Suzanne Robinson (16 page)

“Um, Bogo,” Juliana said as she crouched on the branch and prepared for the attack.

“Yes, mistress.”

“There is someone else with Master Strange.”

“Who be that, mistress?”

“The Sieur de Valence.”

Bogo made a strangling sound. Juliana clamped her hand over his mouth.

“Shhh!”

“De-De Valence,” Bogo hissed. “May God assoil my soul. De Valence. What—what—We can’t. No one goes against—”

“Shhh, Bogo. They’re here.”

Bogo groaned. “He’ll draw and quarter us. If we’re fortunate.”

“One more word, and I’ll help him. Now you get ready to release that arrow.”

Silence fell as a party of four emerged from the trees along the bank of the stream. Juliana watched Gray de Valence dismount and help his cousin from his horse and convey him to the bank. Two youths, servants, assisted. One of them was Imad.

When the boys had led the horses away, Juliana whispered to Bogo, “Now.”

Bogo drew back on his longbow and released an arrow. Juliana heard a familiar angry buzz, and the arrow shot into the ground at the feet of Gray de Valence. At the same time she and her men let out raucous hooting cries. More arrows rained down on the men below, spearing the ground around them until they were surrounded by a feathered half-circle of missiles.

After the first shot, de Valence had slipped behind a tree and drawn his sword. Edmund was scrambling in the leaves and dirt to hide behind a boulder at the edge of the water. The two servants dodged behind a stand of bushes, kept there by the threat of Warin’s bow.

The first volley over, Juliana thrust her legs through the dense leaf cover and swung to a lower branch. Balancing there in sight of her victims, she bowed.

“Well met, my lords.” She’d had practice at lowering her voice. She sounded more like a youth than a man, but at least she didn’t sound like a maid. “I greet you well.”

Gray’s bright head appeared from behind the tree. “You’ve chosen the wrong men. We brought no gold with us.”

“That’s a great heaviness to me, noble sir. What’s a
poor thief to do when great barons become sparrow hawks?”

Her men laughed and called down jeers and insults. Edmund cowered behind his rock and whimpered at de Valence, who ignored him.

“Well, lads,” Juliana said. “We’ve chosen to rob men of such poor condition that they’ve no coin at all. What shall we do with them?”

“Hang them!” cried Warin.

Edmund tried to burrow under his rock, but de Valence laughed.

“You’re only safe at a distance, fool. If you get within sword’s reach, you’re dead.”

His unconcern annoyed Juliana. She let her men taunt the victims a bit longer, then said, “Right well said, my lord. Then I suppose the only thing left to do is run away.”

“I would suggest it,” de Valence replied.

“But first,” Juliana purred, “I’ll have your clothes.”

“What?” Edmund shrieked. “Oh, God, I’ve heard of this churl. He’s called the stripping bandit.”

“Quickly, noble sirs.”

De Valence scowled at her, and she was pleased to see that he had no ready reply this time.

Edmund shook his head. “No, I’ll not give you one scrap!”

Juliana sighed, put two fingers in her mouth, and whistled loudly. At the signal, arrows shot out to impale the ground a finger’s width from Edmund’s cowering figure. The man yelped and began removing his cloak.

“Tie them in a bundle and throw them into the forest across the brook,” Juliana said.

Gray hadn’t moved.

“Your clothes as well, my lord.”

“I think not, master thief.”

Juliana grinned and glanced at Eadmer high above her. “Convince his lordship.”

There was a click and a furious whir as a crossbow fired. De Valence jumped at the impact of a bolt in the trunk of the tree. It had pierced the wood beside his head.

“You should learn humility, noble sir. God has sent me to be the instrument to teach you. Your clothes, my lord. The next shot won’t be so wide of the mark.”

Even from a distance she could see the muscle in Gray’s jaw quiver as he tried to master his temper. Juliana was grinning wider by the moment. De Valence shoved away from the tree and removed his cloak. It spread out on the ground, to be followed by his tunic and belt. More clothing sailed through the air to land on top of these, and Juliana’s smile vanished.

