Juliana Garnett (4 page)

Tense, cold, blinded by icy rain, Jane was grateful to see the great hall loom ahead. She stumbled slightly on the bottom step. An arm immediately went around her waist to steady her, then lingered. Imposing, silent beside her, Devaux’s strides were lithe and sure as they ascended the steep, rain-slick stone steps and moved into the stark shelter of the guard room.

Blinking rain from her lashes, Jane dropped her hand from his arm and stood shivering. Her rich mantle was sodden, clinging to her body in heavy folds. She pushed back the hood, scraped a hand over wet, curling strands of hair fraying from her plait, discomfited that she had not taken the time to garb herself properly. She no doubt resembled an alewife, hardly a recommendation for her status as a baron’s widow. Only a thin coronet of twisted gold wound with blue ribbons to match her eyes held back wet hair from her forehead.

The guard room was gloomy, close, smelling of rain and mud and dank stone. Lifting a hand, Devaux beckoned. A steward rushed forward to remove the damp mantle from her shoulders as her cold fingers fumbled to unfasten the clasp.

“Allow me, milady,” the steward murmured, and slid it from her shoulders before he turned back to the sheriff. “My lord sheriff, Sir Gervaise sends word that he awaits your immediate presence in the antechamber.”

Brittle silence was followed by a soft reply that did not
disguise the steel beneath it: “Does he. He will wait longer ere I heel like a hound. I will escort the lady to the hall. Take her mantle to dry by the fire.”

Devaux turned, his shadowed gaze studying Jane’s upturned face so intently that she had to smother an inexplicable urge to smooth her hair.
He unnerves me
.…

“It is warmer by the fire, milady. Come. I will hear more of your complaints.”

Silent, she inclined her head in an agreement she did not feel; disquiet stirred within her at this separation from the barons.

“My mantle,” she said, reaching for it when the steward turned to go; he held tight to it, gave her a quick smile of apology.

“It will be safe, milady. I shall not lay it too close to the flames.”

He was gone before she could halt him, weaving swiftly through the throng of damp barons and Norman guards now crowded inside. Devaux waited, an unsettling presence, a solid wall of Norman hostility at its finest; she could not think how to disentangle herself without insulting him, to her future detriment.

“Are you contemplating ways to escape me, milady?”

Startled at his astute observation, her head jerked up. Heated embarrassment burned her cheeks. “Yes,” she said bluntly, and was rewarded with a faint suggestion of a smile at the corners of his hard mouth. His brow rose.

“Am I so hated, then?”

“Only what you represent, perhaps.”

“Which is law and order. Would that Saxons could perceive the necessity for it.”

His sarcasm stung; she drew in an angry breath. “It is not law and order which is so detestable, but the arbitrary manner in which it is measured. Outlaws visit devastation, yet roam free while honest citizens are gathered up and threatened with imprisonment for life if they do not fight for a king who cares nothing for them.”

“You do not bandy words idly, I see.” Though sarcasm still tinged the remark, it was diluted. He looked at her thoughtfully,
then after a moment took her by the arm again to move beyond the heavy curtain separating the guard room from the great hall.

Cavernous, with high ceilings and hazy light, the hall was crowded with barons and noise; double doors were thrown wide to allow easy access. Trestle tables stacked against the walls were being taken down and put into place by beleaguered servants. She was cold without her mantle, the rose velvet cotte scant protection against the chill. Her feet were wet, squelching on muddied rushes and stone as she walked beside him.

At a gesture from the sheriff, those by the fire abandoned a low bench; he waited until she was seated before he sat beside her. It was warmer there, the pool of heat welcome. Acutely aware of him beside her, she tugged the hem of her cotte up to her ankles, wiggling her feet as the delicious warmth from the fire spread under her skirts.

He adjusted his sword, then stretched out long legs clad in tight-woven black chausses. Supple calfskin boots rose to his knees. Tiny splinters of light caught in the gilt emblem on a tunic shortened for riding; the embroidered shape of a raven was recognizable now.

