Rebellious Love (20 page)

Verony shivered with revulsion as she realized he meant to take her like a whore crudely tumbled without thought or feeling. His heavy, hair-roughened leg was forcing its way between her slender thighs when her cry of anguish stopped him.

Sobbing helplessly, Verony was only dimly aware of Curran looking down at her. Nor did she guess at the losing battle he fought to hold on to the all-consuming rage that engulfed him when he learned she had deliberately endangered herself and their child.

As a further example of her unseemly insistence on making her own decisions and acting for herself, it was the last straw. He vowed to bend her once and for all to his will. But not all the fury in the world could cause him to truly harm her.

The coldness drained slowly from his face as he gathered her into his arms. This time his touch was gentle, offering only comfort. Nestling her against him, his hands tenderly stroked her back and hair.

Verony struggled for control. When her sobs finally died away, Curran raised her head. She could not see his eyes, but there was no mistaking the rueful line of his mouth as he said: "You defeat me, my lady. I cannot hurt you."

Profoundly relieved, Verony was nonetheless still torn by confusion over why he should ever have wanted to do her harm. Hesitantly she said: "I don't understand your anger. I know I should have told you about the king's demands when he made them, but surely that failure was not enough to cause . . . this?"

A deep sigh escaped Curran. He turned on his back, away from her. "Of course not. I was hurt when you didn't confide in me at once, but I understood it sprang from your habit of depending only on yourself. I had hoped that by now you would have overcome that, learned to trust me, but I had no idea you would go so far beyond simply failing to tell me something."

"What choice did I have? When John sent that message, every moment was precious. I had to at least give the appearance of obeying to protect you."

"But if you were only willing to trust people more, to rely on someone other than yourself, you would have told my father of the message and let him respond as he thought best. Instead you went racing off, deliberately leaving word of your action where you knew it would not be found for hours." Lifting himself on one arm, Curran demanded: "Why, Verony? Why put yourself in such grave danger when there was no reason?"

"How can you say that? John threatened to kill
you! There was the ring and that horrible . . .f-finger "

Curran sighed deeply. "The finger came from a cadaver, and as for the ring, ... it was a copy. Several weeks ago Isabella made a show of admiring the original. She even insisted on making a sketch of it. I thought it just more of her senseless flirting and ignored her. Little did I guess she intended to order an exact copy and give it to John, to help him trick you."

"S-so you were never in his hands?"

"Never," Curran affirmed quickly. "I went to Canterbury, spoke with Stephen, and we agreed that to be on the safe side, you and I should go through another marriage ceremony. He accompanied me back here, arriving just in time to find the house in an uproar and my father threatening to tear the tower down and strangle the king himself if he didn't reveal my whereabouts. Naturally, they were all relieved to see me until we realized that you were still missing."

"I was at the tower waiting to see John. It was hours before he finally came and when he did . . . he . . ." Her voice broke, the king's monstrous lie returning to haunt her.

Curran's eyes closed slightly, hiding his expression. "What happened, Verony? What did John do?"

The barely controlled rage in his voice alerted Verony to what he believed had occurred. Swiftly she said: "He hardly touched me, Curran. I swear it. He had no chance to do more because ... he told me you were dead. ... He described . . . how you were killed. . . . Something snapped inside me . . . I didn't care about anything then. I just had to hurt him somehow. ... So I picked up a stool. I hit him . . . over and over. ... He wasn't expecting it, and I was too quick. He fell on the floor . . . but I kept hitting again and again... I couldn't stop. . . ."

There was no mistaking the depth of her pain and torment. It stabbed through Curran more savagely than any weapon. He could think only to gather her tight into his arms, holding her fiercely to him until the storm of her horror dimmed.

When she was at last able to speak again, Verony looked up fearfully. "I may have killed him, Curran! I hit him so hard."

"John lives," he assured her firmly. At the questioning wonder in her eyes, he explained: "The men we sent into the tower to demand your return saw him. Granted, he's covered with bruises and his head is bandaged. But he was sitting up, and he spoke to them directly, so he can't be all that badly injured." An appreciative laugh escaped him. "The word is that he fell down the stairs while drunk. And John is saying nothing to refute that. He's the last man on earth to want it known that a woman overcame him. Don't worry, sweetling, he can do nothing against you now."

