Suzanne Robinson (15 page)

What was it that caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise? Mayhap it was the vibrating timbre of that voice, and the way he purred at Tristan. That low thrumming reminded her of a cat that has just dined and is lying on a sun-baked rock contemplating an unsuspecting lizard for dessert.

“Then you don’t know my name,” St. John said as he trapped Tristan’s gaze with his own.

“Jesu, my lord, since I know not my own,” Tristan said, “how could I recall yours?”

St. John made no reply, but instead gave Tristan a smile of relish, of gloat, almost of gluttony.

Ponder had been warming his hands by the fire. “Lord Morgan is thinking of purchasing some of my property on the mainland. In Cornwall.”

There was another uncomfortable silence while the two younger men surveyed each other and Pen tried to deduce why they’d conceived such an animosity for each other at first sight. St. John startled everyone with another of his odd remarks.

“Then if you’ve lost your memory, you don’t know whether you’re a papist or a follower of her majesty’s church of England, or even of the teachings of Martin Luther. In faith, you don’t know which faith holds the truth.”

“Are you saying you do?” Tristan asked.

“By the rood, sirrah. Every good subject of her majesty knows the difference between our Lord’s truth and popish lies.”

Pen’s own experience warned her of the danger of religious quarrels and accusations. “My lords, there is no need for this discussion.”

“God’s breath,” Tristan said without a glance at her. “I hate sanctimony.”

St. John gave him another of his gloating smiles and bowed. “Your pardon, sir. I but remarked upon how difficult must be the plight of a man who knows not whether his soul is safe.”

“I can manage my own soul.”

Pen was caught off guard when St. John looked at her and said, “Or allow Mistress Fairfax to look after it.”

She put her palms to her cheeks to cool the flames that rose there. “Oh,” she said as she heard Tristan whisper a curse. “Oh, saints, my lord, you really shouldn’t have said that.”

As Morgan stepped away from her and put his hand on the pommel of his sword, she tried to grasp his arm and missed. This was what she hated about young men. Put them in proximity and they behaved like rams in rutting season. So much violence, so much barely leashed power, so little sense. She followed Tristan as he moved apart from her, closed the gap between them, and lay her hand on his shoulder. At her touch, his body went still, taut muscles went slack.

“Forgive me,” she said loudly, causing the men to look at her. “I haven’t offered the hospitality of Highcliffe. Dibbler, attend to it. Good gentlemen, please come to the fireplace. Sniggs, bring more cushions.”

Without waiting for their agreement, she went to the dais and sat in her chair with the Fairfax coat of arms carved in it. Ponder scurried after her. Thus abandoned, the younger men had no choice but to give up the confrontation and join her. After this, she kept control of the conversation by flitting and hopping from one topic to another and chattered inanities until hot spiced cider appeared along with meat pies, bread, and cheese. Several times St. John tried to engage Tristan in some contentious discussion, but she managed to distract them with her rattled nonsense. Unfortunately, St. John proved the better strategist, for he waited until she took a sip of her drink to speak again.

“Enough of this senseless prattling. Sir, or Tristan, since you’ve no other name, I would have privy converse with you.”

Pen burned her throat swallowing too quickly. “What needs this privacy? What can you have to say to Tristan since he’s a stranger to you?” She stopped abruptly as the significance of what she was saying occurred to her.

Tristan was frowning at St. John. He rose without a word and swept an arm in the direction of the stairs that led to his chamber. Not waiting for permission from her or Sir Ponder, he left. St. John bowed to her and followed. As the two men vanished, Pen’s apprehension grew. She didn’t like St. John. She didn’t like him speaking to Tristan alone. Her agitation increased when Ponder suddenly rubbed greasy lips on a napkin, set aside a meat pie, and made excuses.

“So many duties to attend to at Much Cutwell. I will take leave of you now. Mayhap now that we’ve settled our little differences, we can be friends, though, as you know, I want much more than friendship.”

Pen stared at him as he babbled.

“A pity it was that you so misunderstood my wooing. A pity. But I’ve so much to do. No time, no time at all. Prithee, don’t stir yourself. I can find my way.”

