Defiant (42 page)

Then Roger realized the Nest had once been Jamie’s home. Although he’d been gone from it since he was very young, it must be mapped on the inside of his brain. There was no hesitation, no falter in his step.

Just how Eva moved. How she’d moved that night when she shoved Roger into a crevice of the battlement wall so hard his cheeks scratched on the knobbly stone, then crouched in front of him, blocking him from witnessing his father’s murder.

Jamie and Eva belonged together. Roger knew this with a certainty that made his heart beat stronger. That was a good thing. He could do almost anything, knowing that.

“My lord, have you never been home before?”

Jamie started off for the tower of the Nest. “I am home now.”

T
HEY
strode in a single, determined line around the ramparts to the passageway that connected the battlement walls to the lord’s tower. Jamie ripped the door open and a gust of cold, musty air puffed out over them like a dead dragon coming to life.

“
Now
we hurry,” he said. “Third level.”

They took off running down the stairs. Jamie leaped down the last few steps onto the landing outside the lord’s chambers. Ten of the king’s crossbowmen stood there. Their faces registered first recognition, then respect, then shock as they recalled their new mission. They fumbled for their weapons.

Jamie drew his sword. “I must see the king.”

E
va was sitting in the outer chamber when one of the king’s soldiers came rushing in. He saw her and stopped short. Then he stepped forward, the slitted sides of his surcoat ruffling in the breeze his swiftness created.

“Mistress,” he said, taking her arm. “I’m sorry to say you cannot be in here.”

Eva lifted her face. He was young, his face unlined, but he seemed purposeful of good intent. This was not helpful. She required much more corruptible men right now. She gave one of her large, winsome smiles.

His eyebrows rumpled, then, slowly, he smiled back.

“I am most sorrowful, young sir,” she said softly. “His Grace asked me to come to him, and I thought . . . I do only as he bid.”

“Oh, well,” the soldier said, patting her arm in a comforting way, “that is the way to do it. But you cannot wait in his room. I’ll take you down to him.”

He turned her to the door of the outer chamber. A soldier armed with a small crossbow appeared next and stopped short. King John had far too many men working in his bedchamber.

The crossbowman looked between Eva and her escort. His fingers flexed a minuscule amount on the wood of his weapon. She recalled Jamie saying something about how the king kept a
personal guard of crossbowmen with him. This must be one of that happy bunch.

“Who is she?” the crossbowman demanded.

“The king’s doxy,” the soldier explained happily.

She smiled.

“I was taking her down to the hall.”

The much more suspicious crossbowman encouraged this. “Aye. We’ll take her to His Grace,” he said in a most unpleasant way. But this did not matter at all, for it was just what she wanted.

The young one had her by an arm, the crossbowman behind. They turned her for the stairs.

They all heard the crunch of pebbles on stone at the same time. Boots, coming up the stairs. A head appeared, then the whole person emerged at the top of the stairs.

King John.

“Release me,” Eva commanded quietly, and the young guard did.

She pushed away all thought of the people she loved and what they had and had not wanted for her, feeling only the comforting length of the sharp misericord tucked deep within her skirts.

“Your Grace,” she said.

King John paused for a long moment. Then he turned to the shadows, almost as if he knew.

Another crossbowman stood behind the king. He glanced at Eva and hefted his arbalest up in his arms, spreading his boots. Surely the crossbowman behind her was doing the same.

The king said, in a gentle voice, “Eva.”

She took another step out into the landing. Sunlight poured through the tall, narrow window, but inside, the icy coldness was a solid pushing thing. It rose up within, miles above her head, stretching her into something frozen and white, so she felt fused into a single block of ice.

She and the king stared at each other. Oddly, Eva’s first thought was to wonder if she looked like him. She did not often see her own face, and it had been ten years since she’d seen her father’s.

He was fatter than he had been ten years ago. Significantly so.

“I had gifts for you,” he said out of nowhere.

