The Other Side of Heaven (18 page)

She stood and pulled off her cowl and undertunic. The stone floor was cold as she walked toward the washbasin.

After uncorking the bottle, Gwen sniffed its contents. Lavender. She dabbed it on her fingers, rubbing them together. Oil – wonderful. She worked some into her feet and hands, then dripped a bit into the bucket and swished it about. After wetting a towel, she rubbed her face. The scent was heavenly, buoying her spirits, but not for long.

To her dismay, her pending escape still loomed in her thoughts, and Gwen frowned, assuring herself everything was going as planned. It would work out. The steward said the gates would open an hour before dawn. Not too much longer.

She smiled grimly.
Then I’m outta here.

*

Berengar arrived at his castle-keep just before Lauds and heard the bell toll thrice, a signal for his wife’s clergy to attend chapel. The lower and upper gates had opened to him without question, his troop of thirty handpicked bodyguards galloping through, intent on stabling their horses and getting some rest after the long ride home.

As soon as they reined in, Niccolo appeared and bowed, not a hair out of place, anxious to see to his lord’s needs. Berengar dismounted and handed his reins to a stableboy. Removing his helmet, he allowed Niccolo to assist him with his chain mail.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Berengar waved him off and walked away. No time for distractions. There was only one thing he needed now.

He strode into the castle and up the stairwell to Willa’s bower, taking the steps two at a time. He dismissed the guard and burst into the room, finding his wife’s ladies sprawled around her, asleep.

“Out!”

The women scrambled up and left.

Willa slept on, doubtless drugged with one of her sleeping potions.

No matter. Berengar stripped, then moved to the bed. Pulling Willa to the edge, he stood over her, spread her legs, and grabbed her breasts. She lay like a dead thing, unresponsive, which aroused him even more. “Sweet Willa.”

“Berengar?” She slowly opened her heavy lids and then glared at him. “You stink of the road. Get away from me, you son of a whore!”

“Do you dare deny me?”

She roused herself even more and moved to push him away with her foot. “Do you dare provoke my wrath? I decide when to spread my legs, and it is not now. Get out!”

“Bitch.” He drew away and, without a backward glance, pulled on his clothes and went downstairs to the ever-present Niccolo.

Berengar took a proffered cup of wine and guzzled it down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tell me everything that has happened since I left.”

“My lord, Queen Adelaide is in solitary confinement, still willful and ever defiant. As for the male prisoner, your wife did her best to extract information, but he attacked her and she was forced to kill him in self-defense. His head is affixed to a pike on the lower gate.”

“Yes, yes, I saw what’s left of him. A pity I was not there to witness the event.” Berengar smiled at Niccolo, and the man squirmed under his gaze. He was not telling everything he knew.

The steward stared back. “My lord?”

“And? What have you neglected to say?”

Niccolo started. “Nothing, my lord!”

“Bah!” Berengar spat on the floor and scowled at him.

“Well,” Niccolo’s eyes widened, “there is one other trifling bit of news.”

“I thought as much.”

“Yes, my lord. A Benedictine monk was admitted here this past eve. He has taken a vow of silence.”

“What?” Berengar’s instincts flared. The princess Emma had been spirited away by a Benedictine. “Did you recognize this man?”

“No, he was a stranger, my lord, young, tall, wearing the light robe favored by some orders, not the black.”

Christ!
Berengar fumed. His men had reported just such a monk in Pavia. “Where is this monk?”

“He was given a private room in the hostelry, the one with the peephole, for I assumed you might want him watched. I went there a few hours ago, but he was asleep in his bed. I planned to go back and make certain he––”

Berengar turned on his heel and left the steward in mid-sentence. Upon reaching the hostelry, he quietly slipped inside the room next to the monk’s bedchamber. Looking through the hole, he was surprised to see the monk awake. Stripped to the waist, he stood with his back to Berengar, sponging himself.

Nothing remarkable, except…

His waist curved in. His graceful movements accentuated the slenderness of his shoulders and arms.

Instantly suspicious, Berengar leaned forward, willing the monk to turn. As if in response, the stranger pivoted and faced him, reaching for a towel.

Berengar saw two small breasts, their nipples golden pink in the lamplight.

It was all a sham. She was a spy, the devious bitch!

The woman let her robe drop from her waist. Her mound was fair. Berengar licked his lips. She raised her left leg, placing her foot on a stool, and gently sponged herself.

Berengar’s eyes flew to her cleft, the blush on her glistening flesh the same as her nipples. He grew rock-hard and grabbed himself. A good rape tonight, the perfect way to celebrate his homecoming.

He watched the woman pat herself dry, idly wondering how she tasted, and how he would torture her. He weighed his options, anticipating endless hours of amusement.

Yes.
He laughed softly.
Then she will burn.