A raven—Celtic symbol of darkness and despair
.…

The pleasant smell of wind and leather mingled with the scent of wet wool as he turned to look at her. Unexpectedly, her pulse began to race in a most unseemly manner at his steady regard. The knot in her stomach tightened. Her lungs grew starved of air, so that she had to breathe in deeply to fill them.… He was most disconcerting.

“Who is your escort today, milady?”

“My cousin. Lady Dunham of Gedling.”

“Then you have no protector.”

Danger loomed, couched in the simple statement. “I was not aware I needed a protector here, my lord sheriff.”

A straight brow rose. “Have you no mirror?”

There was subtle mockery in the question, and to hide her sudden confusion she looked away from him to survey her surroundings.

The hall had changed little since last she had been there.
Banners and huge iron rings of candles were suspended from the high ceilings, which were buttressed by stone columns. No woven hangings softened the walls, only shields and battle-axes were displayed against stone. Thin, polished hides stretched over the high windows allowed in ribbons of gray light, but torches set into a dozen metal sconces provided the most illumination; their indiscriminate sparks singed the skin, hair, and garments of those too near them. Servants bustled down wide aisles, vanishing behind latticed wood screens, only to reappear with platters of food for the long trestle tables set at right angles to the dais. Somewhere a lute player coaxed bawdy ballads from his instrument.

Clearly a fortress and not a home; yet, if not for the uncertain hazards of the new high sheriff, it might have been festive in those last days before Lent commenced.

Beside her, Devaux shifted position. His strong hands were splayed on his knees. He was brusque now, the mask of courtesy dropped. “You have grown suddenly timid, milady. A Saxon trait. It is expected, but I thought better of you.”

Stung, she swung her gaze to his face, openly stared at him. “I am not responsible for what you expected, my lord sheriff.”

“No.” The hard line of his mouth eased. “You are not.”

He baited her. She had risen to it far too easily, but would not give him the satisfaction of looking away, of yielding to the demand for a submission she knew he required. She would not be as the others, cowering under Norman rule. As he had said,
It is expected.

But it was more difficult than she had imagined not to look away, to hold his gaze while he willed her to yield ground. Silent struggle was freighted with determination and something else, some small spark deep inside that ignited a mute appreciation of masculine symmetry: wide-spaced eyes, a straight nose, well-formed lips, and clean-shaven angle of jaw that projected stubborn determination. Ancient Northern forebears of his race had left him the legacy of height and muscle.

Daunting, daunting man—fearsome in his pride, more dangerous in his silence
.…

Still holding her gaze, he said, “By Sunday next, the king has commanded that all English ships return to their home
ports. I am bade summon all who have done homage and fealty to the king to meet with horses and arms at Dover by the close of Easter. It is my duty to ensure that those within this sheriffdom join the king or suffer reprisal.”

Her brow rose. “Indeed, it should pain you greatly to visit new woes upon the land, my lord high sheriff—though I think it does not.”

After a short, sizzling silence, Devaux said, “You intrigue me, Lady Neville.”

Her hands clenched in rose velvet.

“Why? Because I say what I think? Or is it because I spoke up when others would not?”

“Both. You should be at home weaving cloth or governing servants, not meddling in the affairs of men.”

His ridicule stung and she stiffened. “The few servants I have left to me after the conscriptions into royal service can weave without my supervision, but you are right, my lord—I should be at home. It is evident I have wasted my time and yours by coming here to plead for succor.”

“Not necessarily.” There was an intensity to his gaze that took her breath away. “I will weigh your pleas most carefully, milady. But do not mistake contemplation for weakness. I tell you plainly that I am the king’s man, here to mete out justice in his name and restore order to the shire.”

“That is all any man or woman could require—justice. I pray that you are what you claim to be, my lord sheriff.”

“I claim to be nothing.” His tone was flat and rough again; his eyes narrowed slightly. “I was appointed sheriff. I will do my duty as bade to by King John. It would behoove these barons to believe that the king wishes them to be content. Should you have occasion to relay that information to the unhappy barons with you, it would be better for all.”

“I am not a messenger, my lord.” Anger overrode caution as the first brief flare of hope was quickly extinguished.
Does he think me so naive as to believe that he has only the best interests of Saxons in mind?
Tartly: “I do not presume to tell others what to think, but expect them to make their own judgments, just as I have done.”

