Juliana Garnett (26 page)

A groan, a rough mutter:
“Ma chérie.…”

The endearment filled her heart, while his body filled the emptiness inside her. Sweet intimacy, fulfillment of more than passion … she needed him. Heart and soul and body were bound together by threads of a desire for more than the easing of a void in her life. She wanted more than mere existence, even if it came with danger.…

The cool, hard table beneath her was cushioned in samite, rigid flesh invading her with swift, fierce strokes that took them quickly to release. Her arms lifted, hands curled in his hair, her cry muffled by his mouth crushing her lips in savage fervor.

A moment of suspension when he thrust hard and then stopped, slowly relaxing. His breath was heavy and ragged in her ear. Braced on bent arms, he leaned over her, body still firm inside her though passion was spent. Air spiced with the fragrance of spilled wine wreathed them.

After a long moment, he pushed away, tugged silk over her thighs, rearranged his rucked-up tunic and untied cords. His head was bent, lashes dark against his cheeks, hiding eyes and expression from her.

Awkward, she sat up, shivered a little in the cool air. Outside, rain struck stone, familiar and heavy. She heard it, smelled it, felt it in the damp chill from the open window.

Tré glanced up, ends of his mouth tucked inward. “I do not seem able to keep from touching you, no matter how firm my resolve to stay my distance. You weave a spell to shatter my resolutions.”

“Do I?”

“Yea, you do. On the morrow, you will leave with Oliver right after the tournament. No one will mark your departure then or think it unusual. I would have you away from here before the king arrives.”

“What do you think John would do? I am a widow, not bound by vow or contract. Ravenshed is mine, my dower gift in lieu of claim to Blidworth. I brought it to the marriage and cannot be divested of it. In his will, Hugh gave it to me in perpetuity.”

“My lady Jane, it is not the loss of lands that concerns me.” He buckled his sword belt, adjusted it, glanced up at her with brooding eyes. “There is more involved. Gaudet plots. I must be free to dispute accusations or counter his actions without fear of endangering you.”

He reached out, took her chin in his palm, leaned to brush her lips with his, lingered for a moment. She stared up at him, curled her fingers around his wrist to hold his hand to her face. Dread loomed.

“My lord—”

“Sweet lady, we must not meet again.” Clipped, free of emotion or regret, the words sounded overloud in the dense gloom of the chamber.

Her lips were stiff, unable to form a proper reply; it was not unexpected but shattering. A confirmation of her fears.

“It can be no other way.” He paused, stared at her gravely. His words were strained: “There are those who would use your presence here against us both. Should the king learn I have been remiss in my duties by not arresting you for lending aid to outlaws, we would likely have our heads on twin pikes. I do not care to risk it.”

She found her tongue in a quiet reminder: “I am not unused to danger, my lord. As flattering as your desire to protect me may be, you seem to have forgotten that I am quite capable of defending myself.”

“Are you?” A swift hand caught her before she could move, held her wrist in a bone-crushing vise that summoned a gasp from her lips. “Few men give warning before striking. It would
be no different were the quarry a woman—even a woman capable of defending herself.”

Stung, she rubbed her wrist when he released it. “I take your point, my lord. I did not realize I must be on my guard with you as well.”

It sounded more bitter than she had intended; it did not go unnoticed.

He stared at her from eyes gone gray-green with ice. Softly: “Do not test me.”

Misery clogged her throat; she could not reply. Her gaze focused on the wavering glow of the lit candles.

“My lady … Jane.”

Unwillingly, she dragged her attention back to him. Some of the harshness had gone from his face and voice. He put out a hand; after a hesitation, she put her fingers in his clasp.

“It is for the best. I would mean your death.” He drew her closer, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I will not come near you again. Spies lurk in every corner, as in the chapel this eve. Be ware of any man who says I have sent him in my name, for he will be lying. Should the time come when I feel it safe, I will come to you then on my own. Guy de Beaufort is the only man I fully trust, and the only other man you should trust.”

