A Kiss in the Night (7 page)

It had been on one of these searches that she came across a mother and two children. The smell had alerted her first and she approached with trepidation. Their three bodies were huddled together -A sight far more gruesome than the one she looked at now. Their flesh was rotting beneath the tattered rags, black with a trail of ants taking what little the birds had left. No shoes. They had no doubt started out from another village, hoping to find someone or something that could keep the slow death of starvation off long enough to reach the summer months.

The sight was not uncommon. It happened all the time.

A hand went to her abdomen. And what if she should carry Paxton's child? Dear Lord, 'twould be so much worse! And what if she could be this Lady Belinda and never see another day's poverty as long as she lived?

Mary, should I, could I? Is this the fate you meant me to have? Is it possible?

She went very still again, searching for a sign. Never in all her life had she needed a sign more. Anxiously her gaze swept the heavens.

Nothing happened.

The river raged on and her gaze dropped to the ground.

A fat frog leaped near the bulrushes.

That was a sign of sorts!

How she would love to be fat for once in her life. To eat lots and lots of food whenever she felt hungry. Steaming hot trencher bread full of thick stew! Strawberries and thick cream! Cheese and honey spread over real wheat bread, hot possets and custards. And, oh Lord, she would love to sleep in a featherbed, with a servant to rush about, fetching her all this fine food. She would love to have a trunk full of pretty clothes and a waiting woman to dress her hair! To be rich enough to exercise the virtue of charity! People would say she was a saint, she would be so kind to the poor folks.

Mary would smile on her efforts.

Still, she needed one more sign to be sure. Her gaze lifted to the heavens again.

A sparrow! Sent by Mary! Sparrows always meant the coming of happiness!

The matter was settled. She looked toward the poor Lady Belinda. She knew what she had to do, and she approached the body to take the key. She never saw the swift flight of a hawk, swooping down and snatching the sparrow from the heavens.

Chapter Three

The sun dipped down behind the mountain, slanting the last hour of sunlight across the Gaillard valley. Calihab's steady trot marked the dusty road that wound through miles of vineyards. The leafy green grapevines climbed up row after row of sticks, forming a green sea of crosses. Without exception, the cottars, bending over the fields where they added a mixture of dried fish to the soil for fertilizer, straightened to stare at the lady dressed in blue velvet atop a warhorse. Two boys stopped from their chores to chase after Calihab

At last the township gate rose ahead; she had finally arrived at her destination. As the neat row of two-story thatched-roof dwellings peeked above the stone gate, Linness stared in wonder. Gaillard. Once Lady Belinda's destiny. Now it was hers.

"Mother Mary, if I am wrong, if you do not mean me to be the Lady Belinda, stop me now…”

She held her breath, half expecting to fall from Calihab or to see an angel blocking the way. She did not. Fear pumped blood through her heart hard and fast. Her limbs went numb. She felt hot and cold and shaky all at once.

Even while the priest had torched the kindling beneath her feet, she had not known such fear. She managed to remain seated on Calihab for one reason only: Mary had chosen this fate for her, she was sure. Mary had sent her here to Gaillard, where she would present herself as the Lady Belinda to her betrothed, the Lord Morgan de Gaillard Chamberlain.

Her child, the heir lord of Gaillard, would be his in name, yet hers and Paxton's in heart.

If all went well. She must relinquish her doubt, and she would, she truly would, if only it were not so much easier to believe she would be hung by the day's end.

Two main thoroughfares divided the township neatly in four, like a cross viewed from far above. Her gray eyes rested on the chateau as it rose in ancient splendor at the far end, a vision drawn from the most fanciful notions ever imagined.

