Taming the Beast (2 page)

And then the half picture of the woman's identity blossomed in Roderick's mind—Hugh had brought him to Aurelia, to the owner of the most exclusive brothel in Constantinople. Lovely, lovely Aurelia, whom he had not seen since he and his company had arrived in the city so many months ago….

“I will do what I can, of course,” Aurelia said. “But first we must see if he can be awakened. I have word from his family in England, left for him by a messenger only last week. Perhaps the news might rouse him.”

A fuzzy rage tried to fight to the surface of Roderick's fevered brain. His only family in England was his father, and a distant cousin. Roderick wanted to hear no message from his hateful sire, and he certainly didn't want to return to Cherbon. But the anger stole too much energy from him, and so he let it go when he felt Aurelia's soft, small hand on his left arm.

“Roderick,” she called softly into his ear, and the song of her voice was like a deep pool of warm water. “Roderick, can you hear me?”

He could hear her, but could command no movement from his body to indicate such. He could also hear the misplaced sound of a babe crying somewhere else in the room.

The hand on his arm squeezed. “Roderick, open your eyes and look at me, my lord.”

Leave me be
, Roderick said in his head, willing the woman—and Hugh—to let him slip away while the pain was still absent. The crying sound intensified.

He heard Aurelia sigh. “I must tend to Leo soon.” Her words grew louder in his head, but she had not raised her voice, perhaps only drawing closer to him—yes, he could feel her breath now on his neck.

“Roderick, hear me, my lord: A messenger brings word from England. Your father is dead.”

Your father is dead.

Your father is dead.

The last word—the most important word—seemed to echo in the vast cavern of Roderick's mind. And for a span of time—a second, an hour—Roderick let it swoop and circle there, as if testing its sincerity.

Magnus Cherbon was dead?

The pain was trickling back into his body now, in stomps and crashes and screams. Roderick could feel his muscles cramping and seizing. He struggled for clarity, for just one moment of lucidness before the torrent of white-hot misery dragged him under and drowned him. His eyelid seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.

Aurelia's dark hair and doelike brown eyes flickered into focus before him. She looked older, thinner, more tired from when he'd seen her last. Then, she had worn rouge and kohl, and tiny golden bells in her hair. Now, she was dim, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes shadowed naturally, and sunken.

“Roderick?” she asked, hope and surprise in her whisper. Over her shoulder Hugh Gilbert's face also appeared, and elsewhere in the room the infant wailed insistently.

“'Ome,” Roderick heard himself rasp. “'El me, 'Eel-ya. Go…'ome.”

Roderick suddenly wanted to live.

May 1103
Tornfield Manor, England

It was a lovely feast, save for the pointing and whispering. And the way she was repeatedly jostled out of line when she tried to join in a dance. Or that wretched woman who had stuck out a slippered foot and caused her to fall into a serving maid, spilling half the puddings and breaking most of Lord Tornfield's beautiful little painted bowls.

As if she needed assistance making a fool of herself.

So now, Michaela Fortune hid herself away near the musicians, where she could be close to the music that would drown out the hateful things being said about her. And, seated on the stool, she could hide the glommy white stains of pudding spilled down the skirt of her only good gown. Here, she could become lost in the melody and hum along if she wished, and she could convince herself it was
truly
a lovely feast, when what she wanted to do was find that miserable woman with the spastic foot and snatch at her hair.

Turn the other cheek
, Michaela reminded herself, as if her mother had whispered in her ear.
The meek shall inherit all the earth
.

As if to drive home her mother's tireless lessons on gentleness of spirit, Michaela caught a glimpse of her parents across the hall. Lord Walter and Agatha Fortune stood against the opposite perimeter of the chamber, closely linked together as usual. Michaela's father's kindly face was turned to look down upon his wife, as if only waiting for her to express any wish he might fulfill. It was satisfying to see them enjoying themselves—they so rarely left their small holding.

Like Michaela, Agatha Fortune was often the brunt of whispered gossip, although the mother was spared the indignity of the self-conscious clumsiness that plagued her daughter. The older Lady Fortune was dismissed as ineffective and a bit loose in the brains, while the younger was treated with scorn and avoidance.

Devil's Daughter.

Hell's Handmaid.

Sister of Satan.

Or, the very worst of all, Mistress Fortune.

Miss Fortune.
A clever play on words, Michaela had to admit, and of all the hated nicknames she had been cursed with, likely the most accurate. Misfortune, oh my, yes.

Her fingers pressed the warped link of metal on the fine chain resting under the bodice of her dress out of habit. For such a tiny object, its burden around her neck was as immense as any oaken yoke.

