Claudia Dain (34 page)

'Twas done. She was married. Again. 'Twas only lacking the consummation of their vows to make all binding. She had faced this moment before. She had been less afraid then than she was now.

Then, she had not faced Ulrich in the marriage bed. He would not fall to her.

She knew that now.

Another way must then be found, if she still wanted to find a way out of this unequal bonding. She was not as certain as she had been. What did she gain by refusing him? What did she lose by taking him in? Her father had thrown her into Ulrich's bed, her aunt had shrugged and turned away from all useful counsel—why should she not tumble with Ulrich, sharing the fall he had promised her?

She
must
be drunk.

"'Tis done, Father," she said, leaning down to him, throwing off thoughts of Ulrich. "I am married to the man of your choosing."

The chamber slowly cleared of folk. It was considerate of them to give her time with Philip before she must leave to face the public bedding he had forced upon her.

"Let him be of your choosing," Philip said weakly. He was all bone now, skin hanging loose upon a dry frame. "Do not fight him, Juliane. Let him find his way into you, making you safe."

He spoke in riddles now. Was he confused in his mind, caught between two worlds and unable to see either one clearly?

"I did not choose him," she said. "I would not have done so. How can I do what must be done? How can I hold to our bargain when all the world looks on? Do you not care that all will fall at this?" she said over buried tears of frustration and confusion.

"Juliane," Philip whispered hoarsely, searching for her hand upon the sheets. "Fight him not. The world is harsh. Conor would have unmade you."

This made little sense. Conor was harsh and too often in their way, yet he was her uncle and loved her, just as her father loved her. The two men were of a mind on that, though on nothing else. 'Twas the bond of Emmelia which bound them to each other, a bond of love for the same woman, her own mother, dead now ten years and more.

"I am strong enough to make my way in the world. You made me so when you built my legend," she said. "I rested well within its walls. Why break all for Ulrich?"

"I made you to assuage my guilt," he said, his eyes closing. "My guilt weighs upon you."

All was folly now. He was speaking in senseless riddles, like a man in a dream, speaking out against imaginary foes.

"Father," she said, leaning down to him, holding his face between her hands, "you have no cause for guilt. You are clean of all sin. Go to heaven with light steps, running to paradise."

"Come," Father Matthew said, laying a hand upon her shoulder and turning her from her father's bed. "Let us celebrate your marriage in the chapel, where it is fitting. 'Tis time for Vespers."

"Aye, I will come," she said, allowing the priest to lead her. She turned to look once more upon her father's face before she left his chamber, but he was looking at the wall, hiding his face from her.

"Ulrich has gone on at Conor's bidding. He had some question about Ulrich's son and he would not rest until he had his answers," the priest said.

"That sounds like Conor," she said as they went down the curving stair to the great hall below. The hall was deserted, the tables put up against the wall, the fire banked and low in the center of the room. "What is there to know of Ulrich's son?" she asked. It could never matter to her.

Ulrich would not stay her husband, his child would not be her child.

"I know not. Ulrich is not eager to speak of him, except to secure his legacy in St. Ives."

"That sounds like Ulrich," she said ruefully. If Ulrich was not trying to best her at a wager or seduce her into submission, of what did he speak? Nothing. She had never known a man who said so little of himself. He clearly had much to hide.

"Father? A word?" Roger said from a far corner of the hall.

Juliane had not seen Roger for an hour, which was odd. He was most often in the center of all activity. Of course, for the past hour she had had little thought for any but Ulrich and her next sip of wine. Who had won that wager? She had lost count. Had he relented or had she?

"Aye, a word only. Vespers awaits us all," Father Matthew said. "If I may leave you, Juliane? I will come anon."

Juliane nodded and smiled absently, her mind still on the wine wager. She should never have taken that wager. Had she not decided never to wager against him again?

She made her way slowly, for of a truth, she was loose-limbed from the wine, carefully descending the broad stone stairs that led to the tower gate. 'Twas dim going, but she had run this course in the dark since childhood.

It was in the center of the dark tower gate that she stumbled and reached out a hand to steady herself against the gray stone wall. And met human flesh instead. Most odd.

"May I assist, Juliane?"

What voice was this? She did not know this man, this voice, this scent. He was new to her, though not unwelcome.

"With thanks," she said, letting him take her by the hand. "Does assistance have a name?"

"Nicholas," he breathed.

Ah, small wonder that she could not clearly see him. Nicholas of Nottingham was dark of hair and eye and wore a black tunic and a cloak of oaken brown. He would disappear like shadow in such dim light as this. And so he had.

"You do not attend Vespers?" she asked.

"As you do not," he said, and she could hear him smile.

They went down the steps slowly; she could have gone faster, but he held her back in the shadows, his cloak sweeping down and brushing against her hand.

"I go now," she said, "and should hurry. I am a bride, you see, and must not cause tongues to wag over my delay."

"I think you like tongues to wag over you very well," he said. "And not because of delay. There are other things said of Juliane le Gel. Truths I would test."

"Did you not hear? I am a bride this very hour," she said, smiling.

This game was old and she played it well. Of fear, she had none.

They were at the outer door of the tower gate and the light was again upon them; a soft light it was, as the day was waning, soft and low and golden with haze and dust. She looked well in such a light and knew it. Let Nicholas look his fill. Such an old game. She knew every move, every word that would be played out. She was very, very good at this game.

