Juliana Garnett (9 page)

Rolf looked down at his favored mastiff, curled up on the floor next to him with the tip of its tail touching its nose. Stretching out his legs to the fire, Rolf rubbed absently at his thigh. An old wound ofttimes pained him, a reminder of a battle long past. There were many such old scars on his
body, yea, and new ones as well. ’Twas the legacy of men trained up to fight.

Yet the wounds that had left no scars still pained him most. His hand tightened into a fist, and he saw in the dancing flames the face of a small boy gazing back at him over a mailed shoulder. Would Justin ever forget that his father had failed him? Nay, ’twas unlikely. Time stretched endlessly for children, until it became a blur of vague impressions. Only a few memories stood out, and it was those sharpest that pained the most.

He should know. Hadn’t his own father left behind painful memories of abandonment and betrayal? Rolf could recall few times he had felt safe or loved. After the death of his mother there had been only long days of fear and misery. It wasn’t until he had come of age to be a page in the service of the Earl of Whiteville that he had begun to feel as if he had any control of his life. His father had taken an interest in him again when he had shown exceptional ability as a squire, and thence become a knight.

Now he could better understand his father’s position. With two older sons as heirs, there had been little reason to shower a small boy with attention. A third son inherited little enough as it was, but as a knight of some consequence, he’d finally gained his sire’s notice. Little matter that it had come so late; he had reveled in it. As he had reveled in the honors he’d earned on the battlefield and in the tournament lists. Until he had earned a title, he’d carried on his standards the image of a dragon, which he still wore. It had seemed more fitting to bear that standard, the snarling beast of legend that his ancestors had carved upon their shields and weapons. The sign of the dragon had long meant yielding no quarter, as when the dragon-ships bringing Northmen of old had stormed England’s shores with no mercy.

King Richard had thought the standard fitting as well when he had granted Rolf the earldom of Dragonwyck. For loyal service in the thwarting of a plot against him by the French king, Philip, Richard had given him English lands and title, and even a wife. Rolf had found himself betrothed to an eight-year-old English heiress. Never mind that he was reluctant to wed, Rolf had done as his liege lord bade him,
knowing his duty. ’Twas only after Richard had died at Châlus and he had returned to England from France that Rolf had actually wed fourteen-year-old Margerie.

Though he had not loved her at first, they had dwelt together pleasantly enough for a time. After several years passed and she did not conceive, he’d thought her barren. But, at last, she’d borne Justin. And died of it.

One hand clenched into a fist. A grieving midwife had claimed that the child fair tore her body asunder being born. ’Twas said that frail, tiny Margerie had died cursing Rolf’s name for putting such a big babe in her. He had borne that guilt in silence for the five years past, but it frequently came to mind. As penance, he had vowed not to slay another wife with his child. Nay, he would remain unwed for his remaining years. Justin would be his only heir.

Not that he had vowed celibacy; far from it. He often took his pleasure with the looser ladies of the court. One thing that could be said of John’s court was that licentiousness was winked at by all but the Church. Rolf had found no lack of feminine companionship, even with his fierce reputation. Or p’raps because of it. There were those ladies who found intriguing the notion of lying with a man said to crush his enemies without mercy. Many a noble lady had pranced before him with shining eyes and parted lips, offering a challenge with bared bosom and ill-concealed excitement.

At first he had been insulted by the realization that he was merely a conquest, a tidbit of gossip to be relished among the court ladies. Then he had decided ’twas to his advantage to benefit himself of their favors. There were those highborn ladies who overheard much in the beds they frequented, and he was not averse to learning information from whatever source was presented. Aye, on more than one occasion he had learned of fortifications and plans some unwise, loose-lipped baron had divulged to the lady in his arms.

Which brought to mind the lady in his possession. Lady Annice d’Arcy was widowed these eight months past. He had met her husband once, several years before. Luc d’Arcy had been a weak man, a vessel to be used by those stronger
than he and more used to intrigue. Rolf pondered Hugh de Beauchamp’s motives in wedding Annice to him. Just as it had prompted Rolf’s marriage, most like, loyalty to the king had prompted Hugh de Beauchamp’s decision.