“Song!” a man's voice rang out, interrupting Michaela's self-pity. Alan Tornfield, the Fortune family's overlord and host of the feast, raised his chalice toward the trio of musicians near Michaela's hiding place. He was a handsome, mustachioed blond man of one score, ten and five, his wife's death last year leaving him and their young daughter alone in the modest manor. Michaela had never met the now-motherless Elizabeth—indeed, she'd never so much as spoken directly to Lord Tornfield. This feast was only the second time Michaela had visited the overlord's home in the whole of her score of years, although she couldn't recall the first instance, as she had been but a young child herself.

“I must have a song immediately! Who is sporting enough to lend their voice to yon strings?”

The crowd “hear-hear”-ed with enthusiastic agreement, and Michaela cringed as she spotted her own mother leaning this way and that, trying to pick out Michaela in the crowded hall. Michaela closed her eyes, as if it might make her invisible.

She was saved when Lord Tornfield announced his chosen candidate, and Michaela opened her eyes with a relieved sigh.

“Lady Juliette of Osprey, won't you indulge us?” he fairly shouted, and in a moment a tall, striking brunette dressed in rich green stepped from the crowd, a humble smile on her lovely face.

It was the woman who'd tripped her. Michaela slid her stool more fully behind the curtained backdrop.

“Do you know ‘My Love Calls the Sea'?” Lady Juliette sweetly queried the trio, and the man out in front of the group bowed. In a moment, the song started.

When the woman's voice came forth, sharp and warbling, Michaela cringed again. By the time the refrain and second verse were through, she checked to see if her nose might be bleeding. She saw several of the guests wince as notes were overshot toward heaven, Lady Juliette nearly screaming to reach such heights. Michaela opened her mouth and forced her ears to pop.

“Oh, make it stop,” she said loudly. No one could hear her any matter over that terrible shrieking. At any moment, she expected Lord Tornfield's hounds to add their voices to the noise. It would have improved the tone immensely.

At last the torture was over, and Michaela could almost hear the relieved sigh of the guests before they broke out in ridiculously exaggerated applause for the obscenely wealthy Lady of Osprey.

“My God, they must be deaf,” Michaela muttered. Then she gasped as she felt a tug on the back of her hair. Michaela spun around on her stool.

Shadowed by the curtain Michaela also hid behind stood a beautiful girl, perhaps ten years old, with long, shiny blond hair pulled away from her forehead and cascading down her back. Big, wise brown eyes gave her the look of a gentle woodland doe, and her impish smile brightened her otherwise pale face. She was nodding enthusiastically.

“Oh, hello,” Michaela said.

The girl's smile grew a bit wider. She pointed at the curtain, indicating the guests gathered beyond, then tugged at her ear.

Michaela couldn't help but laugh. “Well, if they weren't deaf before, I daresay they are now.”

The girl covered her mouth with both of her hands, and her eyes crinkled merrily.

“I am Michaela Fortune.” She held out her hand and the young girl immediately took it, sinking into a curtsey. “Who are you, pretty one?”

The girl smiled at the compliment then pointed at the crowd again. She drew her pointer fingers away from each other on her upper lip, then placed a hand on her flat chest.

Michaela thought she understood. “Lord Tornfield is your father?” The girl nodded, obviously happy that her pantomime had been successful. “Well, how do you do, Lady Elizabeth?”

The girl curtsied prettily again, and Michaela wondered at her lack of speech. She had heard of mutes, but never met one, and decided not to bring up the matter lest the fragile-looking child be humiliated.

Michaela knew all too well how that felt.

“Are you forbidden from the feast?” she asked instead.

Elizabeth shrugged, and then pointed past Michaela, her eyes wide and her mouth shaped into an O.

It appeared as though Lady Helltongue was preparing to torture the guests with another butchering of voice. Michaela groaned and dropped her head, her hands covering her ears.

“Can one
wish
oneself deaf, I wonder?”

Elizabeth Tornfield covered her own ears and bent at the waist, her mouth open in a silent guffaw and Michaela giggled. But she and her new young friend were spared from the lady's imminent screeching by Alan Tornfield himself.

“A moment, if you please,” he interrupted with a handsome bow in Lady Osprey's direction. “I have an announcement before the festivities continue.” Alan stepped onto the dais that held the lord's table with only a slight wobble and then smiled broadly at the crowd.

“I feel I must take this opportunity to address the sad news of our liege, Lord Magnus Cherbon's, passing, more than a year ago.” Not even a murmur of sympathy answered the announcement, and Michaela was not surprised. It was no secret that all within the demesne had detested the Cherbon Devil and his greedy, merciless rule, and most had looked upon his death as a blessing. Elizabeth inched closer to Michaela's side and peeked around the curtain at her father as he continued his speech.