The last of Verony's fear slipped from her. Safe in her husband's arms, she curled against him. His embrace was warm and gentle, his body a shelter from any storm.

For several minutes he held her tenderly, offering the comfort he understood she needed. But then Curran moved slightly away, looking down at her. "Much as I appreciate what you tried to do, Verony, I must leave no doubt in your mind that I do not approve. Your actions were impulsive and dangerous, to yourself and our child. Surely you can't believe I value my life more than both of yours?"

Verony met his eyes reluctantly. She resented his censure, for she still thought she had acted properly. "I could not run the risk that John would grow impatient and kill you. If I had gone to the earl..."

"He would have handled the situation better, in keeping with my own best interests and those of our family."

A deep sigh escaped him. "You have many good qualities which I admire, but your stubborn insistence on independence is a danger to us all. This business with John is a perfect example. Your initial refusal to confide in me paved the way for him to challenge our marriage. And your lack of faith in my father put you and our child in mortal peril."

Tipping her head back, he gazed deeply into her eyes. "You are a beautiful and brave woman. I am proud to call you mine and to know that my children will come from you. But until you learn to accept your proper role, I will feel you are not fully my wife."

Verony did not answer. She was deeply hurt by what seemed like a callous lack of appreciation for her courage. His insistence that she submit her will to the control of others rankled. It went smack up against the fierce pride and self-reliance that had sustained her life for so long.

Moreover, his suggestion that she was not completely the wife he wanted wounded her deeply. It appeared he was demanding she give up all of herself to become merely a vessel for his expectations.

Moving away from him, Verony turned on her side with her back toward her husband. The distance between them did not narrow as they spent an uneasy night in light sleep and sorrowful thought.

T
he spring came late that year. At the end of April, frost still lay on the ground. By May, the first wildflowers were just beginning to appear. The long wait for fair weather, after the harsh winter, further strained the nerves of those tensely anticipating the confrontation that could not be delayed much longer.

In London, Verony watched the snow melt, the frost disappear and the rivers swell. From the window of the solar, she could see the fields surrounding the d'Arcy compound. Serfs brought from the family's main holding in the south moved through them, preparing the land for new crops. Others were busy tending the newborn sheep, cows, pigs and horses who crowded the stables around the bailey. Still more could be heard hammering and sawing as the inevitable toll of winter was repaired.

It was a busy time, but one in which she took little part. Her swollen belly was heavy and cumbersome. The child moved often, most frequently at night when she tried vainly to sleep. Her back ached and even the effort of climbing stairs or rising from a bench required assistance.

Verony sighed. She longed for the baby and loved it already, but she had to admit that pregnancy was even more of a trial than she had expected. With Curran's constant absence she had to look to Lady Emelie and Arianna for help and encouragement. They did everything possible, but she still missed her husband keenly.

Even the few times he was at home, he seemed more like a stranger than the warm, loving man she had briefly known. Since the night they were wed, he had not spoken again of his pain at her inability to be completely the wife he wanted. But there seemed no doubt his feelings had not changed. They observed a wary truce that did nothing to bridge the gulf between them.

Verony deeply regretted their lack of closeness, but had no idea how to end it. Even as she privately admitted she had acted impulsively in the matter of John, she knew she could never be the docile, malleable wife Curran appeared to want. Nor did she believe for a moment such a woman would be truly capable of sharing his life. He would quickly tire of her, whether he cared to acknowledge it or not.

A compromise was needed. But with the great political events of the day rushing to their conclusion, private problems had to wait.

Verony sighed, making forlorn stabs at her bedraggled needlework. She was sick to death with waiting. To one accustomed to strength and agility in both mind and body, her present state was irritating in the extreme. While everyone else was gainfully occupied, she could do nothing but sit in the sunlight and confront her uneasy thoughts.

Certainly there was no opportunity to take part in the sweeping political machinations going on all around her. She had no choice but to rely on the other d'Arcy women for the latest news. As busy as they were, Lady Emelie and Arianna still found time to sit with her, sharing her solitude and bringing a breath of the wide world into her confinement.

"John is in Windsor this week," the countess was saying. "He's trying to convince the lords there to support him, but without success."