Staring into crimson flames of the fire by his feet, Rolf thought of the lady’s brilliant-hued hair, the dark red of a winter fox. Aye, and like the fox, she bared her teeth in useless defiance. Though ’twas true she was widowed only a few months, he was vaguely surprised that she was not yet betrothed to another. Seabrook’s slow plotting, no doubt. That earl would dangle her before one vassal, then another, as a carrot before a cart horse, weighing promises of fealty and homage should he yield the lady as wife. He would be frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog that she was hostage to Rolf le Draca instead of available for his disposal.

Rolf smiled mirthlessly. Yea, ’twas vengeance of a sort against the earl for holding Justin hostage. They might well come to terms with the lady as lure. Her lands would be worth much to the man she wed, as well as to her overlord. Hugh de Beauchamp would have settled a fair dowry on his only daughter. Unless Rolf was very much amiss in his thinking, the Beauchamp lands in Normandy would have been inherited by Hugh’s son and heir, leaving the less important lands in England to fall to his daughter. He tried to recall what he knew about the earl’s holdings but could remember little. On the morrow he would seek more information.

It was important that he learn how valuable the Lady Annice would be to a brother. If her brother took offense at the lady’s being held hostage by Rolf, that could be another army he would find at the gates of Dragonwyck, or one of his other keeps. Frowning, Rolf decided to send messages of caution to the bailiffs at his other holdings. ’Twould not hurt to be wary. Not only relatives, but others, might seek to do him harm for having taken the lady.

There were times his reputation would stay an assault, but a matter of honor demanded an attempt at restitution. If Lady Annice’s brother came from Normandy to avenge the insult and recover his sister’s person, Rolf would be required to yield her or pay a fine. Or both, depending upon the
king’s mood. John would not be delighted to discover foreign troops on his soil. Too often men could be distracted by greater temptations.

As was he. The memory of Lady Annice beneath him on the hard bed was a scalding one. Though his intention had been to frighten her into making her mark on the letter to Seabrook, he had been too easily distracted by the silky feel of her skin beneath his hands, and the tempting curves of her body. For an instant he had almost yielded to the pressing urges of his body to take her. There had been a moment when he’d been ready to cast honor and caution to the winds and lose himself in the sweetness between her thighs. Yea, if not for her heated reaction, he might have done just that.

But he had realized, if the lady had not, that her body had turned traitor to her will. It had been that which had stayed him from doing what he wanted, not any sense of honor. Despite her physical response, she was unwilling. While he had yet to take an unwilling woman, it had been a fierce struggle with himself to keep from taking Annice d’Arcy. The aching fullness in his body still reminded him of his frustrated needs.

The brindle mastiff lifted its head and growled a warning that Rolf quelled with the touch of his hand. “My lord,” a voice just behind him prompted, and Rolf turned to see Vachel.

He nodded at his steward. “Aye, Vachel?”

Vachel approached his lord, his face clearly showing signs of weariness. He would not seek his straw pallet until his lord had retired, that Rolf knew well from experience. Though still young, Vachel regarded his position with gravity and responsibility. His father had been in Rolf’s service as steward until his death the year before, and Vachel recognized the honor he’d been given by inheriting the post.

“My lord, I have seen to the comfort of the lady as you requested me to do and would know if you also require comfort.”

“Aye, but not the kind you can provide,” Rolf muttered under his breath, and saw from Vachel’s expression that he had not heard. ’Twas well that he hadn’t. He had no desire
to make public that the lady had aroused an unwilling fire in him. “For now,” he said aloud, “I require only my bed and sleep. We rise early on the morrow, for there is much to be done. I will need to send messages to the bailiffs of all my keeps and ascertain that they are well provisioned. Do you see that the stores here are victualed in case of siege.”

It would not have been the first time they had endured siege, and Vachel nodded. “I took the liberty of sending men to the village to procure what might be needed and warn the mayor of possible attack,” he said. “By night’s fall tomorrow we should be most ready to withstand whatever may come.”

Rising to his feet, Rolf stretched his weary muscles. “You are invaluable, Vachel. I am blessed, indeed, to have you. Now, come. Let us seek our rest, for there will be much still left to do on the morrow. I may have to call up my vassals if Seabrook decides to fight.”