Hope that had blossomed too early withered inside her, became dust and ashes. She heard her calm agreement, her voice steady, not betraying her anguish.

“I will accompany Captain Oliver after the tourney on the morrow.”

His reply was a blur, as was the return to her chamber through the rain. Remote again, safe behind his barrier, he bade her farewell, then faded into the shadows. She heard his boots echo on the stairwell, then nothing but the final closing of the oak door and Dena’s familiar voice:

“Milady, I have thy bath ready.”

As if arms and legs were pulled by invisible cords, Jane allowed Dena to undress her and help her into the wooden tub, listening to the maidservant recite a litany of the effort it had taken to get Fiskin to find a tub and bring it to the chamber.
She sank down into perfumed water that had already grown cool despite Dena’s troubles.

Not even mulled wine eased the chill inside her; she shivered until Dena expressed dismay and tucked her into the wide canopied bed beneath an extra fur.

Finally she was alone, Dena gone to sleep with the other servants on straw pallets cushioning the floor, the chamber still lit by a single candle that flickered in errant drafts.

Sleepy murmurs drifted through the half-drawn curtains to her; Dena and Enid in soft discussion. Outside, it had grown quiet at last. Rain must have doused the bonfires and lively celebrations. It was hushed now, gloom closing around the castle like a fist.

Silence.…

Jane wondered why no one heard the screaming of her soul.

20
 

Morning dawned slowly after the rain. Tré met Guy in the middle bailey. The wet stones glistened; a brisk breeze wafted thick stink from the moat. Sentries paced bridge and wall, bootsteps loud. A cock crowed an undulating salutation to the day.

“Oliver will leave after the tourney ends today.”

Guy nodded. “Two of the guards brought in some captured outlaws. Saxons, but none of them were Little John or Will Scarlett. Oliver is set to draw tight the noose. If any man can seize them, he will. He knows Sherwood as well as do the verderers.”

“Pray he knows it as well as the poachers. Men have been known to wander into the ravines and greenwood and never be seen again.” He frowned, glanced around the bailey, quiet now after a night of revelry, but with signs of stirring at cockcrow.

“I pray the captives we take please King John.”

Guy’s words were fervent, and Tré’s gaze slid back to him. He shook his head slowly.

“John—neither fear of God nor regard for man dilutes his ambition. There is no pleasing him. He does as he wills, takes what he can. He intends to rid himself of me and take my lands, make no mistake about it. It would not matter if I
had Robin Hood himself dangling from the gallows for his amusement.”

“Yet if the Council of Barons—”

“I have appealed to Geoffrey Fitz-Peter, Earl of Essex, for his aid. As chief justiciar, he has been ordered to return to the church their property that was seized during the interdict. The archbishop is set to return to England, and he takes a dim view of baronies being confiscated. If I can keep my head on my shoulders until my appeal is heard, I may yet thwart the king’s intent to hold Brayeton.”

“Or you may lose all.”

He met Guy’s gaze and nodded. “Yea, I may lose all.”

Silence descended; smoke from the cooking fires drifted over the bailey. Nottingham was coming to life, the guards already arguing with vendors at the gates. The air was brighter now, the sun breaking free of treetops.

Tré glanced at Guy. Shadows darkened his eyes. Tension was evident in his abrupt movements, an impatience that was unlike him. “Did you learn anything new from the prisoners we took outside the hall last night?”

“Nothing. They have told all they know, I think. Saxon rebels. Paid assassins. They claim they did not know you to be the high sheriff, but only meant to rob you.”

Tré snorted in disbelief. “In a chapel? Witless assassins. Nottingham is thick with knights and men-at-arms—thieves would last no longer than fresh meat in a pack of wolves.”

“They were sent by Gaudet.” Guy’s tone hardened. “It would suit me well to see him skewered for this treachery.”

