Juliana Garnett (8 page)

Ravenshed Manor perched high on a rounded hill that overlooked fields stitched with stone fences and tall hedges. A line of trees formed a ridge on the horizon, lower than the manor and from a distance seeming a mere thicket.

A ribbon of road marked by ruts and time curved from the manor, winding past Ravenshed’s estate toward the King’s Great Way, an ancient Roman road swooping near straight as an arrow to Nottingham. It was a rare day; sunlight warmed sodden meadows and treetops—and reflected from domed helmets in the distance. Normans approached at a swift pace.

Fiskin saw them first. He raced to the kitchens behind the manor house shouting alarm at the top of his lungs. “Milady! Lady, they come!”

Jane looked up as he jerked to a halt just inside the kitchen door. Breathless and flushed, tunic awry and leather shoes covered with mud, he put her in mind of a dabchick.

“Who comes, Fiskin?”

But she knew. It was not unexpected. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on the sprig of dried mint in one hand; fine pieces powdered the table.

“Normans—and th-the sh-sheriff!”

She looked down, smoothed the scattered crumbs into a bowl, then brushed her palms together.

“Calm yourself, Fiskin. You have muck on your shoes. Dena will scold if you spread it on the floor she just swept clean.”

She lifted another sprig of mint that was to be tucked into clothing and linen chests to deter moths and fleas; it was stiff, dried from the preceding summer, still fragrant.

“What shall we do, milady?” Staring at her, eyes wide in a pale face splotched with freckles, he waited for her answer.

“I shall greet them when they reach the manor, but I do not intend to fly down the road like a goose girl. Do you go and fetch Enid to the kitchen. She should come and be with her mother.”

Still outwardly calm, she left the kitchen and stepped out into the courtyard. Light spread pleasantly over stones and walkways; it pricked her eyes.
I should be garbed more properly, as befits a lady of the manor.

It would not matter. What did a condemned gentlewoman wear on the way to her execution? A clean kirtle and linen coif would be required, perhaps. A coif—she put a hand to her head, fingers grazing loose hair. Absence of appropriate headgear was becoming an evil habit; she tucked the mint she still held into her frayed plait, then smoothed her hands down the soiled front of her bliaut. No time to change into a clean cotte. She would meet her doom in garments stained with evidence of housewifely—an irony that her mother would surely have appreciated.…

She held tightly to her composure. Her safety—if there was any—lay in her rank. And deception. It would never do to betray any hint of guilt. There lay destruction.

Yet it was much easier to plan than to achieve. When Devaux dismounted in front of the fieldstone manor house, her trembling legs threatened to deposit her in a heap on her own threshold.

He cannot know … he cannot know.

Hands folded calmly in front of her, she waited in the open doorway of her hall as he approached. A barrier, polite but not welcoming.

Dark features betrayed nothing; bare of helm, in black tunic
and chausses, he emanated power and purpose. He moved easily, long strides eating up the few yards until he stood before the shallow steps leading into the house.

“Greetings, my lord sheriff.” Coolly civil despite the flutter of fear that rattled her tongue: “To what do we owe this honor?”

He rested one foot casually on the bottom step and looked up at her. She had a brief impression of intense green beneath black brows.

“Your mantle.”

She stared at him blankly. He gestured; a tall, blond Norman stepped forward with a hooded cloak draped over one arm. In the courtyard behind them, a dozen men garbed in the sheriff’s black and gold livery began to dismount and walk their horses to the shallow trough of water beside the well. Hooves clattered loudly on cobbled stones. Fitful sunlight bounced off helmets, chainmail, and intimidating weapons, but failed to define eyes glinting behind helmet noseguards.

Her gaze shifted back to the length of dark blue wool that dangled from the blond Norman’s arm.

“Oh,” she said in sudden recognition, “yes. My mantle. How kind of you to come this far to bring it to me.”

“I did not come this far to be kind.”

The blunt words heightened her fears, but she merely smiled and lifted a brow. “I see. Whatever your reason, my lord, I am pleased to have my mantle returned.”

She held out a hand for it. The blond Norman hesitated, then at a gesture from Devaux relinquished it to her with a faint smile. He had a pleasant countenance. Pale hair longer than the norm brushed against mailed shoulders to frame his face; unobstructed by helmet or heavy nasal, hazel eyes were direct and humorous. He briefly met her gaze, curiosity a muted gleam in his eyes.

“Your servant, milady.”

Devaux shifted position, one foot moving to the shallower step of the threshold. His boots shone dully. “I would speak with you, my lady. In private.”

Her heart thundered, but the smile on her lips did not waver as she shook her head. “I am afraid you have caught me at a
most inconvenient time, my lord sheriff. My household is not prepared to offer hospitality to such an esteemed guest, and—”

“Lady Neville, you misunderstand me. This is not a polite request for the pleasure of your company.”

He left her no option. With as much calm as she could, she said, “Grant pardon, my lord. I was unaware you had come on such an errand.”

He did not reply; no indication of why he had come eased her apprehension. Fully aware that he was close behind her, she went into the house. When her eyes adjusted to the change from light to soft shadow, she saw Dena staring at her from a doorway, her eyes wide and frightened. Calmly, she directed, “Dena, bring us refreshment.”

“Aye, milady.” Dena’s scared gaze flicked to the tall Norman and away again. Age and generous weight made her awkward; she dipped toward the sheriff in the slightest of curtsies and turned stiffly away.

Devaux was silent, all loose-limbed grace and resolve. The knot in Jane’s belly grew tighter; she drew in a deep breath for courage as they entered the hall.

Lime-whitened plaster walls were washed with ocher light that fell through latticed windows; timber posts formed a double line down the middle of the hall to support the ceiling. A new stone fireplace filled one wall, drawing smoke up the chimney with wonderful efficiency.