Pen sat back in her chair and watched Ponder bound out of the hall, trailing soiled damask and sooty fur. She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair for a moment, speculating upon why Ponder would abandon his guest, then jumped to her feet and hurried from the hall in search of Dibbler.

The trouble with holding a privy conversation in a keep is that there are few privy places. Tristan left the hall with St. John behind him, only to encounter Twistle on her way to the well room and two boys carrying a turnspit. He mounted the stairs in the tower that contained his chamber, only to meet three maids dragging bundles of soiled linen coming down while two more overtook him with clean sheets on his way up. He reached his door, shooed the maids on, and held it open for his guest.

He glared at a boy with a broom who appeared on the landing, and the lad scampered back downstairs. Shutting the door and glaring at it, he turned to St. John and found himself the object of a down-to-the-bone scrutiny. He felt a prickling along his spine, a warning, as if he were back on the castle battlements, caught in that duel of stares.

“What have you to say to me that demands privacy?” he asked.

“Such haste.” St. John turned away, went to a window embrasure, and leaned his hip against it. “I agree. Without a doubt we’ll have little time before your mad mistress conceives of some excuse to interrupt.”

Tristan couldn’t rid himself of that prickling feeling.
This man’s very presence made him want to snarl and bare his fangs. He waited, but St. John was still contemplating him with the unwavering regard of a snake. Then, suddenly, he burst out with a chuckle.

“Sacré Dieu, mon ami
. You may abandon the pretense. I fail to see that it gains you anything now that I’ve found you. Indeed, I fail to see the need to conceal yourself at all.”

Tristan frowned. “You’re French. Why have you come here pretending to be English?”

St. John sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Why think you that I’m the one who is French? Am I not speaking a language you know intimately?” He paused, then laughed. “Come, you’ve betrayed yourself, so you may as well abandon playing this foolish part.”

“I’m not playing a part, and I don’t like being lied to, especially by Frenchmen.” Tristan turned his back and walked to the door.

“
Arrêtez
.”

Tristan found himself obeying. He turned to face St. John.

“Si je parle français, tu parles français. Oui?”

His mind filled with French, and with it came a flash of memory, a brief image of this man standing in the shadow of a ruined abbey, standing over another man prostrate at his feet, a man with golden hair.
Infortuné, mon fils. This quick wit of yours has brought you a death sentence
.

Tristan put his hands to his head, wincing, and heard himself say,
“Arrêtez. Je ne le comprends pas. Je vous implore
. No more.”

He started at the sound of St. John’s voice, for the man had left the embrasure quietly and now stood too close.

“
Non
,
mon ami
. It is you who must stop, and you do understand what is happening. Shall I prove it?”

St. John leaned closer, so close that Tristan shoved his cloak aside and dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. At the movement, St. John arrested his advance and spoke softly.

“If your loss of memory isn’t a ruse, then you won’t care if I tell you Derry is dead.”

Tristan furrowed his brow but could find no response to this new name within himself. He met the challenge of St. John’s gaze with an unruffled stare. The silence between them lengthened until his opponent broke off, leaned against the wall beside Tristan, and chuckled again.

“
Dieu
. Mayhap I will believe you after all. Or is it that you’re as great a liar as I am?”

Tristan stared at him. “You know me.”

“Too well. You are my curse.”

He didn’t think; he only moved. Grasping the man by the neck of his doublet, he wrenched him upright. “Tell me who I am.”

It was like trying to keep hold of lightning. St. John twisted, whiplike, and wrenched free. In a blur of motion, both men drew their swords. Tristan sighted down the length of his blade.

“Damnation to you. You know who I am.”

His opponent took several steps backward, bowed, and grinned at him. “Verily, my friend. And therefore you won’t risk killing me, or you may never find out who you are.”

Tristan slowly lowered his weapon, then sheathed it as St. John sheathed his.

“You can’t be a friend,” he said. “Or you’d tell me at once. Therefore, you’re an enemy. What was it you said, that I’m your curse?”

“I grow weary of this game.”

“Then tell me who I am.”

“You’re indeed wondrous obstinate,” said St. John. “But I’ll never believe your tale of a memory wiped clean, so you may as well abandon this foolish guise.”