“Our lands have been without a master for too long a time, and so it is with a happy heart that I follow such sadness with a bit of a miracle: Lord Cherbon's son, my cousin, Roderick, is expected to return from the Holy Land any day, to take his father's place at Cherbon Castle.”

At this, excited murmurs raced through the hall. Michaela caught only snippets of exclamations.

“Roderick, Lord Roderick!”

“So handsome…”

“…not at all like his sire.”

“
However
,” Lord Alan said crossly over the animated whispering, “due to some rather…devastating injuries he suffered while on his pilgrimage, and dare I say, lameness of body”—the crowd gasped—“as well as terms of the inheritance set forth by Magnus himself, it is possible that the bequeathement of the demesne could fall”—Alan paused, and the crowd seemed to lean forward eagerly—“to none other than yours truly.”

The hall erupted in surprised shouts and applause, and Lord Tornfield's smile was not a little prideful. He let the praise go on for several more seconds before raising his hands for silence once more.

“While I am, of course, saddened by the losses my cousin has suffered, I feel that tonight is a cause for celebration and merry-making. After all, it could only be a matter of weeks before I am removed to the northern part of our lands.” The crowd responded with a collective moan. “So! Let us make the most of our time together with a bit of sport—a competition, if you will, of song. I shall grant a boon to the most accomplished singer.” The crowd cheered. “We have already gratefully received Lady Juliette's offering.”

Lady Juliette smiled widely about the guests and gave a saucy wink.

“Who dares challenge her?” Lord Alan looked over those gathered. “Oh, come on. Who will give it a go?”

For the better part of an hour, more than a score of guests, male and female, took their turn in the fun of the challenge. None were truly accomplished in their talent—a few even deliberately mocking themselves by singing bawdy limericks or reciting silly lines of verse—but none were nearly as bad as Lady Juliette, Michaela was relieved to hear. She and little Lady Elizabeth enjoyed each performance, hidden away behind the curtain, dancing each other in a circle with joined hands.

The most recent contestant, a young man of good family, took his bow amidst roaring laughter and applause and Lord Tornfield claimed the dais once more as Michaela fell back onto her stool panting and giggling.

“Oh, well done,
well done!
” he laughed, and raised his ever-present chalice in salute of the young man. “Who else? Who will be next? We can't let the fun end now!”

Michaela felt a tug on her hair again and turned to see Elizabeth pantomiming a palm away from her open mouth. Then she pointed at Michaela.

“Oh, no. I think not.”

Elizabeth gave a mock pout then clasped her hands before her chest in a plea.

“Before all these people? They would devour me whole, Elizabeth. I haven't the talent for—”

“Lady Michaela Fortune shall sing!”

Michaela's stomach dropped into her bottom as her mother's warbly voice rang out through the hall.

“My daughter, where is she? Michaela?” Agatha's calls sounded ever closer, and Michaela could already hear the snickers and whispers from the crowd. “Michaela?”

Elizabeth gave her an unexpected—and surprisingly forceful—shove, and Michaela sprang from behind the curtain, stumbling, stumbling, catching herself with one outstretched hand, nearly standing, before at last sprawling facedown on the flagstones.

“Oh, Michaela, there you are, dear,” Agatha said in delight.

The guests made no effort to quell their laughter.

Then Agatha was at her side, pulling her daughter up by the arm. “Here we are, do get up, dear—and what has happened to your gown? No matter. Go on then, you have such a lovely voice.” Then she leaned in close to Michaela's ear to whisper, “Think of the
boon
, Michaela! Mayhap a bit off the taxes….”

“Oh, yes, Pudding—give us a song!” someone from the crowd goaded.

Michaela was very aware of her soiled dress, of Lady Juliette smirking in her direction, and of her mother's reminder of the Fortunes' growing poverty. Mayhap Lord Tornfield would grant a small reprieve, but…

Meanwhile, the crowd egged each other on.

“I dunno if we should have a verse from Miss Fortune—the devil might strike us all deaf!”

Michaela flung her hair out of her eyes and spun on the heckler. “I vow that if you can still claim even a bit of your hearing after that monstrosity of sound”—she said, and glanced at the shocked Juliette—“your tender ears should be quite safe for the rest of your life, devil or nay.”

“Michaela!” Agatha gasped and patted her daughter's arm. “That was unkind.”

Lady Juliette had regained her composure and now stepped from the crush with a malicious look. “Verily, Miss Fortune? ‘Monstrosity of sound,' was it? Well, then, if the crowd judges your voice more worthy than mine, I shall grant you my own boon. Anything you wish.”