Juliana Garnett (24 page)

“The barons have arrived—all is ready.”

“Devaux?”

Gaudet’s laugh sent a chill down Guy’s spine. He strained to hear more.

“Devaux will be eliminated ere long. All falls into place more easily than I had hoped. The king arrives soon to put an end to it.”

“It has taken long enough.…”

Strangely familiar, the husky voice was muffled. Both men spoke Saxon English, but he could not identify the second man. Rough stone scraped his jaw as he pressed his ear more closely to the broken stone.

“Yea, but the time is at hand. The woman is here to keep him distracted.” Unkind laughter. “She was wed to a Norman baron. I did not think her so foolish. I thought her to be different.”

“No woman is different.”

Impatience edged the voices, closer now; Guy drew back into the shadow of a low hedge, pulling Lissa with him. His heart pounded loudly, filled his ears and muffled the voices, but he could hear them still.…

Menacing Saxon English sounded deadlier than Gaudet’s accented tones; like the sibilant hiss of a snake. “ ’Tis time to be rid of this poxy sheriff.”

“Time and more,” Gaudet agreed harshly. “Devaux has too long been a thorn in my side.”

A pause, then: “Perhaps the haughty Lady Neville will be of good use.…”

Guy felt Lissa’s sudden jerk. He gripped her tightly, warned her with a shake of his head. The stone was rough beneath the hand he braced against the wall. Lissa’s breath was vibrating in her throat, her eyes wide.

“I do not want to use her,” came the sharp reply from Gaudet. “She would be too great a liability.”

“It is necessary. Do what must be done. Once Devaux is gone, there will be a position for you as promised.”

“No, not a position—the king has sworn I will have what I deserve.…”

Boots scraped on the walkway, a shower of small rocks. Guy reacted quickly. He pulled Lissa deeper into the shadows with him, turned, pressed her back against the wall, and buried his face in her neck. The smell of roses filled his nose and mouth; her hair brushed against his cheek, the twisted cords of gold silk caul abrasive.

Footsteps grew closer; there was the sound of Gaudet’s coarse laughter, a coarser comment as the men passed.

When they were past, he lifted his head, caught a glimpse of monk’s robes before Gaudet and his companion disappeared. He glanced back at Lissa, saw in her taut face that she recognized the danger. His hand tightened on her.

“Do not,” he said quietly, “breathe a word of this to anyone, upon pain of your life and liberty.”

“Do you
dare
threaten me!”

His fingers circled her delicate wrist, held her when she would have twisted free. “I dare much more than that should you be fool enough to risk us all for the sake of idle chatter, madam.”

“What do you think I will tell? That my lady cousin is the sheriff’s leman?” Belligerence shadowed her eyes and face. “Do you think I care if she lies with him? I do not.”

“It is not your cousin’s choice of beds that concerns me. There is danger in knowing too much.” He leaned close, ran a hand behind her neck, his fingers spreading to hold her head still. With his nose against hers, he said softly, “It could mean your life if you are unwise, milady.”

Her face paled. “I will keep silent, but not because you demand it. I would not hurt Jane.”

“See that you keep your pledge.”

She pulled free of his restraining hand. “I am not a liar, whatever else you may think of me.”

He
wanted
to believe her. Life had taught him better than to trust freely … and yet—and yet.…

“
You
, Sir Guy, should think of your own skin as well. If the sheriff falls, so do you.”

She turned angrily away. His eyes narrowed at her. An unknown quantity had just become dangerous.

19
 

Summer dusk lingered until it was nearly time for Matins to ring the midnight hour. Below the castle, festival bonfires blazed; torches lit purple-hued meadows in bobbing pinpricks of light. Music swirled in eddies of jangling sound. Beyond the edge of town lay Sherwood Forest, a fringe of black lace against pale shadows of twilight and a rounded moon.

