Dragon Tree (25 page)

"My cross."
Her hand crept up to her throat. “I have no idea where I may have
lost it. I remember having it in the village, but...”

A different
kind of light came into Marak’s eyes and he held up a hand. “Of
course, how thoughtless of me.”

He went back
to the long worktable and opened a small carved box. Amie caught
the glint of metal and when he returned, he carried a crucifix in
his hand, the face clean and polished like newly minted silver. The
edges were plain and squared, the cross itself thick and of a
substantial weight. Far more weighty than her own thin
crucifix.

“It is
beautiful,” she said wistfully, “but it is not mine.”

Marak placed
the cross in her hand then flicked a small, hidden catch with a
thumbnail and opened the outer casing to reveal a second cross
encapsulated within.

“The one you
wore bears the device of the Plantagenets,” he explained. “You
could run as far as the land of elephants and saffron, yet one
glance at the cross would betray your royal lineage.”

“The cross
belonged to my mother and I value it above all else.”

“Even your
life?”

“If need be,
yes.”

Marak moved
his hand over hers and closed the front of the outer casing again.
“Then look upon it whenever you feel the need, Little One, but
while you wear it, wear it in safety.”

The worn
leather thong that had held the cross around her neck had been
replaced by a fine chain of metal links. It felt cold against her
neck, as did the crucifix when it was tucked beneath her bodice. It
slid down between her breasts, the metal warming in short order
from contact with her skin.

“You have been
very kind to me,” she said, chewing pensively on her lower lip.
“You and Lord Tamberlane both.”

“And so you
begin to believe we are not nearly as fearsome as the rumors would
make us out to be? Not unless provoked, of course. Then I would say
but a few words, scatter my wrath upon the flames and—” he extended
his hand in a quick motion, passing it over one of the hooded
candles and almost instantly the flame shot up above the glass rim
with a great whoosh.

Amie jumped
back, landing squarely against the solid wall of Tamberlane’s
chest. He put up his hands to catch her upper arms and steady
her.

“Pay no heed
to the Saracen’s tricks,” he murmured. “Show a trace of awe and you
only encourage him.”

“Tricks?”
Marak protested and touched a pale hand to his breast. “You wound
me.”

“You would be
wounded, old friend, by nothing less than a truncheon.”

Marak waved
the same hand and muttered what only Amie could hear, “
Noctar,
rathban, sunandam
."

Ciaran turned
away, missing the look on Amie's face.

Marak only
winked and smiled before he addressed the knight. "You said there
were matters of importance to discuss?”

Tamberlane
glanced at Amie before walking to the window embrasure, which bore
heavy shutters to keep out the light. “I am come reluctantly to
your way of thinking, my lady. Your husband may be delayed by this
summons from Lackland, but he will not be easily dissuaded from his
search. He is convinced you were in the village, is certain you
live still, and is determined to recapture you by whatever means
necessary. Ten gold crowns is meant to buy a Judas."

Amaranth felt
a chill scratch up her spine. "But he rode away. He did not look
back."

"Less than
half a mile from the shore, a party of knights and archers under
the command of his cousin, Sigurd de Beauvais, broke away from the
main host and doubled back, no doubt given orders to watch the
castle."

"Sweet Jesu,"
she whispered. "It will never end."

“This convent
to which you were bound—?”

“The Holy
Sisters of Mary Magdalene.”

“Tell me again
why your Friar Guilford thought it would be the safest place to
hide you?”

Amie clasped
her hands together in front, lacing her fingers so tight the
knuckles turned white. “The prioress is...was... his sister—his
natural sister. He claimed that no meaner shrew walked the face of
the earth but that her devotion to God and her adherence to the
laws of sanctuary are inviolate. Even Prince John has no power over
her for she is adamant in her loyalty to King Richard. He also
said... though it was but a whispered rumor and I think it
mortified him to repeat it... that she took the vows herself in
order to remain loyal in body and spirit to the king’s bishop,
Hubert Walter. She had a great love for him and took the veil
rather than enter into a marriage with another man."