Verony shook her head bemusedly. Since abruptly leaving London four months before, the king had crisscrossed the country trying to convince his recalcitrant nobles to stand with him. Wherever he went—from Wessex to East Anglia, Northumbria to Mercia—he found at best cold refusal and frequently outright rage.

The d'Arcy's were doing their job well. Like the king, the Earl Garrett, Mark and Curran spent the late winter and early spring in constant movement around the country. Within a matter of weeks, they met with every nobleman of consequence in the kingdom, assuring that the barons remained firm in their struggle for reform. Everyone knew that the day was fast approaching when even John would no longer be able to deny their success.

"A few barons still follow him," Verony reminded her. "Though I cannot imagine why."

"Because he pays them," Arianna averred. "They are no more than mercenaries."

Lady Emelie nodded. "He won't be able to keep that up for long. All revenues due him from the lords are being withheld until he agrees to meet with them again and reach some accord."

Putting down her needlework, Verony asked: "How much longer do you think he can hold out? Surely he realizes that if he tries to delay much further, he may spark outright rebellion that could topple him from the throne."

"I think," the countess mused, "John's whole strategy these last months has centered on wearing the nobles down. He knows no one wants civil war, which is what we would come to if the monarchy is overturned. Every baron in the kingdom would be vying to take John's place, and the result would be bloodshed beyond anything we have ever seen. So there was a certain twisted logic about believing that the confrontation could be brought to a choice between accepting the system we have now or facing long, destructive conflict."

"But he counted on our determination being less than it is," Arianna said. "Surely John is incapable of anticipating the degree of fortitude and selflessness our own family has brought to this struggle. Throughout, the Earl Garrett, Mark and Curran have all said we will gain nothing but freedom from the abuses of the throne."

"Unfortunately, few barons were willing to accept such assurances on face value," Verony pointed out ruefully. "Each believed the earl secretly wanted to put himself in John's place. That's why it has been so hard to keep the coalition firm."

None of the women wanted to say that the goal had finally been achieved, but the smiles they shared and the ease of their talk showed their conviction that the long struggle was almost over.

Certainly the earl's message that he and his sons would be back in London at any moment had not come as a surprise. The time was fast approaching when the rebel forces would meet to decide on final terms.

Cut off from the rush of events, Verony chafed at her idleness. The day, which had begun slowly enough, seemed to drag on endlessly. When Lady Emelie and Arianna returned to their household tasks, she found some occupation in the weaving rooms but could not sit comfortably for any length of time and had to leave.

A walk in the gardens soothed her somewhat, until the activity all around her reminded Verony of everything she could not do. Seeking the quiet of her own room, she indulged in what had become an almost daily ritual, going lovingly through the blankets, shirts and swaddling clothes prepared for the baby.

Seated beside the window, pillows piled at her back, she relaxed at last as she stitched yet another petal-soft chemise so small it was difficult to believe anything could ever fit into it.

Touching her belly, Verony smiled. Curran was certain the child was a boy. Lady Emelie agreed, saying that the infant's frequent movements and the fact that Verony was carrying so low indicated she would bear a son.

She prayed it was true, and that Curran would be pleased. Anything that might help close the distance between them was welcome. Thinking of her husband, she frowned. She knew he was well because he said so in his frequent letters. What she knew of the most recent political developments indicated he was actually in less danger than earlier in the year, when the king had tried to provoke what could easily have been a bloody showdown. Certainly everything she heard pointed to a peaceful conclusion by summer. She could look forward to spending the most pleasant months of the year with her husband and child back on their own estates where she prayed their differences would finally be resolved.

Yet still she worried. There were rumors filtering up from the streets of London that concerned her deeply. The citizenry, tense with the long wait and made reckless by the conviction that the king would be forced to give up some of his power, showed signs of hoping to take advantage of the situation for themselves.

For the more intelligent and reasonable, it was enough that any diminishing of royal authority would open up freedoms that could not help but benefit them, whether or not they were explicitly mentioned in the final agreement.

But for the sullen poor, too long weighed down by the combined abuses of the king and certain of his rapacious nobles, the present situation fueled a tinderbox of resentment and violence needing only a spark to set it off.

Late that evening, just as the long spring twilight gentled into darkness, the firebrand fell.

