“He was only six years and ten when he won his spurs, but ’twas to be expected, the way he wielded a sword even then.”
Somehow, Reina was not surprised to hear that. Ranulf’s knightly abilities with a sword had never been in doubt. ’Twas his knightly manners, or lack thereof, that she had to wonder about.
As she listened to Walter tell of the battle that had Ranulf knighted at such a young age, she watched her husband across the hall, where he had stopped to have words with his two squires. She was not the only one watching him. It seemed all of her ladies found reason to look that way, too. She sighed inwardly. She could foresee naught but problems in having a husband who was appealing to so many women. Not for herself, of course, but for those poor women.
She had never expected to love her husband. She had hoped to live with him compatibly, to respect him, to be able to depend on him. One out of three was not good.
But she was being unfair and prejudging. She still did not know Ranulf well enough. She hoped there were reasons for why he was the way he was, which was why she had put Walter on the spot to tell her about her husband. And she was right. There were reasons.
She had already learned that his childhood had been worse than she had thought when Ranulf had mentioned it to her. He had grown up without the care of a woman, subject to a brutish man’s temper and heavy fists, shunned by noble and villein alike because of his bastardy. ’Twas not a pretty picture Walter painted for her. And then she learned about Lord Montfort, and that instead of Ranulf’s lot improving, he had merely exchanged one churlish master for another.
“You are not listening, my lady.”
She pinkened slightly, offering Walter an embarrassed smile. “I am afraid tales of blood and gore have never held much fascination for me. Do you tell me instead why Ranulf has a very real dislike for ladies of rank.”
“Why would you think—”
“Do not try to prevaricate with me, sirrah, or has your memory gone to market? You yourself told me of his distrust of all ladies when you convinced me to wed him. I see you now remember. So tell me of the experiences you mentioned then that supposedly soured him against noblewomen.”
Walter squirmed uncomfortably. “’Tis not something he would appreciate your knowing.”
“But you will tell me anyway.” Her voice was smooth as silk, but her expression was implacable. “Because of your glib tongue, I am wed to a man I am not sure I even like. You owe me, Sir Walter.”
To his squirming was added a guilty flush. “He will kill me if he knows I have told you.”
“I will remember that.”
Her tone was not in the least reassuring, was more like a promise to hold his prediction in reserve should she ever want to be rid of him. But Walter shrugged that aside. The last thing he wanted was for her to hate Ranulf, which might come to pass did she not understand him better. And if telling her of Ranulf’s past would touch her woman’s heart, then he would not be doing his friend a disservice.
“Very well,” Walter said. “But first you should know that Ranulf has always had difficulty with women.”
“With that face?” she snorted.
He frowned at her interruption. “Because of that face. Mayhap some men might sell their souls to look as he does, but Ranulf has never been thankful for his handsomeness. Aside from the fact that he is the image of his father, whom you dare not even mention to him, he was teased horribly when he first came to Montfort.”
“But that is normal among young boys.”
“Aye, and he took it in good grace, thinking he was only getting more than his fair share of ribbing—until the day he first saw his own reflection. There were no mirrors in his village, you see, no clear pools of water to throw back an image. He did notknowwhat he looked like until the day one of the older squires at Montfort spitefully shoved a mirror in his face to prove to Ranulf that he was the ‘pretty maid’ they were fond of calling him.”
“And he was horrified,” Reina surmised.
“Aye, and soundly trounced the lad for bringing the truth home to him. He was not teased much after that, but he then understood why girls were always following him about, and it disgusted him. He had thought they were interested in him as a friend. He then knew ’twas his looks alone that fascinated the wenches.”
“You expect me to believe that did not delight him?”
“Not at that young age, lady. They came in packs—milkmaids, kitchen maids, chambermaids, giggling and disturbing our workouts in the exercise yard. And the knights training us knew who to blame, working Ranulf harder and longer than all the rest of us.”
“But when he was older—”
“Oh, he took what the wenches threw at him, never doubt it. But he did not deceive himself that any of the sluts wanted more than a chance to brag to their friends of the conquest—until Lady Anne noticed him. But first there was Lady Montfort.”
“Hislord’swife?”
“Aye, a lady well past her prime, trying to seduce a lad of ten years and five. ’Twas laughable. But the lady did not think so when he refused her bait. She was right furious. And she salved her pride with a little vengeance by informing her husband that Ranulf tried to get into her skirts, earning him a whipping before his peers.”
Reina frowned. “Did he not speak up for himself?”
“Oh, no one believed her accusation, not even Montfort. But you do not call the lord’s wife a liar, and so Ranulf was whipped, with every noble at Montfort turned out to watch it. And that is what brought him to the attention of Lady Anne, ward to Montfort. She was only a year or so older than Ranulf, and a comely wench, with a smile to light up a room, and eyes like—”
