The Trouble With Roses

By Màiri Norris

An unorthodox woman with a restless spirit...
In her youth, Evarette D’Auvrecher was nicknamed the “restless fire” child. Now a woman grown, she retains that fiery nature. Many men seek her hand in marriage. They want her beauty, generous dower and an alliance with her influential family. They expect from her a meek spirit and implicit obedience - the hallmarks of a proper noblewoman - but she hungers for a man who desires her for herself.

Meets a warrior with a sense of inadequacy - and a slightly misplaced sense of humor.
Sir Javain d’Olgeanc is a powerful knight whose strength lies in battle strategy and the leadership of warriors. Then his father falls ill and he is called home to care for and protect hearth, home - and heaven forbid, helpless, defenseless innocents - a task for which he has little training. To make matters worse, he must manage this feat while falling in love with an unconventional beauty and staying one step ahead of a murderer.

Fate brings them together. Sensual attraction binds them. But they might well kill each other before love can claim them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Màiri Norris
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311533166

Màiri Norris

About me: Màiri is a USN vet who lives in the Hampton Roads metropolis of Virginia, though her heart belongs to the Highlands of Scotland. She loves to travel and has dreams of moving to Inverness with her Coast Guard retiree husband and three cats, and to that end is studying Scots Gaelic. Màiri made up stories in her mind from childhood. Her mother taught her to read at age six, when she discovered a whole new universe to explore through books. She never looked back. She is now thrilled to be putting some of those stories into print. She makes twelfth-scale [dollhouse] miniatures as a hobby when she is not busy writing. She is a proud member of Romance Writers of America, Celtic Hearts Romance Writers, Hearts Through History Romance Writers, and Clan Donald, USA.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my husband, a knight errant in the flesh.

DISCLAIMER

Everything possible has been done to insure this book is free of grammatical, typographical and formatting errors [despite the helpful efforts of my kitties]. Please forgive those few that may have slipped past the many eyes that searched for them.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

At the time of this story, 1097 A.D., a Norman by the name of Nigel de Muneville was actually baron of Folkestone (O.E. Folcanstan), England. Baron de Muneville is remembered for establishing a Benedictine priory in the town.

The word ‘buttery’ from medieval days comes from the word ‘butt’, which was the old word for a barrel or cask in which wine, ale, mead and similar drinks were kept. Thus, a ‘buttery’, which was usually underground, was a cool storage area for the alcoholic beverages of the period.

The white keep (White Tower) in the Tower of London complex was originally called the Great Tower. It was not called ‘white’ until the days of Edward III. He it was, who first ordered the application of whitewash to the walls, which practice continued thereafter. Today the castle—which is not, technically speaking, a ‘tower’—and the fortress complex around it is officially titled, Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress of the Tower of London.

The onion-shaped domes presently topping each of the four White Tower turrets were not installed until the 16th c. Before that, the turret caps were conical.

It was not my original intent to have the ‘link’ between Evarette and Evart, her twin, so close as it turned out in this book. Still, the ‘connection’ between twins can be strong, and I had a lot of fun developing this one. It is my hope you, my readers, willingly suspend belief and enjoy it, also.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

AND PLACE NAMES FOUND IN

THE TROUBLE WITH ROSES

PLACES

Le Donjon des Maoues – [Old French: Seabird Keep]; d’Olgeanc keep on the Sea of Germania in East Engla Rice

East Engla Rice – East Anglia; region in eastern England; includes the shires of Norfolk and Suffolk

Eastsæxe – Essex; shire in eastern England

Gieffrinnet – home to Marguerite de Orsey; north of Cambridge

Grantebrycge – Cambridge [Old English: Bridge over the River Granta]

Dovera – Dover, England [a Channel port (‘Cinque Port’)]

Bretagne – Brittany, France

Brome Manor – home to Eustache, Comte de Meulan (lord of) and Javain d’Olgeanc; north of Oxford