Vachel snorted. “I doubt very much that worthy knight will be at our gates. His wont is more to mouth empty threats and whine to the king than to ride boldly forth. Aye,” he continued with obvious pride, “ ’tis few men who dare challenge the Dragon at his own gates.”

“Do not count too vastly on that,” Rolf said dryly. “There are more than a few who would love to lay me low. Even my own brother would not mislike seeing me fall.”

It was true enough. His eldest brother, though possessed of lands in France and Normandy, had long regarded Rolf as an insolent upstart. Not once had he offered assistance to him in battle or word, and Rolf had long ceased to care. Theirs had never been a close kinship, as William was much older and gone before Rolf had left the nursery Geoffrey, however, was closer in age and more of a like nature. P’raps it had to do with the fact that Geoffrey’s lands all lay in England, as did Rolf’s. The difference was that his had come by inheritance, while Rolf had fought hard for what he now owned. More than once Geoffrey had remarked upon that fact with blatant admiration. There was a bond of sorts between them, and Rolf was careful not to abuse it.

Genuine affection was more precious than gold and jewels, rarer than a unicorn, he’d once remarked cynically to
Edmund. His views had oft distressed the faithful master-at-arms, who rarely missed an opportunity to point out the best in people. Yea, Edmund would be sorely missed at Dragonwyck.

As Rolf mounted the winding stairs to his chamber, he thought again of the lady locked in his east wing. He felt an unusual burst of sympathy. It must be frightening to be a pawn between powerful barons, yet she had exhibited little frailty of spirit. Nay, she had resisted submission most courageously. For all the good it would do her in the end. It was a woman’s lot in life to be ever yielding to the strength and will of a man, however she might wish it otherwise. Just as it was a vassal’s lot in life to yield to his overlord, no matter the integrity—or lack of it. And it was much wiser to submit when the outcome was inevitable. As he would convince Lady Annice.

The first hazy fingers of dawn’s light poked through the high window across from her bed, slanting over Annice’s face and waking her. She blinked, wondering vaguely why Alais had allowed her to sleep so late.

Then her memory returned with a rush. Jerking upright, she clutched Sir Guy’s cloak tightly around her, shuddering. The Dragon had stolen her.… Her skin still tingled where he had touched her, and as if he were still in front of her, she could see the burning of his eyes, green as the scales of the beast whence he’d taken his name. Yea, like that ravening beast, he had no mercy or soul.

There had been only ruthless determination in his gaze when he’d sliced her garments from her, leaving her naked and shivering with chill and fear. Shame flushed her cheeks when she recalled how she had responded with frightened gasps; more shame burned brightly at the memory of how her body had turned traitor beneath his hands. He was a sorcerer, indeed, that he should be able to coax such exquisite sensations from mere flesh.

Annice tucked the cloak around her bare feet to warm her toes. Taking a deep breath, she calmed her wild thoughts and tried to make sense of her predicament. She
had to think, had to sort through all the implications of le Draca’s actions to the real purpose beneath.

In the prosaic light of day, the chamber that had seemed evil the night before now seemed merely bare and stark. Only a thin curl of smoke drifted up from the oil lamp. Light from the high window did not quite reach the shadowed corners on one wall but fell across the woven tapestry over her bed. The tattered wall covering depicted St. George battling the dragon, a most appropriate subject, though it appeared as if the dragon was winning the battle. Most likely le Draca had chosen the hanging himself, she thought irritably.

Sighing, she reflected on the night before. She had overreacted to him, mayhap. After all, his demands were logical enough, in retrospect. She would have demanded the same of a hostage, were she to take one. In defending her husband’s keep, she had never been put in that position, though women frequently were required to oversee the defenses in their husband’s absences. Fortunately, it had never fallen to her to do so. Now she wished it had, so she would have some experience of what to expect as a hostage.

And now, with the Lord of Dragonwyck at a distance, she could view his actions with a clear head. He had intended to terrify her into submission, of course. She should have seen that at once, and might have, had not she been so exhausted and aching from the day’s ordeal. Even so, faced with his raging temper, she might still have been reduced to quivering fear. Lord Rolf in a fury was formidable, indeed. She would not be foolish enough to forget his icy ferocity or what he was capable of doing if he chose.