They were having the most peculiar first thoughts upon encountering each other.

His was so unexpected, it almost threw her off trajectory.

“Dresses,” he said, and took a step closer, looking at her, half in the shadows, half lit by the sun. “A pony. Gifts. For you. But you ran.”

“I have dresses.” She plucked at her skirts.

“Why did you run?” He sounded truly baffled. She must be gentle with him in this, then, for his mind was clearly gone.

“It was the killing, you understand,” she said quietly, and took a step nearer.

He waved a hand at the crossbowman, who had his weapon cocked and aimed at Eva’s chest. “Leave us.”

“Your Grace,” the soldier said in quiet dissent.

“Go.”

The soldier slowly turned and descended the stairs.

The king never turned his gaze from her. “Why have you come?”

In her mind, John was a demon. His voice always bellowing in her memory with a rasping, frantic horror-shout. But, yes, there had been this quieter voice as well. He had used this one when he’d come to visit her hidden self, away at the Nest. People marveled at how frequently King John itinerated northward, more than any previous king. But Eva knew why; he’d come to see her. He’d concealed her from the world, but he’d still come north to visit throughout her childhood.

She tightened her fingers around the blade hidden in the skirts of her tunic. The king’s gaze dropped to her wrist. “Father Peter is dead.”

He looked up swiftly. “What happened?”

“Your men.”

His face paled above his black beard. Careworn eyes squinted as if he’d taken a blow. He seemed truly shocked. “I did not call for that, Eva, I swear to you.”

She smiled a bit. “Did you need to? Might you not have just let them know how pleased you would be—”

“I am not pleased. I needed Peter, with me, not with the barons, not with Langton,
with me,
so I could speak to him, remake this blasted charter.”

John was sorely mistaken if he thought he could talk the
curé
out of so much as an afternoon repast. But Father Peter, he might have talked John into any number of things. Of course, he would not be talking anymore. Eva was, though.

“It is not ridiculous,” she said formally. “A very great man thought it had merit. Now he is dead.”

“I did not order that. I swear to you. Come in, Eva.” He stepped back to let her pass into his chambers. “We will talk. About anything you wish.”

She thought about this for a long time. She thought about the people her father had destroyed and the ones he had lifted up. She recalled, quite unwillingly, how John had shown great kindness for many vulnerable people and been horrifying to a great many others. He was thesis and antithesis, all folded in on himself. It must be quite painful.

She thought about Jamie and the other great men who served the king because of an oath. Because of honor. She thought of her beloved, irritable
curé
and the things he’d devoted his life to: a charter to ensure some restraint, and people who needed protecting. It might be a foolish wish, but Father Peter had believed
such a charter was possible. That is, he’d believed it was possible if men like Jamie hung it on their pennants.

But if Jamie left England, of course, that would not happen.

And yet, Eva could never leave without Jamie. One did not stumble across one’s heart’s desire, then walk away from it. That was impossible. But neither did one go about killing the lord one’s heart’s desire served.

She thought and she thought, and John did not say a word, did not hurry her in the least.

“Are you frightened by me?” she asked suddenly.

“Greatly,” came his reply.

And that is when she thought,
Why, perhaps there is something here to work with after all
.

Penance, she’d heard from a hard-headed source, was ofttimes a thing that could heal the soul. Perhaps an extremely painful one would assist in the king’s salvation.

In death,
le curé
had turned her into an instrument of God.
How like him,
she thought, smiling faintly.

The king’s arm was still swept out, inviting her into his chambers.

“If you will speak to me of this charter, then yes, I think we can have a little talk, you and I. A very good friend thought it mattered.”

“Come inside,” the king murmured.

She slid her hand out of her skirts and left the blade behind.

I
must see the king,” Jamie said again in a low voice.

Ten armed men faced him down. One crossbowman—
his name is Gilbert,
Jamie recalled—stepped to the center of the landing.

“How the hell did you get in here, Jamie?”

“I must see the king.”

