumes, you harlot?" He was yelping with rage. "I took you to that tournament to make a good match! I thought you'd come back with a husband for our house, not a babe in your belly and a cuckoo for our nest!"
Lienore reached out a velvet-covered arm and coolly plucked the child away from his nurse.
"He's not a cuckoo," she said carelessly, "he's a big fine boy." She tousled the child's thick, fair hair and treated the Earl to a smile every bit as cruel as his own. "Whoever his father was, he was a lusty lad. He could keep any woman happy all her life." Unlike you, Father, her innocent blue eyes said.
The Earl felt the child's bright gaze on him and suddenly did not care that his wife had left him and his daughter had proved a strumpet. His grandson was indeed a big, handsome boy, fair and open-faced, one any grandfather would
His mind reeled. Desperately he tried to master his sense of doom. Think, man, think—"Father!"
Raising his eyes, he shuddered and groaned again. Hurrying out of the main door of the castle was a figure in rose silk and velvet, her gown and veil streaming in the wind. "Father," she called, "is it true? The King and Queen coming here?"
"Lienore, not now!" he bellowed furiously. "Get back to your quarters, and stay there till they've gone!" If the King meets a family welcome, he groaned inwardly, we'll never get rid of him. "Go back, I tell you!" he screeched. "I want you out of the way!"
But the shapely figure did not check her stride. Shaking with rage, the Earl watched her coming on. How was it that he could make boys faint and soldiers weep, and have no control over this bitch of a girl?
Look at her now, he screamed silently, knowing that the stable master and the men-at-arms were watching her raptly, too, taking in the wide eyes, the moist lips and open mouth, the gown straining across the bobbing breasts—
"Get about your business, fools!" He scattered them with a snarl, fighting the urge to take after them with his whip.
Behind Lienore now he could see a waiting woman following her out of the doorway, with a child in tow. God's blood and bones! A fresh burst of rage battered at his heart. "Take the bastard away," he howled, "and lock him in his room!"
"Your grandson, Father!" Lienore returned with sublime indifference. "Your own flesh and blood."
She came to a halt before him, stroking down her rosy skirts. In repose her pink cheeks, delicate skin, and round, girlish eyes looked soft and cherubic, tempting to any man. But Earl Sweyn knew how deceptive her softness could be. His gaze turned to the boy, a tall, sturdy child of seven or thereabouts. "So it's not enough to bring a bastard home? You want to shame us now in front of the King?"
"I only did what every woman does," said Lienore. She raised her lovely eyes in an innocent look. "What your mother did to give birth to you."
Oh, the impudent slut! Earl Sweyn's fingers itched. If he hadn't known his departed wife so well, he'd have doubted this trollop could ever be his child. But he'd married Lienore's mother for her Christian piety, and got more than he expected, a wife unhappy from the first to come to his bed. Their struggles between the sheets had convinced her that sex with him was an unrepeatable sin, and as soon as Lienore was born she had withdrawn to a nunnery, where she lived to this day. Nothing he could say had been able to change her mind. And the girl gets that stubbornness from her, he thought venomously. But at least his wife knew who had fathered her child!
"My mother," he said with cruel emphasis, "had a ring on her finger when she lost her maidenhead. She didn't get so befuddled with drink she lay down with a stranger in a Gypsy's tent!"
"It wasn't drink," said Lienore, with what he would have sworn was a sly relish. "It was the fumes the fortune-teller raised." She closed her eyes. "Fumes," she repeated. "The rarest scent you ever smelled—"
"Fumes, you harlot?" He was yelping with rage. "I took you to that tournament to make a good match! I thought you'd come back with a husband for our house, not a babe in your belly and a cuckoo for our nest!"
Lienore reached out a velvet-covered arm and coolly plucked the child away from his nurse.
"He's not a cuckoo," she said carelessly, "he's a big fine boy." She tousled the child's thick, fair hair and treated the Earl to a smile every bit as cruel as his own. "Whoever his father was, he was a lusty lad. He could keep any woman happy all her life." Unlike you, Father, her innocent blue eyes said.
The Earl felt the child's bright gaze on him and suddenly did not care that his wife had left him and his daughter had proved a strumpet. His grandson was indeed a big, handsome boy, fair and open-faced, one any grandfather would
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