Stuart, Elizabeth by Bride of the Lion Page A

Jocelyn was reminded of why she had
feared so last night.
    "My
wife is dead, madam."
    Jocelyn
swallowed hard. "I... I..."
    But
Robert de Langley had already turned away.

Seven
    Jocelyn
watched Robert de Langley stride away through the crowd. Never had she so
regretted her sharp tongue as she did at this moment. Not even when it had
brought down a beating upon her head. The great Lion of Normandy was obviously
vulnerable, and in a way she would never have expected. He must have loved his
wife a very great deal.
    She
frowned and bit her lip. It was easy to see that he was a man who enjoyed
women. It was written in the sensual way he moved, the husky, intimate tone of
his voice, the frank, assessing perusal he gave all women, even one as
unprepossessing as herself.
    It
was no small wonder a man like that had taken a woman like Alys to bed so
quickly. Quite apart from love, which seemed rare, or the very real need to
sire heirs, men had physical needs that needed to be met.
    Jocelyn
had learned about men early from managing her own keep of Warford. After her
mother's death, she had been forever having to protect the maidservants, first
from the insufferable bailiff her father had sent and then, when she had
finally gotten rid of him, from the castle's men-at-arms.
    It
had taken her a long while to make her people take her seriously. There had
been months of struggle, of insolent challenges and subtle undermining of her
authority, even physical abuse by some of the individuals her father had sent
to rule her.
    But
Jocelyn had persevered and, despite her youth, she had won. She had managed her
manor and seen it running smoothly, had gained the respect of everyone who had
mattered. Everyone except her father.
    In
the end, it was he who had won. After fourteen years of indifference, of exceedingly
rare and painful visits, he had remembered that he had another daughter, a
daughter who had grown to womanhood in the wild and dangerous Welsh border
country.
    He
had appeared unexpectedly, bringing a castellan to rule Warford and taking
Jocelyn away to Montagne. And she had been as powerless to stop the
disintegration of her world as she had on that other day when all she loved was
destroyed, the day her mother had died.
    How
fresh was Robert de Langley's loss? Jocelyn knew from experience that time
didn't wipe out the hurt. It had been nearly eight years and her mother's loss
still grieved her. Still, time did bring acceptance. It had to. Life went on.
    But
from the powerful emotion she had seen on de Langley's face, she suspected the
new lord of Belavoir hadn't accepted anything as yet.
    "My
lady, a fellow by the name of Wat said to tell you he's singeing down the last
of the carcasses. I'll send my men off to bed now unless you've need of
them."
    Jocelyn
looked up. Sir Geoffrey was waiting expectantly. He was obviously the captain
of de Langley's knights. "No, I've no further need of them. We'll be done
in a couple of hours. At least for tonight."
    He
nodded and turned away.
    "Sir
Geoffrey."
    He
glanced back.
    "How
long has your lord's wife been dead?"
    A
strange, shuttered look dropped over his face. "Why do you ask?"
    Jocelyn
felt herself flush unexpectedly and was thankful for the darkness. "I
don't mean to pry. I just—" She took a deep breath. "I angered your
lord just now. I spoke of his wife. I was..." She searched for a word.
"...disrespectful. I didn't know the woman was dead. Despite the situation
here, I'd really no desire to tear old wounds. Would you tell him that for
me?"
    Sir
Geoffrey stared hard at the ground. "I will. If the time is right." He
glanced up. "In point of fact, madam, the less said about the lady
Marguerite the better. She's been dead now three years," he added.
    Three
years. And a reminder of her death had the power to make the man look as he had
just now. "I see," she said softly.
    "You
might as well know, Lord Robert had a son as well. Adam. He was four years old.
A fine lad." The knight hesitated. "We