Tristan hesitated. “You think I’m a threat to you. Why is that? Why are you so concerned about me? What have you and I to do with each other? And why is an English nobleman lurking on this sequestered isle so far from home and court? I begin to think you’re the one playing a part.”

In a burst of action, St. John drew his sword and lunged at Tristan. Tristan easily darted back and drew his own weapon before his opponent could complete the attack. They circled each other. Blades twitched, and St. John tried another thrust to no avail. Tristan parried, locked his sword with St. John’s, and hurled the other man away from him. St. John stumbled against a table, cursed, and flung himself at Tristan, only to meet the freshly sharpened tip of a sword blade. Tristan smiled calmly as the man darted backward at the last moment, his gaze fixed on that sword tip.

Flushing, St. John said, “Enough of this game. Have you told anyone about this island or me?”

Tristan grinned at St. John as he flicked his blade in invitation. “Why should I tell you aught? The devil take you. You began this little skirmish. Let me end it for you.”

St. John widened the distance between them and lowered his sword. “In these past months I’ve learned much about you. You’re stubborn, tenacious. Barnaclelike, you’ve clung to me from Scotland to England and into the sea, and now here we are. I thought you’d drowned, but instead you reappear, like a lost love. Mayhap I’ve misjudged you. Did you know more than I thought?”

Tristan kept his gaze fixed on St. John, but lowered his sword in response to his opponent’s gesture. “I see we have much to discuss—if I can call what we’re doing discussion—but I prefer to do it in the open, where no one else can get hurt. Shall we take this privy conversation elsewhere?”

St. John hesitated a moment, then inclined his head and put away his weapon. Since the man had learned to keep his distance, Tristan led the way out of the chamber. He was listening for that telltale hiss that signaled the drawing of a sword when he saw Pen, Dibbler, and Wheedle coming up the stairs to the landing. He heard the hiss, sprang at Pen, trying to reach her to shove her aside, but he was too late. She saw St. John and the sword.

“Dibbler!”

Dibbler rushed past them with his pike, swung it at St. John, missed, and hit the sword blade. As it fell, Tristan sprang forward, grabbed the sword, and pointed it at his enemy.

Pen seemed to have brought the entire castle with her. Sniggs and Dibbler jabbed their pikes in the air and congratulated each other on their prowess. Erbut gawked blankly at Tristan and St. John while Pen, the girl Wheedle, and Turnip babbled questions at him.

“I knew something was wrong when Ponder scuttled out of here as if he expected the hall to burst into flames,” Pen said.

Everyone was talking at once. Tristan growled an order for silence before turning on Pen.

“Jesu, woman, have you no wits? I needed no interference, and you might have been hurt.” He shook his head when she would have answered. “Oh, don’t protest your good intent. Did you listen at the door as well?”

“No, I was gathering everyone together to defend you and only now reached the stair.”

Tristan regarded St. John warily, for the man was too quiet and calm.

“Your guest has been playing games with me. So much so that I begin to suspect that he’s not been telling us the truth. I don’t think he’s who he purports to be.”

“At last!” St. John cried. “At last he speaks a few truthful words. Indeed I’m not who I claimed to be, but more. Behold.”

Withdrawing folded papers from his belt, St. John handed them to Pen. While he waited for her to read them, he bathed Tristan with a satisfied smile. Pen looked up from the papers. Foreboding settled over him as Tristan met her wild glance. Tremors shook her slight body, and he watched the color of her lips fade from rose to the palest pink. The blush of her cheeks vanished as well, as if she’d been suddenly buried in unseen snow and chilled to freezing.

“Pen?”

She shook her head, and the papers she was holding slipped through stiff fingers. The document almost fell from her hands, but he caught it and read. He read a commission authorizing Lord Morgan St. John to pursue and capture a French priest named Jean-Paul, a priest whose description matched his own down to the small scar on the inside of his thigh near the groin.

Tristan suddenly felt as if he were swimming in hot mist. He clenched his jaw and tried to think. A priest? He was a priest? He didn’t feel like a priest, but most of the time, he felt like nothing at all. And how could he believe St. John, who so obviously hated him and wished him ill?