Folcanstan – Folkestone, England

Cateriz Abbey – Chatteris Abbey, Cambridgeshire, England

Colneceastre – Colchester, England

Temese – River Thames

Domuc – Dunwich, Suffolk, England

Sudholda – Southwold, Suffolk, England

Walhbertwyc – Walberswick, Suffolk, England

Suthfolc – Suffolk; shire in eastern England

Oxenaforda – Oxford, England

Wulfsinraed Burh – wisdom of Wulfsin; home of the D’Auvrecher family in Essex

Sea of Germania – North Sea

Normandie – Normandy, France

MISCELLANEOUS NAMES

Rabieuse (raving/raging) – Evarette’s sorrel mare

Leal (loyal) – Javain’s bay dun courser

D’or (gold, golden) – Javain’s wolfhound

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sir Javain d’Olgeanc – PROTAGONIST; 25; First to Eustache, Comte de Meulan, lord of Brome Manor

Eustache, Comte de Meulan – lord of Brome Manor; liege lord to Javain, [also overlord (liege lord) to the holding of Le

Donjon des Maoues and Baron Guiscard d’Olgeanc]

Baron Guiscard d’Olgeanc – 44; lord/steward of Le Donjon des Maoues – Javain’s father

Rosalinda d’Olgeanc – 39; Javain’s mother

Sir Desmares – ANTAGONIST [Edouard Desmares, his father]

Adele – 23; Javain’s married sister living in Bretagne [Brittany, France]

Baron Fallard D’Auvrecher – 44; Norman; lord/steward of Wulfsinraed Burh; father to Evarette

Ysane D’Auvrecher – 40; Saxon; wife of Fallard and mother to Evarette

Evarette D’Auvrecher – PROTAGONIST; 17; fraternal twin to Evart

Evart D’Auvrecher – 17; fraternal twin to Evarette; in service to Sir Chretien Dujardin

Marc D’Auvrecher – 14; brother to Evarette; squire to Sir Chretien Dujardin

Sir Chretien Dujardin – liege lord to Evart and Marc, whom they follow to the Holy Land [Outremer]

Minna – 13; sister to Evarette

Roberge – 5; Evarette’s youngest brother

Sir Launce – First to Baron Fallard D’Auvrecher of Wulfsinraed Burh

Marguerite de Orsey – 16; Evarette’s best friend; lives at Gieffrinnet Manor

Sir Aubert Destain – 26; Javain’s closest friend; First to Guiscard d’Olgeanc at Le Donjon des Maoues

Sir Rollo – 23; Second at Le Donjon des Maoues

Aliss – 18; maidservant assigned to Evarette at Le Donjon des Maoues

Heward of Domuc – physician

Geve – aid to Heward of Domuc

William II (Rufus) – third son of William the Conqueror, became King of England in 1087, died in 1100

GLOSSARY

A guide to the Old English and Old Norman used in this story.

bordars and cottars – not quite slaves; the lowest societal level above serfs; worked three to five acres for their liege lord

Old English

cyrtel – female undergarment, loose, floor and wrist length

deorling – an endearment; dear one; darling

hadsæx – a short knife, usu. around seven to nine inches long; used as an eating knife or a hand weapon; generally kept in a boot sheath, or a sheath attached to a noblewoman’s girdle

headrail – Saxon female head veil; often worn with a waist length mantle

hearth companion – a nobleman’s household troops, loyal for life; men-at-arms, but often performed other tasks, including certain household duties; king’s thegns were hearth companions to the Saxon royal household

scop – minstral, but more of a story-teller, particularly of poetry; held high rank in Saxon society

syrce – female over-garment, knee and elbow length, voluminous, gathered at the waist and secured by a girdle

Old French

glos pautonnier – curse; more or less meaningless today, but a serious insult in those days

Sanguelac – Blood Lake; name given by the Normans to Senlac Ridge, six miles outside of Hastings, England; the site where William the Conqueror defeated the English King Harold Godwineson on October 14, 1066

For your reading enjoyment, a Cast of Characters, Place Names and a Glossary are provided in the opening pages of this book.

CHAPTER ONE

Words in Unfamiliar Use

blain – boil

groyn – a wood or stone barrier built out into the water from a beach to prevent erosion

hide – Saxon land measurement representing acreage needed to support a holding

Early April – The Month of Feasting – 1097

The Great Tower in London

’Twas the blood on the rosebush that got him in trouble.

