Juliana Garnett (21 page)

Rising, Annice murmured that she would return to observe him later and see that his wounds did not fester. Guy made a murmur of assent, drowsy from the mandragora she had given him. The herb should make him sleep heavily.

When she returned to the hall, she saw that Rolf’s wound had been tended. A clean bandage wound around his left hand, and the dirt and leaves had been brushed from his hair. He wore a clean surcoat and appeared relaxed, sprawled in his chair behind the high table. Food had been hastily brought to the returned men, along with spiced wine that made them more affable. Laughter resounded from the beams overhead.

It appeared that her own vassals had decided to accept the Lord of Dragonwyck as their new overlord, for they jested with him as if long acquainted. Times were uneasy in the north, with some men openly proclaiming rebellion against the king, and others swearing fealty one moment, vacillating the next. Annice was far from secure that these barons would remain sworn to Rolf as long as he made it so obvious he meant to keep his oath to the king.

But for now she was glad they had come, was relieved that there would be no attempt made to force them to swear an oath they would not keep. For now a tenuous truce had been declared.

As she approached her chair, Rolf’s gaze slid toward her, and she saw in the gilt-green of his eyes that the truce between them was just as tenuous, just as fragile as that of the king’s barons. Yet it would suffice until their marriage.

And then, she knew, the real contest of wills would begin.

T
he rising sun gilded the fertile fields below Dragonwyck with pale gold light. A faint mist rose above furrowed hills greening with new life. Standing at his opened window, Rolf stared across fields, forests, and fens without really seeing them. Below, in the village, there would be the bustle of preparations for the wedding to be held in the huge church that morning. Curling drifts of smoke already wafted on the breeze, drifting from thatched roofs.

When he’d first built Dragonwyck Castle, he’d had the fanciful thought that if he gazed long and hard enough, he would see the spires of Lincoln Cathedral in the distance. A fantasy only, of course. ’Twas too far away to be seen, even from the topmost battlement. But in that distant past he’d been more given to fancy than he was now.

Now the harsh realities of life were too often thrust upon him, will he nill he. Now he understood what it meant to see one’s life shattered into fragments almost too tiny to perceive. He’d overcome disaster after a long struggle. Could he do so again?

He wasn’t certain. He was older now, wearied of the constant solitary struggle. It had been overlong since he’d felt that singular emotion he’d once felt for a woman. Then he had still been naive and trusting. Margerie had shown him the folly of his beliefs in a single stroke.

His hand closed into a fist upon the stone sill of the latticed window. Slanted glass panes reflected the growing light in diffused colors, splintering into shards when he turned his head ever so slightly, rainbow hues dissipating like mist before his eyes. Just so, he had once held happiness in his hand and found it to be a mirage, a mythical collusion of false beliefs. He dared not risk such annihilating discovery again.

Yea, though he was to wed the beauteous lady Annice, he would not make that mistake again. He would not yield his heart to her, would not yield his manhood to the castrating hand of a woman. It had cost him dear the first time. He had yet to recover that which he held most dear in his life, and the bitterness of his defeat still pained him.

In just a few hours a priest sent by Peter des Roches, the justiciar of England and Bishop of Winchester, would bind him to Lady Annice d’Arcy in marriage. His vows were not lightly given. Once he swore to be her lawful wedded husband, he would keep that oath. Though this marriage was not of his choice, he would stay by his vows. Would she do the same?

The royal court was filled with wives who felt no compunction to be loyal to their husbands. They betrayed them in mind, body, and heart with a willingness that always amazed him. Aye, as husbands also betrayed their wives without thought. No hint of scandal had ever been attached to Lady Annice. Apparently she had not betrayed her husband.

Rolf’s throat tightened. Luc d’Arcy’s memory was still sharp in his widow’s mind. She must have loved him a great deal. ’Twas rare in these times to find a husband and wife who cleaved to each other in love as well as loyalty. Yea, as rare as a unicorn. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Just so had he described it to Edmund, and his master-at-arms had been highly indignant.