Gilbert gave a brittle laugh. “Jamie, you are past mad. You and I, we go back. I know you well. And I am asking, for once, do not make this go more bloody than it must. Don’t be a
berserker.
”

“I must see the king.”

The men lifted their weapons, shifting nervously. The space was too small, the stakes too high. This was going to end quickly, one way or the other.

“I am for the king as well,” Roger said loudly, stepping forward. All the crossbows swooped his way with a rush of air and clinking metal.

Gilbert looked at him coldly. “Who the hell are you, and what business have you here?”

Roger met his gaze dead on. “I am Roger, the heir d’Endshire, and have come to claim my inheritance and pledge fealty to the king.”

The other crossbowmen kept their sights trained on Roger, but Gilbert looked back at Jamie. “What the hell is going on?”

Jamie never shifted his gaze, and he never lowered his blade.

“Jésu, Jamie.” Gilbert sounded almost pleading. “There’s a roomful of nobles inside.
Rebels.
The king’s called them here. I can’t just let you . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he realized futility.

“I must see the king.”

This was the fourth time he’d repeated the words, and this time, they stepped aside. Jamie strode to the door and for the second time in less than a sennight, he flung open the door to confront a man he’d once betrayed and who now wanted to see him dead.

Surely he needed less monotony in his life.

He twisted the latch and swung the door open. The king looked over. He was standing by the window. Alive. And Eva . . . Eva was at his side.

Jamie felt such great rushing relief he didn’t know what to do with it. Their gazes locked for one swift, powerful moment, then Jamie looked to the table in the center of the chamber. Around it sat half a dozen nobles and their agents, staring at him with hard eyes.

“Lost,” said a few, nodding in respect, but others kept silent, their fierce gazes pinned on the king’s most feared lieutenant.

The king pushed away from the wall and drew his sword. Eva stood rigidly a few paces back, hands clenched at her sides.

Moving slowly, Jamie laid his sword on the floor. The king stilled, his own sword half-drawn from its sheath. He took a quick glance at the doorway, where Roger and Angus and Ry stood, perhaps with crossbow quarrels aimed at their hearts. The king looked back at Jamie.

“I have heard of your treachery.”

Jamie straightened. “Cig lies.”

“Not Cigogné.” The king took a step closer. “Robert fitzWalter. Your
mentor.
”

Jamie said nothing.

“Does fitzWalter lie? Tell me it is a lie. Tell me you were not his man when you came to serve me.”

Jamie shook his head, jaw tight. “I cannot, my lord. It is true.”

John threw his head back with a shout of anger. Men around the table shot to their feet.

“I will make of you a warning to all traitors, Jamie Lost,” the king snarled. “Drawn, quartered, hung whilst alive, it hardly touches your crime.
How could you?
”

Jamie said quietly, “Serve you, my lord? ’Twas not easy. But I did it, every day.”

John face flooded red. “You betrayed me.”

“I betrayed Robert fitzWalter, sire. I did not betray you.”

“You pledged
fealty
when you joined my service!” the king shouted. “Then you
turned.
”

And that is what John feared the most. It was what he’d spent his life trying to stamp out with his mad, paranoid plotting: that his closest allies and trusted confidants would prove to be untrustworthy, plotting fiends.

Jamie was John’s worst nightmare come to life.

“When the moment was at hand, sir, I chose you,” Jamie said quietly.

For a moment, John stared at him, breathing heavily. “I have killed men for less than that.”

“I know.”

Something dark was in Jamie’s words. Everyone heard it. It gave the king pause; then he leaned in until his face and bobbed black hair was an inch away from Jamie’s.

“I will cut you where you stand, Lost.”

“As you did my father?”

John drew back. His eyes narrowed, then widened. His face paled, his jaw dropped. It was as if he saw everything—the surcoat, the ring, the resemblance—in one fell blow. Wonder and incredulity shouldered aside rage and the king took a step back, then another, reeling slowly across the floor.