Tense silence lay between them, while in the hall, music
rose from lute and harp; men laughed and hounds barked. A log popped in the fire, sparks like tiny shooting stars forming a glowing arc. She was aware of it all, as she was aware of her thudding heart and slowly warming feet; paramount was the man before her, who held in his hands the power of life, death, and freedom.

He rose to his feet. A faint, ironic smile pressed at the corners of his mouth. “No, milady, I see that you are not a messenger. A pity. It would save so much time and trouble.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it would be to my advantage.”

This time his smile was genuine. “You are as sharp-tongued as you are sharp-willed, Lady Neville. I commend you for your spirit, if not your civility.”

She would have answered sharply again, but took a deep breath instead. Prudence now seemed the wisest course.

“My lord sheriff.” The steward appeared, his cough a polite interruption. “Sir Gervaise grows most anxious to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“No doubt. Lady Neville will wait here for my return, Giles. See to her needs.” With that unceremonious farewell, he was gone, stalking across the great hall with his long, loose stride while she stared after him.

Another polite cough snared her attention, and she heard Giles ask if she needed a cup of wine.

“No. Bring my mantle.”

A pause, then, smoothly: “It will be brought to you upon my lord’s request. Shall I bring the wine?”

“Yes. Bring the wine.”

Uncertain, angry, Jane sat with her feet still to the fire’s heat, torn between flight and compliance. Any other time, she would have abandoned the hall despite his order. Yet now she hesitated.

Conversation ebbed and flowed in the crowded hall like sea tides, washing over her in anonymous waves. Occasional laughter sounded sharp and strained. Only Normans were at ease here in this hall barren of English pride.

Rich scents of roasted meat teased the air and empty bellies; Jane gazed resentfully at long tables set with lavish food
and silver nefs. They thrived at Ravenshed because she husbanded their food supply carefully; a meager harvest could be ruinous. She always had enough food, and coin to buy more, yet the freedmen who owed her rents would suffer grievously if she forced them to pay. Taxes were too high, too frequent, on everything from bread to water to wood. Her coffers were slowly draining of coin.

Across the hall, Saxon barons stood uneasily in a loose group. Lords Oxton and Creighton looked tense; there was no sign of her cousin, who had undoubtedly been sensible enough to go home to Gedling. The sheriff’s men milled about with casual deliberation. There was no overt threat, yet the air reeked of intimidation, evidenced by mailed guards bearing heavy weapons, discreetly stationed by the doors.

It was suddenly overwhelming. Giles was gone to fetch her wine; no one seemed to notice her now that the sheriff was absent. Jane rose from her seat before the fire with unhurried grace. Her shoes were almost dry; her cloak could be forsaken. Rushes crackled beneath her feet as she crossed the hall and left through iron-fortified double doors.

Icy rain had turned to snow, frosting stones and walls in white lace caps. The middle bailey was filled with the sheriff’s men, black and gold livery stark against the paler sandstone and snowy curtain. Intent upon warmth, food, and rest, none gave her more than a second glance as she moved from the middle bailey through the gatehouse, then across the expanse of outer bailey and high barbican that guarded the outer moat and portcullis gate. She was free.

Nottingham closed around her when she quit the castle. Vendors had begun to close their stalls in Market Square. Her feet slid a bit on the steep grade leading from castle rock. Dark alleys staggered between the half-timbered buildings that hunched over streets softened by falling snow. The cold masked the strong stench of offal, human and animal, that usually clogged the air. She heard the Watch marching, boots crunching on icy mud as they patrolled the streets.

Shivering, she waited in the shadows behind a leaning alehouse until they passed, then made her way toward Goose
Gate. In resonant tones, the bells in St. Mary’s tower tolled, marking Nones. Winter light was sparse and weak, disappearing rapidly in the waning of day.

She blew on her hands to warm them, regretting the loss of her mantle. Gedling was less than a mile past the town walls, but it would be a frigid walk once night fell. Her darkening mood suffered as much from bitter realization as from the cold.

Nothing had changed. Only drastic measures would save England from the king’s rapacious demands … and from the new sheriff.