’Twas sad that he was not there this day. How the old man would have enjoyed seeing his lord brought to the altar in marriage! Long had Edmund insisted that ’twas what Rolf needed: a wife. A wife to hold on the long winter nights, to share tidings good and ill with—a wife to love.…

A knock upon his chamber door jerked Rolf from his musings, and he saw with some surprise that the sun had well cleared the horizon and was bright upon the land. No rain again today.

He called permission to enter, turning away from the window as Vachel’s dark head peered around the edge of the partially open door. “Milord, Sir Simon wishes to speak with you in the hall.”

“Sir Simon?” Rolf was vaguely surprised. Though the baron had made no sign of satisfaction at this wedding, neither had he demurred. Instead he had kept his own counsel. “Tell him I will join him shortly, Vachel. As you can see, I am not yet properly garbed for my wedding.”

“Aye, milord. He awaits near the fire.” Vachel hesitated, then added, “He seems most distraught.”

Rolf’s brow rose. Simon de Roget was the baron he watched most carefully. The others would follow where he led, he was certain. If he could convince that wary baron to keep his pledge to his king, then p’raps open rebellion would be avoided. Times were perilous, indeed, with so many avowed rebels who had once been loyal to John. The great rebel lords were usually followed almost to a man by men whom they regarded as their particular tenants, though there were exceptions. Knights’ fees were certainly collected from many of them, thus leaving them in precarious positions should they attempt to remain loyal to the king. Their feudal lords would most definitely expect succor and aid as their just due. If those lords were rebels—aye, times were most perilous for all men these days.

With that in mind Rolf met the baron below in the hall. Sir Simon paced back and forth before the dais, while servants scurried about him placing benches under trestle tables; silver nefs holding spices and honey were set next to huge silver saltcellars. Wooden trenchers with carved handles shaped like dragons were stacked and waiting.

“Is there a more private site where we may converse?” Simon asked abruptly, and Rolf nodded.

“Aye.” When they stood beneath the curved arch of an alcove that looked out over the courtyard, hidden from view of any who might chance past, Rolf turned to Sir Simon and said, “Speak freely, sir.”

Frowning, Sir Simon looked down at his feet for a moment, then up into Rolf’s eyes. “Cleit of Wulfcot believes that you have an enemy who would see you slain, milord.”

Rolf smiled slightly. “Yea, I have many enemies who would see me dead. Is that what troubles you, sir?”

Already shaking his head impatiently, Sir Simon growled, “Nay. Any man in these chancy times has enemies. I meant that perchance the boar that almost caught you yesterday was no accident. Sir Cleit was there. ’Twas told to me that the beaters had turned the beast, but one man directed the path it would take.”

Silent, Rolf gazed at the troubled face of Sir Simon. To come into a man’s keep and accuse another of treachery was dangerous, indeed. Sir Simon must believe what he was saying.

Closing his hand into a fist, Rolf rested it against the stone arch and gazed past Sir Simon at a rearing dragon carved into the window ledge. Flames shot from the creature’s open mouth, and its fangs were long and wicked. It towered over a carved knight on horseback.

“What man directed the path?” he asked as if the answer did not matter. The reply was not the shock it might once have been.

“ ’Twas told to me that Sir Guy FitzHugh directed the path. As he was the first man to come upon you, and was wounded in your stead, I know not what to make of it.” Sir Simon stood stiffly. “I felt it my obligation to inform you, milord.”

Yea, he would. Sir Simon’s forthright nature would demand it of him. Most like, he would have felt himself derelict in his duty if he had not come forth.

“My thanks, Sir Simon,” Rolf said softly. “Your warning will be well heeded.”

Slightly inclining his head, Sir Simon still hesitated a
moment before leaving. Rolf lifted a brow, and the baron said slowly, “I find you an honorable man, when I had been told you were less than so.” A wry smile twisted Sir Simon’s mouth. “I should not listen to rumors but am too old to change my ways. ’Tis not the first time I have been wrong, but I am glad to find that the lady you intend to wed is in good hands with you. It relieves me of an onerous task—but that no longer matters.”