The rescue of a lovely but exasperated goddess from the bush’s fierce and evil thorns was not exactly how Javain d’Olgeanc would choose to impress a woman upon their first meeting. Howbeit, had a good impression been his intent, it might have served the purpose had he been able to hide his mirth at her expense. The answering fire in her moss green eyes was enough to scorch a man for such a presumption—or leave him badly wanting her.

He sat up straight in the hot bath—two in as many days was a rare luxury for a warrior too long away from home, even if it had cost him an extra silver piece because of the hour—and ran the soapy washing cloth up over his chest to the nape of his neck.

At the abrupt movement, D’or, his young wolfhound, looked up from where he lounged in front of the chamber’s brazier.

Aye, D’or, I knew it the moment I saw her. I said to myself, ‘she is trouble’. I felt it here. He slapped the area over his heart with the wet cloth, only to blink madly when a soapy droplet splashed in his right eye. "Her papa breathed fire in the direction of my papa yestre eve, despite my best intentions were only to help. But, the problem was dealt with this night during our talks. I remain a free man."

D’or heaved an indifferent canine sigh and settled back to his nap. ’Twas so late, even he had sense enough to be abed.

"Fine confidante you are, hound. You could at least groan in sympathy. Next time I will allow you to assist the distressed damsel. Mayhap, ’twould then be you who faced the delights of unexpected matrimony."

Closing his eyes, he squirmed deeply into the tub and let his wet head fall back on the linen folded like a pillow over the tub’s edge. He relaxed one set of muscles after the other in the water’s heat. Ah, but it felt good, almost as good as the gentle touch of the goddess.

"Not that I would mind wedding the lady, truth to say. She is a goddess, after all. I suppose, D’or, ’tis a good thing papa and I leave in the morn. I will ride away and leave trouble behind. This trouble, that is. ’Tis too bad ’tis not so easy to deal with the other problem that plagues me."

Which was only a little matter of attempted murder. His own.

Aye, she would have been trouble, all right, he said, heaving a great sigh, but mayhap, a delightful challenge, even if she did glare at me throughout this eve’s supper banquet. But, all is settled. ’Tis unlikely I will ever see her again.

And why did his soul find that a bleak thought?

Then his lips quirked, for he could not help recalling the encounter. For the fiftieth time.

oo§oo

The Day Previous

Javain and his father, Guiscard d’Olgeanc, had only a few days earlier arrived back in England after completing a winter long campaign in Normandie for their liege lord, Eustache, Comte de Meulan. A holding of the comte on the border with Bretagne had been attacked and laid under siege by a rival lord. The comte gained King William’s permission to send troops to the aid of his vassal. Guiscard was chosen to lead that company. Javain, the comte’s First, accompanied his father as second-in-command. The campaign lasted four months, during which time they fought the requisite battles, freezing weather, outlaws, boredom and roads with mud nigh up to the hocks of their horses.

They barely disembarked at the port in Dovera before a royal messenger, waiting for them at an innhouse nigh the docks, handed them a summons from the king. They were expected in London for the start of a great gala. With Guiscard and D’or at his side, Javain rode for two and a half days to obey the royal invitation.

Noontide was only just past as they plodded through the gates into the packed courtyard of the Great Tower, the immense royal bastion begun by the first King William. Guards were thick as bees protecting a thriving hive, for they arrived but hours ere the first in a series of banquets commenced to celebrate the castle’s inauguration.

Unlike many who only now saw the fortress for the first time, Javain had viewed the structure at various stages of construction. Each time, he came away more impressed, for the massive new keep was unlike any other in the land.

He craned his neck to peer at the new conical caps on the four turrets. The last time he was here, the turrets were not yet complete. ’Twas like looking at a castle out of a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on whether one was Norman or Saxon.

Certes, our Conqueror lived up to his byname, he said as they were forced by the throng to dismount to lead their horses to the stable entrance. Methinks he wished to insure all England knew there was no hope of going back to what was.

Guiscard slapped his riding gloves against his thigh, wrinkling his nose at the dust that flew from his surcoat. Agreed, but ’tis a good thing for all. Rebellions are wasteful.

Javain nodded. They should know. Certes, the one they overcame these past months in Normandie had been costly, a stupid waste of coin, blood and life brought on by one man’s greed.