His gaze never left hers. She knew he was trying to wish away the cloth that covered her face. Defiance in every movement and in the grim set of his mouth, de Valence unlaced his hose. Juliana had grown silent as the disrobing revealed a lean, tapering torso sculpted with subtle hills and knolls of muscle.

He removed his boots, and his hands went to the top of his hose and undergarment. Juliana usually turned away at this point. She always had before, but he was staring at her in such defiance. Curse him, he wasn’t shamed at all. He didn’t try to cover himself with his hands; he stood there, open and oblivious to his own body.

Her legs wouldn’t move, and she was growing hot. The finely knit cloth slipped down over his hips. She glimpsed hair a shade darker than that on his head. Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow; her mask was going to smother her. He bent and removed the last of his clothing, dropped it on the pile and straightened.

She had seen men before. As a healer, she’d seen many men, and come to the conclusion that they were all alike and uninteresting. Then why couldn’t she remove her gaze from him? The sight of his body disturbed her. She’d seen muscles before, long legs before, everything before, but not covered with smooth skin that seemed touched with gold. And the only curved part on him drew her gaze as he turned to the side to speak to Imad.
Juliana Welles, you’re staring at a man’s backside
.

She recalled the feel of him against her when he’d thrown her across his saddle. There had been hardness, an unexpected hardness and firmness. She understood the cause of that hardness, but had refused to connect it with herself until now. Juliana forced her gaze to his thighs, remembering their strength, and then started as Bogo cleared his throat.

“Be it time to go?”

She nodded, unable to speak. She was shaking on the inside and desperate not to shake on the outside where he could see it. Dear God, why wouldn’t he look away from her? While the rest of them held their victims at bay, Lambert had dropped to the ground and gathered clothing from the men and their servants. He was leaving when Juliana came out of her trance and dragged her gaze away from de Valence.

“Wait,” she called. “Leave a cloak for the heathen lad. He’s been ailing.”

Lambert tossed a cloak to Imad while Eadmer led their victim’s horses beneath Juliana’s tree. She and Bogo climbed down and dropped into the saddles. Gathering the reins, Juliana took the clothes while Eadmer and Bogo aimed bows at their quarry. By the time she looked at de Valence again, she’d regained her composure. But she kept her gaze above his shoulders.

“A most profitable encounter, noble sirs. I urge you to
hurry back to the castle, for evening approaches, and the night mist makes for a chilly evening stroll. God give you peace, my lords, as he’s given me your clothes.”

Loud guffaws from her men caused Edmund to hurl curses at her, but de Valence remained where he’d been all along. His arms rested loosely at his sides. He still made no attempt to conceal his body. No flush of shame reddened his cheeks, and he continued to stare at her. He was frowning, as if puzzled. Suddenly he moved, walking with the grace of a wolf at home in the forest, alert, stalking, menacing. She backed her mount away, and he paused, resting his hands on his hips and gazing at her with that perplexed expression.

“Good e’en to you, my lord,” Juliana said. “There are no hamlets or villages between the brook and the castle. And the walk leaving the forest is exposed all the way to the east bridge. You should give the castle folk a right heady sight parading home. I wish I could see it.”

Gray flushed. “You meant this all along, you impudent catamite. You weren’t after gold.”

More jeers from her men filled the air.

Juliana hooted. “Blessed be God, men. He thinks we came all the way through the forest to look at his pretty arse!”

At last she got a curse from Gray de Valence. He stalked toward her only to halt as a crossbow bolt shot into the ground at his feet. Laughing, Juliana turned her horse and kicked it into a gallop, leaving Gray de Valence staring after her in splendid, furious nudity.

GRAY COULD SEE THE TURRETS OF WELLESBROOKE growing larger and larger. He took another step in his journey across the fallow field and hit a sharp stone. Yelping, he hopped on one foot while grabbing the other in both hands.