“God’s mercy for your opinion,” Rolf said politely, and Sir Simon put up a hand.

“Wait, milord. I mislike me to say this, but it seems that Sir Guy gazes too often and fondly upon the lady. I marked it last eve, and again today when he was brought into the hall on a litter.”

After Sir Simon took his leave, Rolf leaned back against the cold stone of the alcove. Aye, he had marked it as well. Guy’s gaze oft lingered upon Annice, and there was a light in his eyes that was only for the lady. Yea, he had seen it. And now he knew that ’twas not just his imagination. Others had marked it as well.

Passing a hand over his eyes, Rolf winced slightly at a twinge of pain. When he had gone to one knee in the forest, bringing up his lance and bracing himself for the boar’s rush, he’d barely enough time to hold it ready. The lance had been at an awkward angle, so that when he’d turned it to spear the charging boar, the shaft had splintered in his hand. A long, jagged piece of wood had pierced his palm, and it was still sore. It might have been worse.

Though lanced, the boar had not been mortally wounded. Furious and in pain, it had charged Rolf again, tusks thrusting viciously at him. He’d barely managed to avoid the charge, using the broken shaft of the lance as a weapon by hitting the boar on the snout. Fiercely concentrating on the danger in front of him, Rolf had not seen Guy’s arrival until the knight had cried out. Distracted, he’d looked away at the wrong instant and barely missed being gored. Only the boar’s enraged squeal had given him warning of its next assault.

Before he could prepare, the animal was upon him. Its heavy weight had pinned him down, but the tusks had only
grazed him. The hot, foul breath had come within inches of his face. Struggling, Rolf had tried to wedge the broken shaft against the beasts neck to push it off, but it had been too heavy. Squealing with hate and outrage, the boar had thrust again and again, the tusks narrowly missing Rolf’s body. As the struggle had spun out in what seemed an eternity of time, he’d shouted for Guy to come to his aid.

Yet it was only when others had drawn near that Rolf’s demand had been answered. Guy had plunged a lance into the animal but not escaped before it turned on him, gashing his leg in its death spasm. Panting for breath and sore, Rolf had stared at his knight across the still-twitching body for several moments as others came into the clearing, hounds barking and men shouting. He had not asked for and not received an explanation for Guy’s delay. It could have cost him his life, and he had been too stunned to confront his sworn knight.

Now he wished he had done so. Any reply would have given him a sign of Guy’s true intent. Did his favored knight delay because he wanted his lord dead? It had been Guy who had suggested hunting boars instead of geese. It had been Guy who had seen him lose his lance and then left him behind to follow the others.…

A bitter taste rose in the back of his throat, and Rolf swallowed heavily. P’raps this betrayal was his punishment for taking the lady against her will. There was a price for everything, ’twas said. He’d thought his penance was his being forced to wed when he had not intended to marry again. Now he knew better.

He’d lain awake so many nights thinking of the lady in the west wing that it had become almost an obsession. Only iron control had kept him from going to her chamber and claiming marital rights before they were wed.

Jésu, but he actually dreamed of her. It was appalling, that she invaded even his slumber with her fair face and russet hair, the soft curves beneath her gown that had almost made him forget himself. She was a fire in his blood now, and he was impatient for the wedding to be done.

And he did not know if she schemed with Sir Guy to rid herself of a husband she did not want. Were her shy smiles
and soft words only a disguise for her true feelings? He had the bitter thought that it hardly mattered to him. Even if she wished him dead, if she wished to poison him or slide a dagger between his ribs, he still wanted her. Yea, that was the harshest realization—it did not matter to him if she hated him. He wanted her. He wanted to feel her soft curves beneath him and taste her lips again, slide his hands into her woman’s warmth, and then his body—he was bewitched, ensorcelled, utterly in her thrall.