It seemed to take forever to work their way up the crowded steps leading to the Great Tower entrance, despite that D’or’s rather intimidating presence cleared a narrow path. Once inside, they met with a servant who tried to convince them to turn around and take D’or to the stables. The coin Javain slipped him changed his mind. As the man showed them to their quarters, he asked if they required food, for they missed the noontide meal.

Javain cared not. He was too tired for hunger. It cost another coin to insure meat and water were brought for D’or, but he longed only to lay his body down. He was weary enough to fall, not sit, on his pallet in the bedchamber they were to share with four other knights. Happily, those fellows were not yet in residence. ’Twould be sorely cramped when they were, but an invitation to stay in the Great Tower was an honor earned by few. None would choose to seek lodging elsewhere.

Guiscard’s groan was heartfelt as his saddlebags and the traveling satchel holding his chainmail hit the floor with heavy thuds. I swear, son, my mail has doubled in weight since we began this mad venture. He laid his sword on his pallet with more care. We should never have left our squires to laze away their days with Nigel de Muneville at Folcanstan, despite William’s order.

Javain grunted. Our king does what he wants. He thinks those two imps should finish their training at Folcanstan, rather than with you at des Maoues or with me at Brome Manor.

His father laid out his own pallet. Aye, a stubborn rascal, is our royal sire. I am off to locate the under-steward. I hope to learn when we might expect William to give us audience for our formal release.

Javain collapsed on the bed, his back to the wall. I pray ’twill be soon. I have no wish to stay for the entire celebration. Howbeit, with the place overrun with high lords and ranking dignitaries of every stripe, all of whom wish an audience, I fear we will be fortunate does the king receive us within the week.

Mayhap. I will remind William’s counselor of our sire’s promise.

He watched his father leave the room and sighed. As weary as he felt, papa looked worse. His skin was gray and the orbs of his eyes were shrunken into their sockets, as if death had visited, only to decide not yet to take him. Guiscard needed rest, decent food and more rest, in that order.

He hoped the king would honor his word that those involved in the long campaign need not linger in London once they returned to make their report. Howbeit, ’twas surprising William even remembered he sent them to Normandie, much less to extend the prestigious invitations to bide in the Tower for the celebrations. In truth, he rather suspected the summons came from a minion close to the king, rather than William himself.

He blew out a breath and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. To think, after these past cursed months of special service and the lengthy journey from Normandie, he would barely arrive at Le Donjon des Maoues, their coastal home in East Engla Rice where his father was lord and steward, ere he would be expected to leave again to return to Brome Manor and his service as First to Lord Eustache. A month of sleep would not go amiss, but he was due at des Maoues for his triennial update on the holding’s state of affairs.

Nevertheless, while he and Guiscard loved each other and always had—neither denied it—they did not much like each other. His father would not thank him for tarrying at des Maoues longer than necessary. His fatigue escalated just giving thought to more travel.

Running a hand through hair tangled by nigh two days of riding, he grimaced at the grit. At least they would have a chance to bathe before sup. He expected the servants with the wash water any moment. His skin tingled in anticipation.

Disdaining exhaustion—there would be no opportunity for sleep until the night—he stood and slouched to the chamber’s one window. ’Twas an arched embrasure in the eleven-foot thick walls through which a small man might walk. He opened the heavy shutters, enjoying the warmth of the spring air that breathed through the aperture. In the near distance, a portion of the city of London spread out before him. From this vantage point, he thought it not much to look at. The smell was worse. ’Twas overlaid by the fragrance of flowers nearby, but their sweetness did not help much.

He was about to turn away when the sweet melody of a woman’s voice raised in laughter drifted through the arch. Something in the sound tugged at his insides. Ignoring his father’s dire childhood warnings that curiosity was too oft a man’s downfall, he yielded to impulse and stepped into the embrasure. He had to bend a little—he was not a small man—to reach the outer edge.

Directly below the embrasure was the castle garden, a rainbow of spring colors and floral scents wedged in a narrow strip between the keep’s rough-stoned surface and the curtain wall. ’Twas an anomaly in this otherwise starkly utilitarian citadel. The present King William had no wife, so he supposed Queen Matilda, wife to the first William and dead now these past four and ten years, was responsible for planning it. From its proximity to the kitchens, he thought it must serve primarily for growing herbs and spices for cooking and medicaments, but apparently it also offered a fragrant retreat for visiting ladies.