The soles of his feet were covered with nicks and bruises where he’d stepped on thorns, pebbles, and sharp twigs on his way through the forest. Once they’d been tough from going barefoot as a slave. Every step reminded him of old shame, old degradations. Releasing his foot, he limped over an old furrow and vowed to catch the bastard leader of those thieves if he had to stay at Wellesbrooke through winter. He’d left the others to await the rescue party he would send once he reached the castle. Gloom settled over him.

He’d already had a miserable day. First that mad-tempered harridan Juliana had attacked him, and then Yolande had sent back the gloves he’d given her. She had sent word through the Earl of Uvedale that she wanted no more gifts from him, nor did she wish to speak with him. Until then he hadn’t thought about how his carrying off Juliana would appear. Which showed how feeble-witted the witch had made him. Upon receiving her message, he’d sought out Yolande and cornered her in Havisia’s well-tended garden. Slipping through a door in the wall that surrounded the place, he’d crept up on the girl as she sat alone on a bench reading. His shadow fell
on her as he approached. She didn’t look up, but a hiss spewed from her lips. He hesitated, confused by the virulence in her tone.

“Satan’s entrails, get out of my light, girl, or I’ll sell you to—My lord.”

When she saw him, she cut off her words. Her eyes narrowed to slits; for a brief moment he felt as if he were looking into the black-red gaze of an Egyptian crocodile. In an instant the impression was gone, and he was left feeling that he’d imagined it. Gray bowed as she stood and set her book aside.

“I thought you were my maid.”

“Sweet mistress, I’ve come to explain about this morn.”

“There is nothing you can say to wipe out the shame of what you did before the whole tournament.”

“If you would but listen.”

“I heard about the washtub,” Yolande said.

It was her voice, that sweet voice. It made her seem more pliable and young than she was.

Yolande ran her fingers through a long lock of gold that hung over her shoulder, twisting and tangling them in the skeins. “I’ll not listen to you, because there is nothing that will restore my pride except to spurn you, and I’m determined that it shall be so. Everyone will say I rejected you instead of whispering that you prefer Juliana.”

He stared at her, and she stared back at him. Gone was the sweet and guileless maid with whom he’d danced. He faced a young woman, her stance unyielding, her mood implacable.

“Don’t be in such haste.”

He would have gone on, but she left, slipping through a door concealed by a cascade of vines, and he found himself talking to the bench. He had not done well. Being in the wrong had put him at a disadvantage.

Now there was talk all over the Welles domain that he’d thrown over Yolande for Juliana. Yolande obviously believed it; and once he’d thought about it, he could understand. After all, heirs to great baronies didn’t usually squirm around in washtubs with lord’s daughters.

No one had believed him when he protested that he’d been furious and wished to pay her back. Arthur had stared at him in wild consternation and muttered something about choosing another, richer heiress rather than Juliana. He still cringed at the recollection of Lucien’s knowing smirks.

“By the holy saints,
messire,”
Lucien had said. “You must be fair smitten with ardor to wallow with your love in a washtub before everyone.”

“I didn’t wallow,” Gray muttered to himself as he left the fallow field, his feet and legs dusty and sore. Lucien’s wit could be nasty at times.

It had been a miserable day. He was furious at Juliana Welles. The woman might have cost him his betrothed, for if he couldn’t regain Yolande’s favor, he wouldn’t force her to accept him. He had more pride than that, and there were other heiresses, by God. What had possessed Juliana to leap on him like that? Was she so foul-tempered as to wobble on the brink of madness? No, she’d been furious at him for his honorable courting of Yolande.

He was nearing the east bridge. Carts, wagons, and people were crossing in both directions, the last traffic before the gates closed at sunset. He forgot about Juliana as dread engulfed him. He closed his eyes, remembering the docks of Alexandria. It was there that he’d been stripped for the first time, stripped, examined, handled. Those old feelings of shame and degradation settled over him again. Just God, would he never stop feeling defiled?