*

Gwen picked up a clean undertunic and checked her watch. It was almost 4:30. The gates must be open by now.

The door creaked and she froze, and then spun to meet the intruder. A dark-haired man stood there, his tunic made of a fine silk brocade. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I might ask the same. You certainly are no monk.” He leered, staring at her breasts, and undid the drawstring on his breeches. “How dare you infiltrate my castle with your lies and deceit. I shall teach you a lesson.”

“Berengar, you murderer!” Gwen lunged at him, wanting to claw his eyes out.

He seized her wrist, and panicking she tried to twist free.

“Bitch, what is that you hold?”

Gwen moved to hide her wristwatch, but he snatched it away. She stumbled back, looking for a way out as he blocked the door.

His eyes narrowed as he studied her watch, then he pushed up his sleeve, revealing his wrist.

Gwen was dumbstruck. “Stefano’s watch! You bastard. He was my friend.”

“Spy,” he growled. “So you were in league with him. Well, you’ve come too late. That was his head you saw rotting on the gate.” He laughed and opened his pants, exposing himself, and grabbed her.

She twisted aside, upsetting the bucket with her foot. Water sloshed across the floor.

Grasping for her, getting tangled in his drooping pants, Berengar lost his balance and fell flat.

Gwen saw her chance, scrambled for the bucket and swung hard, striking him on the side of the head. He didn’t move after that.

Chest heaving, she stood for a long moment, eyeing him. She kicked his side. No reaction. He was out cold.

Gwen threw on her cowl and sandals, then grabbed her things off the bed and stuffed them into her sack. She was almost out the door when she remembered the watches. She wrenched hers from his hand, then took Stefano’s, kissed it, and shoved both into her sack.

“Berengar, you bastard! I hope you can hear me. I should kill you for what you did to Stefano, you medieval piece of shit!”

He moaned. Gwen dropped her things and hit him with the bucket again. This time the blow landed right on his nose. Reflexively, he gasped and his eyes flew open, and then rolled back into his head. His body shuddered, and he went still.

Gwen felt no pity or remorse as blood poured from his nostrils, but gathered her things and set off, intent on escape. Stefano’s watch weighed heavily on her mind, the only remaining connection to him, a part of her now.

She raced out the door.

In the dim light before dawn, Gwen hurried toward the castle’s main gate. Her sack thumped against her back as she fought to maintain her balance, holding her hem high so she could jog without tripping. She smiled and waved at an unfamiliar guard standing at the threshold. He looked confused by her haste, but smiled back and let her pass.

One more gate to go and then she’d be free. Rushing headlong down the steep grade of the causeway, Gwen cursed as she tripped, fell hard, then rolled and was on her feet again almost immediately.

A horn blasted.

Oh shit! Why didn’t I tie him up?

Gwen picked up her pace. She’d never run so hard in her life. The lower gate was right in front of her. Fifteen feet. Ten. Five. She dashed through, passing another bewildered guard, who cried out, but wasn’t quick enough to stop her.

The trees. She had to get to the trees.

An arrow whizzed by, then another. She could hear pounding hooves and forced her legs to pump harder still. She passed the first bushes, twigs swatting at her skin, her hair. She didn’t try to avoid them, didn’t care as they scraped her cheeks, snagged her cowl. She reached the trees, crossing into the shadowy woods, but the hooves thundered ever louder. Close, so close. Where could she hide? Which way––?

Suddenly, Gwen was snatched off her feet, her waist caught in an iron grip, the galloping horse only inches away. Shouting, she struggled against her captor, but he was too strong for her. In the next instant, she was forced over the pommel, a hand pressed against the small of her back, holding her in place.

She tried to scream, but couldn’t. Her legs dangled down one side of the horse, her torso down the other. All she could see were flying hooves, clods of dirt, a black leather boot; all she could hear was the great beast blowing, straining, the thunder beat of its hooves against the ground.

“Sonofabitch, this hurts – let me go!” Gwen grabbed for her abductor’s calf, to push up and ease her stomach away from the pommel, but she couldn’t free herself. Then her gaze fixed on bright metal.

Crested spurs and… greyhounds! Gwen twisted, unable to get a glimpse of her captor’s – no, her rescuer’s – face, but a thrill coursed through her body. Nevertheless, she needed to be blunt.

“Alberto, you’re hurting me!”

“Hold on, a few moments more,” he shouted. “I must be certain no one follows us.”

His horse dodged one way, then the other, crashing through brush and branches, leaping over boulders, finding its way through the forest.

Finally, Alberto reined him in. “Hurry, put your left foot in my stirrup, so you can stand,” he ordered.

When she did, he grabbed her by the scruff of her hood and yanked her upright. “Good. Now, swing your right leg over Heracles’s back. You can ride behind me. Hold on!”