Gaillard was much like any other township these days. The land was farmed, the peasants well fed and with few exceptions, the place had been untouched by war or plague for many years now as Francis, king of France, spent his energies and monies in the infernal Italian campaigns far away. She knew these things; it was talked about among people. The Italian campaigns were an endless series of battles the young king insisted on fighting for no reason anyone knew, wars interrupted by occasional treaties and punctuated by intrigues, mysterious disappearances, and renewed calls for justice. No one alive understood these wars, or if one did, Linness had never grasped the purpose past the young and vain king's insistence that he was the rightful monarch of the provinces of the Kingdom of Naples and the Duchy of Milan—issues easier settled by marriage as far as she was concerned.

Flowers appeared in boxes beneath the windows on the upper levels of merchants' homes, while the wooden shutters were let down on the lower levels from over the windows, making counters that stuck out on the street, from which proprietors sold their wares. The shops were small. Painted signs directed the buyers. There was a pie shop, bakery, tailor, barbershop, and sausage store, among many others. Calihab trotted past the stables, where the town's blacksmith worked. Dusk settled over the landscape, and few people darted about in the street as the shops were closing one by one.

The few people remaining, however, all stopped to stare at her. A plump woman with a broom, a butcher carrying two bloodied deer heads, a group of children playing marbles, a hot pie seller closing her shop window, two roofers, another group of women, they all stopped to stare at her. She appeared as a strange and beautiful creature dressed in a blue velvet gown, the matching cloak draped loosely about her waist, as she rode a man's war-horse down the cobblestone street towards Chateau Gaillard.

The tailor's wife drew back and whispered to her friend, "The lady doth not wear shoes.”

"Who can she be?"

"Look at the gold light falling on that long hair..."

Linness held her head high, staring straight ahead. Calihab, sensing their destination, fought the bit and broke into a less than enthusiastic gallop. His hooves pounded across the wooden bridge over the moat, then they passed through the gatehouse and beneath the arch of the entrance. The horse ran in circles around the courtyard.

This was the first time Linness had ever mounted a horse, and as any first-time rider quickly learns, mastery over the creature does not come effortlessly. Once she drew back on the reins, she had exhausted all means known to her of stopping him. She almost screamed as the galloping jousted her innards like a chambermaid pounding out a rug. Calihab at last sensed this and, tired anyway, he came to a stop as two guards rushed to grab the reins from her small, red and sore hands.

"My lady!" The young man stared aghast at the woman's disheveled appearance as he held the reins. The other guard fitted hands around her small waist and lifted her to the ground. "Who might ye be?"

Her heart banged in her chest. She was aware that this was a determining moment in her destiny, that once she spoke Belinda's name, she could never go back, and she felt her strength gathering and collecting inside. She tilted her head regally—like a highborn lady—and squared her shoulders as she pronounced in her flawless convent-learned French: "I am the Lady Belinda Saint de Beaumaris."

She heard their gasps. She faced their shocked appraisal. She carefully fitted the velvet cape about her waist. The real Lady Belinda had been a slightly smaller woman. No matter how she had pulled and rugged, the gown would not reach to cover her bare feet. To make matters worse, it had barely spanned her bosom. She felt she was one breath away from spilling immodestly from her bodice. No slippers had come close to fitting either—her cursed, too-large feet.

She had selected one dress and the cape and set fire to the rest so no one living could ever find this wardrobe and produce it to condemn her. The ill-fitting gowns might provoke suspicions. She needed the cape to hide this discerning fact, hoping it would shield her until she could secure new garments somehow.

"Sound the trumpet,” one of the guards shouted up to the battlements. The other guard quickly led Calihab away toward the stables. "Michaels, milady," the blond-haired young man said as an introduction with a slight bow. His face was heavily marked by the pox but was otherwise handsome "Please this way."

Linness, dizzy with this first success, followed him up the stone steps to the castle. They passed by two stone lion heads and through the great wooden doors. Torchlight filled the entrance hall. She stared at the scrumptious carpet beneath her bare feet. She had never before seen an inside carpet to cushion the weary foot as it touched the stone floor, and it was a wonder. The guard spoke rapidly to an approaching servant, who understanding who the lady was, rushed ahead to tell his lordship. "This way, my lady." he said again.