Suddenly she was very, very weary of it. On and on she had played it, man upon man, until her legend filled the air, blocking out the sun, keeping her wrapped hard in the chill of her name, forced to play the game again, and yet again, man after man, year after year.

Definitely drunk, to think such thoughts. She threw them from her, rags that had no worth and no use. She was Juliane and she played the game well.

"Then let me kiss the bride of the hour," he said.

Conor had spoken true of him when he had tried to turn her heart toward Nicholas of Nottingham. He was a handsome man, dark of hair and eye, tall and lithe, his smile a weapon against a lady's heart. 'Twas a shame she had no heart for him to pierce. She was stone. Ice. Beyond his touch, or touching, beyond his grasp. She was Juliane le Gel—did he not understand that most basic truth? That most ancient lie?

"So sweetly asked," she said, "so sweetly must be granted. Take a kiss of me, I give it freely. But take no more."

"I take only what is given, lady. I leave it to you to ask for more."

Juliane grinned and then laughed and then her laughing stopped. Nicholas wrapped her hard within his arms and pulled her into him for more than a simple kiss of chivalry and meaningless flirtation.

He was hard against her, his mouth a hammer that beat against her lips, his hands clenching into her clothes. A most unwelcome, hot, invasive kiss. All wrong, it was. No fire did he arouse, but smoke, choking and gagging her. No fire, but dry terror to be so wrapped in someone else's flame.

'Twas not Ulrich's kiss.

"More?" he asked, lifting his lips from hers.

Arrogant oaf. Where was Morgause when she was so sorely needed?

"More than enough, my lord. Release me. This game is done," she said, pushing against his chest.

"I would never release you, Juliane. I would have you for a wife."

"I am a wife already. Did we not discuss this?" she said, trying to wrench herself free of him. He was like a viper, all coils, wrapping wild and holding fast. God above, she was weary of this game.

"I believe you did," said a voice from the sunshine of the bailey. Ulrich. "My wife, in fact," he said, coming into the thin shadow of the tower gate with Baldric at his back. "Release her," Ulrich said softly, though there was nothing soft in his look. He looked ready to kill.

Nicholas stepped back, releasing Juliane, and considered his opponent.

"Your pardon. I partook too freely of the wine and lost myself in the legend of her name. She is beautiful. You would do well to keep close guard of her virtue," Nicholas said.

"Her virtue is assured," Ulrich said, "by my own hand or by her own. My lady can defend herself, though I am here to do that glad service should she have need of me."

But she could not defend herself well, could she? Nay, she stumbled from more than the wine. She was so very tired of hiding, of running from a truth that could not be told.

"Defend herself? Why should she, with a husband at her front? 'Tis a man's duty and right," Nicholas said.

"You have said it well. She
is
my wife. It is my right and joyous duty to defend her. Stand off, though by her look, she will bite you before I can draw steel. My lady sees to herself right well," Ulrich said with a cold smile that did not touch his eyes.

"Your wife? Not quite yet," Nicholas said stiffly. "Another has failed before you."

"You speak of yourself," Ulrich said. "I do not have to fight her for her kisses. Nay, to me she gives them freely."

She had never heard a lie more sweetly told. She could almost love Ulrich at that moment.

The wine had truly taken her past all reason.

Nicholas ground his teeth until they squeaked, but he held his tongue. He had no ground on which to stand. Ulrich was her husband and could have killed him with impunity for both his actions and his words. That he did not... that he did not...

Why did he not?

Did he value her so little, then? Now he had St. Ives, what need had he of her?

Did she want him, then, to bed her? Did she want his rescue, his sweet defense of her? Did she want him to want her more than he wanted her land?

She had no answer that would give her rest. She could not have him, could not want his wanting, could not rest in his care. Ulrich was beyond her reach and must remain so, as all men must remain so. She was le Gel, and there was no place for a man in her legend. And her legend must stand or all would fall.

Her thoughts were like smoke, heavy and murky and slow. She was losing her way; struggling between want and need. She wanted Ulrich, but she needed her freedom, and the only way to keep it was to defend her legend. Where was the winning in that? How was she to win at marriage with a man she was coming to love?

Love? Nay, there could be no love. She had spurned love to live in legend.

Such thoughts, such regrets, were born in wine. She would never again try to drink a man into submission.

"I am to church," she said into the stiff silence of the pair. "Fight this to the death if it please you. I will arrange for a lovely burial, trust me in that," she said with a falsely sweet smile for her husband. Nicholas could go bury himself.

"I am to church with you, lady, my arm to support, my sword to protect," Ulrich said, looking hard at Nicholas.

Nicholas returned the look measure for measure.

Juliane sighed in exhaustion and then groaned when the light of the westering sun hit her squarely in the eyes. She put up a hand as a shield, but it was too late. Her head burst upon her shoulders and her eyes were put out by burning knives.

She bent down and threw up her dinner in the dirt.

At her side, Ulrich said, "This is a legend I had not heard of you, lady. I think a new verse must be composed. Something about mutton in a wine-red stew."

She hit him, her elbow to his chest, and then threw up again. Ulrich held her hair back with a single hand and hummed contentedly, stroking her back through her heaving.

"If Nicholas had kissed me, I would toss up my dinner as well," he said when she had achieved a respite and was gulping in air.

That he should make her laugh while vomiting up her food was surely cause for annulment. She would talk to Father Matthew about it when she could raise her head again.

Chapter 19