She heard him behind her, his feet crackling on clean rushes. She
felt
him behind her. A presence, silent but seeming to fill the empty hall; he intimidated her. She curled her hands into fists at her sides. If he had come to arrest her, she was powerless.

When she turned around, Devaux was frighteningly close. The light that streamed in through the windows in irregular squares left his face in shadow.

“You smell of mint, milady.”

It was unexpected; mundane and harmless. At a loss, she fumbled for a reply that would not sound inane or guarded.

When nothing came to mind and the silence stretched, one corner of his mouth tucked slightly inward. Not a smile, but an acknowledgment, perhaps, of her disconcerted state.

A little awkwardly, she put a hand to her throat; her fingers grazed the small, smooth globes of the prayer beads she had put on that morning. Cool stones that signified an appeal for redemption; unanswered pleas in pretty futility around her neck.

Devaux watched her. The silence was unbearable now. Words crowded her head, clogged her throat with misery and fear.
He knows
.

How? What had betrayed her?

She wanted to speak, to pierce the heavy stillness with her defense. Still, no words would come; her tongue was weighted with guilt.

Not guilt for the attempted robbery—but for the result. Four men had died. Even with her eyes wide open she could see them lying in the road, green jerkins soaked with blood.
Perrin, Oswald, Adam, Wace.
Names put to men to be mourned. Brave men all.

While she had fled with John, Will, and Alan—fading into the greenwood and abandoning the dead—their souls had gone prayerless into eternity. Yes, guilt weighed heavily, rendering her incapable of coherent thought.

“Are you praying, milady?”

Startled, she shook her head. “Nay, I do not.”

“No?” He reached out; his hand curved around hers where she held the beads, lifting her fisted penance. “These are prayer beads, are they not?”

“Yes, of course they are.”

“For what do you pray, milady? Deliverance? Temperance? Patience?”

The back of his hand brushed over the bare skin above the edge of her bliaut. He held her hand still, engulfing it in brown, corded tendons and capable determination.

“I pray for tolerance, my lord.”

“Ah. Tolerance. A noble prayer. Not”— he drew a finger along the curve of her cheek— “unsurprising in a woman of your character.”

She strove for insouciance to hide the reaction his caress provoked: “It would intrigue me to hear what would surprise you, sir.”

A step back; his hand fell away, and she could breathe again.

“It would not take long in the telling. There is little that surprises me now.” He paused. Swooped in with deceiving simplicity: “Save the folly of outlaws.”

There it was: Accusation. Arrest. Execution.

The inevitability made her desperate. She felt shaky. In a faint voice, she said, “Time wanes, my lord.”

“So it does. Time flies—swift as an arrow.” He closed the gap between them, palming the dangling end of her prayer beads. His voice was a soft, ruthless reminder. “Four men were killed on the Edwinstowe Road yesterday. Outlaws, all.”

“Do you wish me to pray for their souls, my lord? Or did you purchase prayers at Saint Mary’s for them.”

Too close, too close … I cannot breathe with his hand against me.

“Outlaw souls do not concern me.” His eyes burned into her, an intensity that compelled her to look at him though she tried to resist. A muscle leaped in his jaw; his voice was taut. “I have more tangible concerns. Three men escaped my custody yesterday. I want them.”

I want them.
A simple,
I want them.
He expected compliance. He expected her to deliver them.

“Perhaps they will surrender, my lord,” she said when she could trust her voice not to crack.

“I rather think they will.” A tug on the beads to bring her closer, escalating heartbeat like thunder in her ears, and—“You may convince them of it.”

He waited. Expectant again, certain he would hear her agreement.

She was outraged.

The lassitude that had gripped her vanished. Renewed by fury, she saw from the sudden thinning of his eyes that he knew it, too.

“Release me, my lord sheriff.” Her voice lashed him, and to her surprise, his hand opened to free the beads.

“Be ware a hasty tongue,” he said then, calmly, the only sign of displeasure his narrowed eyes.

“My tongue is rarely hasty. Sharp at times, perhaps, but some find the truth unpalatable. So it is now—I will not convince
anyone to surrender to you, nor to any Norman, for I would never be able to wash the blood from my hands.”

“And have you tried washing them today, milady?” Soft reminder, brutal in its way, and she steeled herself.

“Say plainly what you mean. Do you have proof of guilt? Have you come to arrest me?”

Strangely placid, she waited for his affirmation. It did not come. He stared at her, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth.

At last he said, “No, I think not.”

7
 

Tré watched emotions flicker across her face. It would avail him little if he arrested her. He had hoped she would be more … amenable. She was not. The disquiet and dread that first attended her had vanished, replaced by stubborn anger. Determined rebellion.

It was faintly surprising to discover a facet of his character he had never suspected: He admired a female with courage enough to defy him. Not foolish defiance that would gain nothing, but calm, intelligent disregard for consequence that defined great strength of character. It was a trait he had found more in men than in a woman; had
never
found in a woman, he amended.

Yet even that was not the reason he did not intend to arrest her. She was still useful. She knew the outlaws. More important—the outlaws knew her. There would come a time when outlaws and lady would meet again; he would not be forced to spend wearying days in the saddle searching forest and field for sign of them when they were bound to save him the bother by drawing near the lady. Moths to a flame.…

He saw her wary relief and smiled. “You are a baron’s wife, my lady—a Norman’s widow. There would be an outcry from
here to London were I to arrest you. Saxons claim you as their own, and Normans are fiercely protective of their rights.”

It was true. Alone, that would not have saved her from retribution. Yet, he needed her; a lure to be used in much the same manner as the coffer had been, only more precious for her vulnerability. If the outlaws did not rise to that bait from fear, they would come for loyalty. But he would save that tactic for last, if all else failed.