Drenched in sunlight and bright animation, two women and a girl wandered among the flowerbeds. Their lack of head veils proclaimed them maidens. Grace personified, they were fashionably garbed in attire more suitable for the palace than the rough Tower. All of them, even the young one, were ‘heartbreaker’ beauties as his friend Aubert would say. White petals from chestnut trees drifted through the air to settle upon their hair, their cloaks and the ground, like so much goose down.

The two eldest were of a height, one lissome, the other slender, but with a treasure of womanly curves. Hair that borrowed its blonde lights from the sunshine graced the head of the lissome one, but ’twas the other, a goddess crowned with locks the deep black of the night wind, that snagged his interest. Her radiance was that of fire, while the blonde diffused pure ice. The youngest female, who appeared to be mayhap three and ten seasons of age, strolled with her hand on the arm of the goddess. She looked enough like her, but with less striking coloring, he deemed it safe to assume them related, if not sisters.

’Twas the voice of the goddess he heard, for even as he watched, the warmth of her laughter chimed again.

Alarm shivered through him. The confidence of her bearing snared his admiration and her sensual allure captivated, tugging on sensitive strings in manly parts. The damsel charmed with voice, face and manner.

She is trouble.

His instincts screamed it. She was also not for the likes of him. He would bet his last mark her guardian was of high nobility, and ’twas probable she was betrothed from infancy.

Bemused, he started to turn away, needing to put that fiery beauty from his mind before she could haunt him, but at that moment, she looked up. A clear gaze of moss green first clashed, then locked with his own. Never had he seen eyes of such a vivid hue. The unexpected heat that flashed between them stole his breath. He could not look away. The beauty likewise seemed melted in place.

He inhaled, seeking a return of the breath she purloined.

Can a woman’s soul shine through her eyes?

He knew not, but her instant awareness of him as a man certainly could. Approval, too. He glimpsed both in the emerald depths. His nerves prickled.

Evarette! The urgent admonition of the cool blonde pierced the spell.

He shuddered.

Evarette. Sweet saints, now I know her name. I am doomed.

The blonde threw him a cautionary glance and caught her friend’s wrist. She spoke in low tones to the night-haired goddess.

The goddess snatched her hand from her friend’s grasp and stepped away, only to lurch and jerk her foot off the ground. She gave a startled squeak as something small and alive—he could not discern its species—scurried from beneath her skirts. She recoiled, and promptly lost her balance to fall, arms flailing, into the thick shrubbery behind her.

She shrieked.

The bushes had many long, spindly stems. He searched his sketchy knowledge of flowers and decided they were rosebushes. He was sure he remembered roses had thorns.

Intent on the scene, he leaned forward so far he nigh fell out the window.

The companions of the goddess tried to extricate her from the snare, but the more they struggled, the worse the silk and tightly woven wool of her garments became entangled.

Two lines of bright red beads welled along the fragile skin of her right cheekbone. The crimson drops slid down her white face to dribble onto tiny green buds. More of them dripped from her left hand and right arm to discolor the sleeve of her gown and smear along the stems.

Oh, aye. Definitely thorny.

The goddess was bleeding all over the rosebush.

Whence came the mad desire to cast caution aside and rescue the fair maid, he never knew. Fatigue forgotten, he grabbed the riding gloves he earlier removed and charged from the chamber, yelling at D’or to ‘stay’. Soon, he was in the garden, jogging past a stone bench and a sundial to reach the unfortunate little tableau.

The goddess was thoroughly ensnared. She had gone very still, apparently in an effort to prevent worse tangling. The other two, howbeit, were panicked, fluttering helplessly.

Forgive my unkempt appearance, demoiselles, he said upon reaching them. I have only this moment arrived from a long journey. May I offer aid?

Aye sir, please, the fair-haired one said, we cannot free her without hurting her further.

The young one squinted toward the goddess through tear-wet eyes. Aye, sir, she echoed, white-faced. Her voice was barely above a whisper. Please help my sister. She may be badly hurt.

He blinked at the terror in her plea. It seemed a rather dramatic response to what was merely a minor,