Gwen did as she was told, and as soon as she was settled, Alberto urged his horse to a canter and they were off again.

She held on tight, concentrating on the rhythm of the great warhorse, intent on keeping her seat. From time to time, she peered back over her shoulder, but saw no sign of pursuit. Then her eyes returned to Alberto. Despite his helmet, she caught the firm set of his jaw, his glancing eyes, his utter concentration, determination, and calculation.

They had been riding for some time, and Gwen felt exhausted when Alberto finally slowed his horse to a trot, then to a walk. The poor animal was covered in sweat, but he still held his head high and proud, his ears alert.

“I will not push Heracles anymore,” Alberto said quietly. “I do not believe anyone saw me rescue you. But I will assume Berengar’s troops realize someone took you away by horse. We must evade them through stealth now. Be alert to any noise.”

“I will.” Gwen hesitated, questions filling her head. “Thank you for rescuing me, Alberto,” she whispered. “Berengar was… he found out… I’m sure he knows I saw the queen. I’ve ruined everything.”

“You were quite reckless.” Alberto’s tone was formal, rigid. “You were also exceptionally brave to leave Pavia, then infiltrate Berengar’s keep. You’ve ruined nothing, my lady.”

Gwen felt Alberto’s muscles tense as he added, “I nearly had Barca’s head for letting you out of his sight.”

“Alberto, I released him from his bond.”

“He was not under your
command!” The harshness of his tone caused Heracles to prance nervously. Alberto cursed and rubbed the horse’s neck, settling him. “Do not countermand my orders again.”

“I’m sorry, but you needed to know what happened to the queen. And Stefano was, was––” Gwen’s voice broke, her eyes filling with tears.

Alberto glanced over his shoulder. “Barca explained,” he said, modulating his voice. “I pray to God Stefano died swiftly, Gwendolyn. Barca told me this man was your guide.”

She wiped her eyes. “Yes, he was a friend.”

Alberto stared straight ahead. “Ah, I see.”

“You don’t see anything, Alberto. He was a good man, as much as I knew of him. But he was only a friend.”

He made no reply to this, and they rode in silence until Gwen said, “I’m not sure I can guide you to Father Warinus now. I’ve lost track of where we are.”

“I know where we are and where he is. Barca led me to Warinus last night. Jesus God, when I found out what you had done, I––” His voice died in strangled fury.

Gwen squirmed, her mind grappling with the dawning realization of just how lucky she was to have escaped.

“We watched helplessly as Berengar returned to his keep,” Alberto went on. “We were too few against his forces, so he passed through the gates unmolested. We could do nothing; I could do
nothing
,” he leaned over and spat on the ground, “but change the location of your camp, and pray God you would escape at dawn. A night was never so long as that. When I thought of you inside with… what would you have done if I hadn’t shown up when I did?”

“I––”

“You would have died with an arrow to your back, or been returned to Garda for questioning. Imagine your fate then. You have made it a very personal matter with Berengar now, and he will leave no stone unturned to find you, to repay you for the insult. We shall rendezvous with Father Warinus and Barca after nightfall, but only if we find Berengar has recalled his men, which is possible. They merely search for a nosy monk, after all.”

Gwen bristled, but choked back her resentment. “Berengar may have more reason than mere insult at having been infiltrated. Somehow, he realized I was a woman and he came after me – barged right into my room – but instead of raping me as he intended, the bastard tripped and fell when his pants dropped to his ankles. I hit him twice with a bucket. I think I broke his nose. Last I saw, he was lying on the floor, unconscious, bleeding, and limp as a dishrag.”

Alberto said nothing, but she could feel the tension ease in his shoulders and heard him chuckling as he nudged his horse forward. The sound was wonderful, and her anger melted away.

“So then,” he said, “you’ve learned to defend yourself, at least.”

“Funny.” Gwen laid her cheek against his back and loosened her vice-grip on him. She flexed her fingers, then opened them and placed them gently around his waist, intending nothing more than to find a secure hold, but the chain mail was slippery.

Suddenly, she could hardly breathe, her fingers on fire as she sensed his flat stomach, taut and etched with muscles. Without thinking, her hands explored upward, across his chest, then returned to his waist, wanting more, until Alberto stopped her hands with his.

Flustered, Gwen bit her lip, pressed her cheek more firmly against him, and tried to control her breathing. This was no time for… that. But all she could see from behind her closed lids were his eyes, his lips, and she entwined her fingers with his.

Heracles made his way down a deeply shaded slope, following a path almost hidden by lush undergrowth, and Alberto raised her hand, kissing her palm.

A moan escaped her. She sat up, startled, embarrassed, and terribly aroused.

“Alberto, stop,” Gwen could hardly speak, “stop the horse.”