My lady, my lady, my lady—

The title echoed through her mind as they continued down the corridor and finally through the doors of the main hall. Her eyes lifted in awe at the sight that greeted her, at the wealth and opulence of this magnificent room, while the footman approached the table to bring the shocking news to Morgan.

Linness had never been in a baron's hall before, though she had imagined it a hundred times. The room was half the size of a cathedral, its ceiling elevated two stories, maybe more. This grand ceiling had a light-filled center made of stained glass. A bronze candelabra hung from this dome, tiny candles floating in a circle of scented oil. An enormous stone hearth rose on one side of the room, blazing with a fire. A smaller hearth stood opposite it. Wooden squares inlaid with white marble covered the floor, banners of gold and green silk decorated the wall. A handsome wooden screen with doors that must lead to the kitchen and buttery covered the far wall. A hand-carved wooden table sat on the slightly elevated dais, and there three men sat.

The man must be as rich as the king of England,

Her knees shook like reeds in the wind, her hands went clammy again. For the three noblemen had risen and stood staring at her across the distance. Then the man who would change her life was coming toward her. She knew at once it was Lord Morgan Gaillard Chamberlain, the lord of the manor. She saw that he stood tall and might even be handsome, if it weren't for the bruises and swelling of his face, and dear Lord, she wondered, who would have had the strength and fortitude to strike such a man?

The loose tassels of his gold and black doublet swayed and his metal spurs clanged noisily as he came toward her, making her more scared than a cornered rabbit. His facial disfiguration looked worse the closer he came. He stopped in front of her, staring down with astonishment and something else, something she saw as disbelief.

There was something familiar about him, unnervingly so.

With a gasp, she realized he looked like Paxton.

Morgan watched the lady's lovely, confused eyes search his face. She looked more comely than the miniature he had stared at for two years; it had not, he saw, done the lady's beauty justice, and it was odd how that thought pressed foremost on his mind, and inexplicably overwhelmed the more arresting fact that she was alive. She was alive.

Morgan's amber eyes traveled from the rich dark hair tumbling down her back, to the large gray eyes, straight, narrow nose, and sensuous lips, slightly parted. Her neck was long and slim, like the rest of her. Save for the rapid rise and fall of her full breasts, spilling from a mercilessly tight gown, where his bold gaze lingered.

No, hers was not the delicate fairness that every man hoped for in his wife. Her beauty was something very different. 'Twas the kind that tempted and teased and put in mind thoughts that did not often rest on the mother of your children. 'Twas the kind that made a man's pulse race and his blood heat.

"Lady Belinda?"

She nodded as her face drained of color. It felt like a cruel trick, how he looked like Paxton! Paxton with darker hair and brown eyes and a beard. She didn't understand how it had happened; as if to torment her and make her pay for the charmed life she had stepped into, Mary had made Lord Morgan look like her Paxton. "And you, sir, must be Lord Morgan Gaillard Chamberlain?"

"Aye." For a long, anguished moment as they stood there staring with surprise and shock at the revelation of each other's appearance, she felt so queer, as if cold steel had pierced her tender heart. A warning chill raced up and down her spine, trying to warn her, but of what, she knew not.

Mary, help me…

The moment stretched. The men stared, shifting booted feet restlessly across the marble tiles as they waited for an explanation.

'Twas only nerves, she told herself. She was so frightened! Her gray eyes dropped uncertainly and she swallowed, nervously clasping her hands in the blue velvet folds of her cloak.

Morgan abruptly demanded, "My God, what befell you, milady? Every blessed man I have is out searching for you! We were certain you were dead—"

She drew slightly back at the thunder in his voice. A delicate hand, trembling,, lifted to her mouth as if to contain an anguished cry. The fear of discovery, the fear of death, relief to find herself alive—all this brought her panic and tears forth.