Verony had returned to her chamber after sharing supper with the Lady Emelie and Arianna in the Great Hall. Even in the absence of all but the younger boys, the family retainers gathered at the long trestle tables were ever mindful of their manners.

A musician strummed his lute as a bard recited. No one was in a mood for song, but there was no objection to quiet listening.

Verony was pleasantly drowsy before the meal ended. She accepted Lady Emelie's company back to her chamber and the two women talked briefly before the countess departed for her own quarters.

Undressed by her serving women, the silken veil of her hair brushed to a coppery sheen, she slid into a long white sleeping robe and padded over to the bed. Glancing down the length of her body under the covers, Verony smiled ruefully. She thought she looked like a beached whale.

Only by lifting her head as far as possible could she catch a glimpse of her toes. They wiggled at her cheerfully as Hilda grumbled: "That's enough now! It's time you were asleep."

Verony relented with poor grace. Now that she was actually in bed, her contrary body no longer felt tired. Disappointment over Curran's continued absence gnawed at her.

The message received that morning had said the earl and his son would be home as quickly as possible, but that could mean the following morning or even perhaps several days hence. Her patience, already sorely tried, stretched almost to breaking.

Flopping over on her side, she tried vainly to get comfortable. Hilda bustled about, straightening her clothes and picking up the sewing left discarded by the window. The nurse gazed at her charge tenderly, wishing she could do more for her but knowing that only Curran's return would better her humor. Bidding her lady a fond good night, Hilda departed to find her own rest.

Half an hour later, Verony was still awake and growing more discontent by the moment. Experience had taught her that any effort to lie still and court sleep would fail. Rising with considerable difficulty, she pulled on a woolen robe and returned to the window.

The last light had almost faded. A pale crescent moon shone ghostly against scattered clouds. The fields surrounding the house were empty; no boats moved along the river. London was settling down for the night.

Drowsily, she leaned her head against the stone wall and thought of the men and women going about their lives in the narrow timber-frame houses. Children would be sound asleep by now, snuggled into their beds under the eaves. Tables would be clear of the debris from dinner, wiped down with sand and water and tucked against the wattle and daub walls where they were out of the way until morning. Pallets spread on the dirt or flagstone floors would offer some slight ease to weary servants whose final tasks of the day would include banking the fires beneath the wide stone chimneys.

With so many people packed so tightly together, the smoke of London's fireplaces could be seen miles away. During the winter, the chimneys were in constant use. Only with warm weather, such as that enjoyed during the past few weeks, could fuel be saved by extinguishing the fires when the day's cooking was done.

It was an economy no Londoner failed to take advantage of, so why then could she make out wisps of dark smoke rising from the west of the city?

Straightening, Verony stared intently out the window. She was not mistaken. Black smoke was pouring into the sky from the residential district near the river, and it was growing denser by the moment.

The Jewish Quarter! Comprehension slammed through Verony with the force of a blow. Turning, she raced from the room. As quickly as her cumbersome shape would allow, she negotiated the steep stone steps leading down to the courtyard, sped across the open field and hurried into Lady Emelie's house. The countess was already downstairs, her clothing hastily jerked on and her voice sharp as she rapped out orders.

"Leave twenty men to guard the compound. Take the rest with you. Find Aaron ben Sharon and offer your help. He will be in contact with the other Jewish leaders and will know what can be done."

"My lady," the man protested, "your safety must be my first concern. I cannot leave you here so poorly defended."

Lady Emelie straightened to her full height. Without rancor, with the simple calmness of one who expects to be obeyed, she said: "You will do as I order. Immediately."

For just a moment, the man looked as though he wished to argue further. He thought better of it. Decades of service to the d'Arcy clan had taught him that once the Lady Emelie made up her mind about something she could not be swayed. At least not by anyone other than the earl himself who, God pity them, was not at home.

With the men dispatched, Lady Emelie turned her attention to the two white-faced young women watching her. "We will need blankets, salves for burns, bandages, warm clothing. Get the servants busy setting up shelters in the bailey. What space there is inside will be used for the most seriously injured."

Numbly, Verony and Arianna nodded. Each was experienced in the aftereffects of battle and had a fair idea of what could be expected. But the knowledge that this time the victims were helpless men, women and children—rather than seasoned warriors—added a piercing sense of dread to what they would shortly confront.