“Is it still
your wish to go there?”

Amaranth
hesitated for the first time since leaving Belmane Castle. It was
not so much that she was suddenly adverse to the idea of spending
her remaining days cloistered behind the cold stone walls of an
abbey—a month ago she could not have envisioned a more perfect
refuge. She could not even say, or think, what made her hesitate
now but in the end, she squeezed her fingers tighter and nodded. “I
can see no other choice readily at hand.”

Tamberlane's
stare lingered over her mouth long after the words had been spoken.
At length, he gave a short nod. “Then that is where you shall go. I
will escort you there myself with a few trusted men. I do not doubt
there are keen eyes on the gates, so we will have to leave by way
of the catacombs. Take only what you need to stay warm." He glanced
at Marak. "If you have any spells or talismans to ensure a safe
journey, I suggest you conjure them now, for we will leave tonight,
at moonrise."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Amaranth spent
a restless afternoon and evening waiting. She prowled a quadrangle
from the door to the bed to the window to the hearth and back to
the door. Each time she neared the door, she stopped and listened
hoping to hear the scrape of footsteps on the landing. Each time
she passed the window she paused to listen to the rush of the wind
outside. At the hearth she stood and contemplated the glowing
embers, wondering each time if she should add another log or let it
die out.

Tamberlane had
said they would be leaving before moonrise, but he had neglected to
add anything beyond a vague mention of midnight. He had given her
orders to sleep, but that was impossible. Marak had sent one of his
possets but for once, she had taken a sip then spilled the rest
down the garde-robe. Her stomach was sour enough without adding the
taste of slug underbellies.

At one point,
and with much hesitation beforehand, she knelt beside the bed and
clasped her hands beneath her chin. She had no idea if God listened
to the pleas of disobedient wives and would-be murderesses, but she
thought it could do no harm to try. The prayers, recited every day
of her life for nearly two decades, stuck at the back of her throat
and would not come forth. Words, phrases she knew by heart no
longer gave comfort and she squeezed her hands so tightly around
the silver crucifix that the edges left imprints on her
fingers.

What if
something had gone wrong? What if the plan had changed and no one
thought to tell her?

What if? What
if? What if?

With the
failure to gain spiritual solace, the next time she paced the room,
she went out to the landing, her heart pounding at the base of her
throat. The stairs were in darkness but for a pale bloom of light
showing around the lower curve of the spiral. It was enough to give
her feet surety as she crept down the stairs, and at the bottom,
she was guided along the corridor by the torches that flickered and
stained the stone walls with spirals of sooty smoke.

She approached
the end of the corridor warily and peered around the corner. The
great hall seemed gloomier than ever, with the candles unlit behind
the dais and no one seated at the boards eating or drinking. A
single curl of smoke rose from a cooking fire at the far end of the
hall; the lackey who attended it was rolled up asleep beside the
warm bricks of the pit.

Amie curled
her lower lip between her teeth and inched forward until she had
the entire length of the chamber in sight. There were men rolled in
blankets sleeping on the floor in front of the fire. Dogs were
still restless, rooting around in the rushes for scraps of meat or
bone that might have fallen under the boards but it was mostly
silent apart from the snores and the occasional snap of a bone
crunched in a canine jaw.

Amaranth edged
further along the wall, keeping her back pressed to the cold stone
blocks. She saw a plain woolen cap lying on a table, left there by
one of the servants, and she snatched it up, tying it tight under
her chin and tucking any stray wisps of hair beneath the edges. Her
eyes were as wide and round as they could be, flicking constantly
side to side as she tried to watch all corners of the great hall
for any signs of movement. She skirted her way across the breadth
of the dais, then down the far stairs. There were not enough nerves
left in her body to seek out Tamberlane's chambers, and so she made
her way along the hall to Marak's tower.