Shivering in a cool breeze, Jane watched the midsummer’s eve celebrations from the castle wall; the brightly colored silk pavilions shimmered like earthbound butterflies. She rested a hand atop a crenellation, a square tooth between the merlons, ran idle fingers over rough stone while her mind raced.

Priests spoke of the hell’s fire that awaited fornicators. She had sinned, lain with Tré Devaux, and was unrepentant.
Gladly
unrepentant. It would take more silver than she possessed to buy enough Masses for the redemption of her soul.…

She was a woman alone, reviled if her sin was made public. The church took a dim view of a woman’s carnal nature: God’s disapproval of fornication was stronger when applied to women than when applied to men. It was a stricture she abhorred—and feared.

She should repent, yet feared emptiness more than she did
damnation. Ah, she was a lost soul indeed, condemned by her own actions, refusing penance.

Uncustomary confusion, filled with uncertainties and fleeting fears; hope lay wounded in the cold light of reason. Did Tré cherish her as anything more than a willing female in his bed?

There had been no sign of it during the evening banquet earlier, no word or deed that marked his esteem. Courtesy, a polite, distant salutation in passing, was all that had gone between them.

I cannot bear it if he avoids me
.…

“Milady?”

Turning, she saw Enid’s pale face in the shadows. Her hands twisted in her skirts, her features revealed a mixture of excitement and apprehension; the maid bobbed a brief curtsy, stumbled slightly in its execution and on her words:

“The lord high sheriff … demands … requests that thee attend him.”

A leap of heart, telltale quiver of hands that Jane hid by clasping them together in front of her.

“Does he, Enid? Where am I to present myself?”

“If it please thee, milady, in the chapel. At Matins.”

Blasphemy—another step nearer hell’s fire … to meet in the chapel. She nodded. “Tell him I will meet him.”

Matins, so close now.… She crossed the battlement to the tower stairs. Nervous excitement tumbled in her belly. Barely enough time.…
Should I go first to my chamber for a change of garments? No, no time for that.
Dena would be certain to delay her, disapproval vibrating in her solid frame, mutters of damnation just loud enough to hear, yet soft enough that she could feign ignorance of them.

Worse—Lissa might be there again, agitated, impatient; fret in her eyes and sharp comments. No hint of what upset her so. Whatever plagued her would surely be told; a confidence shared in time.

Quiet reigned near the chapel, where few went when entertainment beckoned in the hall. Pipe music played, muffled by stone, a lively tune. A light breeze carried a hint of rain, and tempting fragrance emanated from the kitchens, blotted out as she drew near the Royal Mews.

The grass was wet, cushioning her feet, dampening the hem of her kirtle though she lifted it to her ankles. Heavy beat of her heart, stifled breath; when she reached the chapel, she saw a dark shadow barely outlined in the faint light that showed through narrow windows behind.

“My lord?”

“Yea.” A step forward spread the bleak light on sculptured bones. His smile was taut, a sideways glance at her, a look of shared intimacy, swift and intense. Pleasure filled her, potent and dark, gratifying and terrifying. “Come into the chapel with me, milady.”

He held out a hand for her, and she took it. The warmth of him brought back instant memories of soft whispers and hungry caresses, the luscious sweep of his hand along her thigh and on her breast—

Nervous, she laughed softly. “Do we seek penance?”

“Do we need it?” He glanced at her, eyes too shadowed for her to read. Fingers squeezed her hand lightly. “I seek privacy for the moment. This is the only place absent of revelers.”

It was true. The chapel was empty. Ellipses of candlelight flickered; muted sounds echoed from the high ceiling like distant whispers. Incense smelled strongly, accompanied by a musty taint. Round columns supported the roof, spaced far apart and leaving ample room for worshipers to stand.

Near the front was the king’s bench; a mockery, since it was well known that King John never took the sacraments. His refusal gave rise to rumors that he was in league with the devil. More likely, he hoped for enough time when death became imminent to buy his way into God’s good graces, choosing to hold his coin as long as possible.