“It is only treachery when a man is trusted. Greed and hate prod Gaudet. I doubt he would be loyal to the king if it suited his interests to do otherwise.” Eyes narrowed against a shaft of sunlight. Silk pennons and flags snapped in the wind; identifying colors of green, blue, yellow, and red flew over the multicolored pavilions housing barons, knights, and entrants in the coming tourney. “A pity it is not Gaudet who has entered the lists. I would not mind striking his shield in a challenge.”

A sea of mud stretched beyond the bailey; on the fringes of the grassy swale cleared for the lists, vendor stalls sprouted in
competition with Market Square. A vagrant breeze carried the stench of rubbish.

Guy indicated the lower bailey with a nod of his head. “There were but three strikes on my shield yesterday.”

“Only three?” Lightly mocking: “A fearsome champion who intimidates all challengers, Sir Guy.”

“One of the challengers is Sir Alfric—a Saxon from Kelham.” Guy paused, added meaningfully, “Gaudet’s cousin.”

“Another cousin … they breed like rats. There is too ready a supply of Gaudet’s kindred. Have you seen this Sir Alfric?” They walked toward the middle bridge; rain had diluted the moat’s stench to a mere hint of odor.

“I have seen him before.” Guy stepped over fresh horse dung. On the slopes below, barons began to emerge sleepily from their pavilions. “He is called Alfric the Crusher. A name more likely to incite terror in greenlings than veteran knights.”

“Or swooning females.”

Guy laughed softly. “If he is the best the Saxons can do, I will need other opponents to save me from boredom.”

Tré squinted against smoke as they neared the grassy common below the castle. Smithy fires poured noxious blackness into the air; hammers clanged on iron and steel, armorers plying their trade in anticipation of need.

“What will you tell the lady Jane?”

Guy’s question caught him unaware; abruptly, the memory of her pale face and haunted eyes arose. Familiar barriers went up, blocking crippling emotion. The decision was made.

“Nothing,” he said, without explanation.

Guy nodded, paused beside a palisade built of new wood. “Captain Oliver will see her safely to Ravenshed. She is well out of this cursed town.”

“It is not the town, but Gaudet. I itch to kill him for his treachery.”

Guy’s good humor returned at even the prospect of Gaudet’s demise. “Challenge him to
à l’outrance.
A match of vengeance would justify his death on the field.”

“And listen to the cowled priests mewl of damnation for those who fight in tourneys? I leave that to you.”

“I do not need the church hounding me as they do the king.”

Tré looked up and across the growing crowd; barricades framed the rectangular patch of grass for the lists, built to hold spectators at bay. Already there were those who staked out their spot along the wooden rails, eager for the entertainment to begin.

Guy took a step away from the palisade. “My fee is paid and my shield displayed. The moneylenders assessed my horse and armor, though I shall be collecting ransoms today, not paying them.”

“My wager is always on you, and I have yet had cause to regret it.” Tré paused, tilted his head toward the gallery. “I will applaud your victories and collect my winnings.”

Guy grinned. “And fret because you watch instead of compete. Shall I carry your favor into the lists instead of one from a lovely lady?”

A crude comment earned his laughter, then Guy departed; it would not be long before the tourney began.

Tré moved past the row of contestants’ banners and crested helms set up for view and easy identification during the tourney. Shallow wooden steps creaked beneath his weight as he mounted to the gallery. The new wood smelled pleasant; black and gold velvet hangings were draped from the canopy.

When he turned, Giles nearly collided with him; Tré bent a narrow glance at the steward, who met it calmly.

“My lord sheriff, Captain Oliver bids me inform you that the lady he was to escort is not to be found.”

“He is not to leave until after the tourney.” He batted impatiently at a dangling tassel, scowled at Giles. “She is most likely not yet ready to leave.”

Unperturbed, Giles inclined his head. “Captain Oliver is well aware of the arrangements, my lord. Yet the lady is gone, along with her servants, mounts, and baggage. A guard allowed them out the gate before first light this morning.”