Flitting from
shadow to shadow, she kept her head down, her eyes and ears turned
to the sleeping bodies and thus did not see the guardsman until he
stepped out of a darkened niche so close in front of her that she
nearly slammed into him.

“Frothing
Jesus, wench, watch where you put your feet!”

Amie started
to splutter an apology, but the words faded to horror-struck
silence. There was just enough light from the fire spluttering in
the grate for her to recognize the scarred and surly face that
belonged to one of Odo de Langois’ men. He looked just as startled
to see her, and she realized she must have interrupted him as he
prowled amongst the sleeping forms searching the faces.

She recalled
hearing Marak say the same number of men who came into the castle
with Odo de Langois, rode out again, so how one could have been
left behind, she had no idea, but the proof that at least one man
had was here before her and she could not find the wits to form
words.

“So then, move
along,” he growled harshly. “Move along unless ye want to feel my
cock up yer arse.”

He hissed a
further threat and groped the front of her bodice, shocking her
enough she almost stabbed him with the dagger she had hidden in the
folds of her tunic. Muttering an apology in Saxon English, she
dashed away from the fire, certain at any moment she would hear a
curse of recognition and the pounding of boots chasing after
her.

All she heard,
however, was the sound of blood rushing through her ears as she
ducked into the corridor that led to Marak’s tower. Only when she
was in the thickest gloom did she dare turn and look behind her,
but Odo's ferret had already melted away into the shadows. She
leaned further around the corner of the wall and searched
frantically up and down the length and breadth of the hall, but
could see no sign of him.

Amaranth
sagged against the cold stone for a moment. The shadows were heavy,
she was dressed in a plain wool tunic undistinguishable from any of
the other household servants. She reached up and ran grateful
fingers over the woolen cap, thanking whatever instinct had bade
her cover her hair. She would have to mention the incident to Lord
Tamberlane, for he would not be pleased to know his walls had been
breached.

With one last
glance at the hall, she hurried along the utterly black corridor.
There were no torches to light the way up to Marak's chamber, but
she did not expect there to be. She stumbled her way to the opening
at the bottom of the stairs, then climbed the spiral steps with one
hand dragging on the stone wall. At the top, she again slid her
hands across the surface of the wall until she found the door, and
then the cold iron of the latch.

With visions
of clawed hands reaching out of the darkness behind her, she did
not spare a thought to calling out or even rattling the latch
before she lifted it and swung the heavy door open. The hinges were
well oiled and moved without a sound and Amie was fully inside the
room before she heard muffled noises coming from inside the
chamber.

All but two
weak candles had been snuffed, and from those the light was barely
strong enough to reach the corner where Marak stood, his naked body
pale against the darker gloom that enveloped the table. He was bent
forward, his arms braced straight out, his head bowed. Something
was wrapped around his waist and it took a long moment for Amie to
realize it was another pair of legs and that his hips were moving
to and fro in the rhythmic strokes of intercourse. The noises she
heard were soft grunts of passion matched by softer cries of
pleasure and as Amie watched, a pair of hands stole around his
hips, the fingers gouging deep in the thrusting flesh of his
buttocks in an effort to pull him closer.

For the second
time in what seemed like as many minutes, Amie was shocked beyond
rational thought. She had already started to close the door behind
her but stood frozen in place now, afraid to move lest her presence
be discovered. She knew she should look away or turn her head at
the very least, but try as she might, she could not and her gaze
remained fixed on the two lovers. The woman was writhing, twisting
with the intensity of her pleasure, her cries and whispered pleas
causing the fine hairs on Amie's arms to stand on end.

All of the
times Odo de Langois had stiffened and expended himself between her
thighs, Amie had only felt disgust and loathing. Any cries she made
were from pain and prayers for him to hurry and be done with it.
She knew there were women who claimed to gain enormous amounts of
pleasure from their couplings, but from her own experience, Odo was
the only one who roared and shook in the grips of some mindless,
unshared ecstasy.