“A moment more,” he replied. “I must water Heracles, now that he is cooled. There is a small stream up ahead where he can drink, where we can… where we will be safe from spies.”

Once they arrived at the sun-dappled glen, the horse lowered his head to drink from the tiny rivulet of sparkling water. Gwen slid to the ground, clutching Alberto’s tunic, but not for balance. She gazed up and touched his knee.

“Alberto.” Gwen had never wanted anyone so badly, so fully. How could she make him understand how she felt? “Get off your horse,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Please come down.”

His movements measured and deliberate, Alberto swung his leg around, dismounted, and removed his helmet. Dropping it to the ground, he drew her close. “I feared you would never get out of Garda alive,” he said, pushing wisps of hair off her brow, his voice rough with emotion.

Holding her hands, he kissed each palm and then gravely searched her face, his dark eyes pulling her into his heart, into his soul.

Gwen wrapped her arms around his waist and tilted her head back to look at him, inviting his embrace. Her pulse pounding with desire, she touched his chain mail. “Alberto, get rid of it. Take it off.”

He released his hold on her to struggle with his chain mail and sword, cursing their cumbersome weight, before dropping them beside his helmet. His tunic and boots followed immediately afterward, and he stood before her, bare-chested, his dark, loose curls touching his shoulders, his eyes looking straight at her, burning her up.

“Gwendolyn.”

In an instant, she was back in his arms, kissing him as he pulled at her sack and clothes, until she was naked. His arms crushed her body against his, the heat of his bare skin searing.

Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her off the ground. She could feel the swell of him, so hard. The exhilaration of delayed desire, of danger and escape, tore through her and her mouth sought his, desperate to taste, know, and devour. His days-old stubble scraped at her face, the salt of his skin like an elixir.

Clinging to him, kissing as he fumbled with the drawstring of his pants, she felt his fingers brush against her, igniting new fires, and then she gasped at the sudden surge of him inside her, thrusting, even before they were on the ground. He laid her on a bed of leaves, still moving within her, pounding, driving, until he strained and shuddered.

Her mind, her body exploding from within, Gwen arched against him, and they cried out together in their ecstasy, the culmination overwhelming, making them whole, complete, alive.

He collapsed beside Gwen and then pulled her close, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the air as moments passed, as Gwen’s heartbeat slowed.

“Alberto,” she whispered, gently brushing her lips against his forehead. She toyed with his hair, tracing silver strands, then looked up at the sky.

Her mind flitted to her past, almost certainly lost forever, and to her future, hazy and uncertain, then to this man who lay beside her. She sighed and kissed his shoulder.

In response, he rose up on one elbow, his gaze still smoldering. “My Gwendolyn.” He leaned in and kissed her softly. “My heart is entirely yours, and I have been able to think of little else these days.” His rough fingers caressed her cheek, traced over her mouth, and then trailed down, circling her breast, her abdomen. “You are so beautiful, but I must ask you to forgive me. I should never have allowed myself to behave so basely toward you. To lose control as I did, taking you in the woods when you deserve the finest—”

Gwen ran her fingers through his hair. “Don’t regret anything. It was time. Perfect.”

She drew his head to hers and kissed him, desire surging anew. “Alberto, my Alberto, I want you again, but don’t hurry this time. Don’t ever stop. Make love to me again.”

*

Gwen could have spent the day in that beautiful spot, not caring what happened to the world beyond where they lay entwined, blissful. But Alberto finally insisted they mount up and leave the area, and once again she found herself atop Heracles, this time in the saddle, with Alberto sitting behind.

Gwen dozed, her head against Alberto’s shoulder, but from time to time she opened her eyes, once beside a brook watching the horse drink, then seeing the splash of water as they made their way upstream. Later, in the pink glow of sunset, Heracles cantered through a field of grass. In those waking moments, Gwen could only wonder at the peace she felt with Alberto, the sense of security he gave her. He was her refuge.

“Gwendolyn?”

His voice was like music. She loved the sound of her name on his lips.

“Gwendolyn, you must wake now.”

“Hmm?” Gwen straightened, rubbing her eyes. “Where are we?”

“We are near the new camp. I would talk to you about… you realize we cannot openly display our affection before my men. Not yet. Not while we’re at war.”

“I understand. It would be a distraction, and we need to concentrate on rescuing Queen Adelaide.”

He hugged her. “You are a wise woman, and I thank you.”

Gwen and Alberto rode into camp silently, his arms still protectively wrapped around her. Barca and Warinus were there to greet them as if they’d announced their arrival. No longer hidden within the confines of her hood, she tried to ignore the two dozen or so men of Alberto’s expeditionary force, but found she couldn’t. To a man, they watched her, evaluating, wondering, she supposed, about the woman who had passed herself off as a man, who had fooled them all, but who now stood revealed.