“Sit here.” Tré indicated the royal bench, ignored her faint protest as he looked down at her. Blunt, without wasting words: “Gaudet summoned you. Is there good reason other than your association with me?”

“Gaudet?” Surprise rippled through her; she shook her head. “I know of none. We barely speak, have no acquaintance with each other. Why would he send me a summons in your name?”

“He seeks to use you against me.” He paused, his mouth
tucked inward with wry humor. “Gaudet is more observant and ruthless than I considered. Your danger is greater from him than even from the king. Sir Guy will see you safely back to Ravenshed early on the morrow.”

A chill quivered down her spine. She spread her arms, a helpless gesture. “I have no men-at-arms to guard me against Gaudet. I am safer here than at Ravenshed.”

He swore fiercely. “Yea, a notable lack. More dangerous now than before. I will send my men to guard you—”

“And cause comment from the king?” She shook her head. “Nay, my lord, it would infuriate King John to have his own castle guard used to protect a widow from him. And—” she added swiftly when his eyes narrowed, “it would draw even more attention to me.”

She rose to put a hand against his chest, rich tunic beneath her fingers, ebony silk on one side, gold on the other. Etched in silk thread, a raven with spread wings and one claw lifted. His family crest, the sign of the raven. An omen, perhaps, for Jane of Ravenshed.

“I am safer here, my lord,” she repeated softly.

A silence fell, warm and close, as intimate as if they were secluded within wine velvet bed hangings again. The thud of his heart beneath her palm was reassuring. Muscle flexed when he moved, a shift of cool, slick silk against the pads of her fingers exotic and sensual. It was too intense and provocative a sensation within the walls of a chapel, too temporal in a spiritual world.

He must have felt the same; his palm lifted, freeing her, and she tucked her hands into her long flowing sleeves to keep them still. She looked up, studied his face in the dim light.

Tension marked him, sharply defined his features. He regarded her from beneath his lashes, and blew out a deep breath, tone wry:

“It is only your safety that leaves me vulnerable.”

“I do not understand—”

“Yes, you do.” He did not leave her the polite fiction of ignorance. “Gaudet is not bold enough to strike directly at me. He will use you if he can. You are my weakness now.”

Her heartbeat escalated, pounding loudly in her ears. The implications were obvious, profound:
I am valuable to him.

Encroaching shadows wavered, grew stronger as a gust of wind blew out several candles. Tré glanced toward the door, still shut against the night. His expression changed in an instant, a subtle rearrangement of features into wariness. It was feral, frightening—impressive. She sucked in a sharp breath when his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword,
felt
the change in him, tension in taut muscles.

He glanced down at her, caution in his eyes, words of warning couched in casual tones for listening ears:

“Milady, we will return to hall now that prayers have been offered.”

The sense of danger intensified when they left the chapel. Noise drifted from the hall, but there it was faint and muffled, the whisk of wind through tree branches and around stone a low moaning sigh. The smell of rain permeated the air. Her blue samite skirts dragged through wet grass and over the uneven stones of the bailey; wan light from high windows made narrow, gray rectangles as they drew abreast of the hall. Laughter sounded; strains of music provided lively accompaniment. When they paused at the bottom of the steps, she heard the rasp of a sword being drawn.

Tré put a hand on her arm. “Go in. I will join you.”

“Nay, I have no desire to brave greedy eyes alone.” She shook her head when he swore softly, set her jaw in a stubborn tilt. “I do not go in without you, milord.”

Fingers dug into the tender flesh of her wrist. “There is no time to debate the issue, milady. Do as you are bid.”

“Arrogant man.…” Unwilling, indignant, but cognizant of the danger her refusal could cause if he was distracted, she gave in ungraciously. He released her arm with a smile.

“Go and find Sir Guy in the hall, milady. Send him to me.”

A hand in the middle of her back prodded her forward; she mounted the wide, shallow stairs with skirts held up to keep from tripping, glancing back once to find no sign of him. He had gone, faded into shadows.