The Shattered Rose (3 page)

He turned and walked out of the tent, aware of his father and brothers following, of the eyes of all the camp on him. He didn't even try to look at Raoul.

All his rapturous praise of Jehanne was ashes, and yet...

And yet.

She'd thought him dead. There was a grain of comfort in that.

He took his reins from the groom and mounted his weary horse. His father grabbed the bridle close by the bit. "What are you doing? If you want to lead an assault, we'll do it tomorrow."

Galeran didn't try to force the horse forward. "Let us first see if they'll open to their rightful lord."

"By Peter's toe, lad, they'll shoot you on sight! It would suit them fine to kill you."

"If my wife wants me dead, I would be better off so." He met his father's angry eyes, and after a moment Lord William released the horse.

Galeran rode toward his castle bareheaded. He had no pennant, but enough people should be able to recognize him when he was close. There were guards on the walls.

Heywood was built on a natural rise of heath-covered rock, which was kept clear of all larger growth so the watchman at the top of the keep always had a clear view of anyone approaching. As Galeran rode up the long, sloping road at a walk, he heard the man blow his horn. In moments, new people hurried onto the ramparts over the gate.

One was Jehanne, accompanied by a tall man in armor. Presumably Raymond of Lowick, though it was impossible to tell.

Lowick had always been a handsome man, and Galeran could see no reason why that would have changed now that he was close to thirty. He'd always been a skilled warrior too, both in battle and personal combat.

Galeran could tell nothing of how Jehanne looked, or how the two people looked together. In fact, he thought dispassionately, the figures could be another blond woman and another tall knight, and he would be none the wiser yet.

Would an arrow fly? He was wearing mail, so the chance of it killing him was small, but it could take him in the eye. For that matter, if they had the brutal crossbow, a bolt could pierce his mail. He found he didn't care. At this moment, living or dying seemed immaterial.

Unopposed, he rode near to the closed gates. By then there could be no doubt that the woman was his wife.

She had not changed. She was still slender, and her fine blond hair escaped as usual to blow in unruly wisps. She looked pale, but that was to be expected. She met his eyes steadily, but he expected that.

Jehanne would stare down Satan at the gates of hell.

A flare of rage almost shattered his control.

Why?

He wanted to bellow it at her here and now, for he knew there had to be reasons. He knew his wife. He still loved his wife, but his image of her was like the fragments of that shattered rose. Did the wax exist to cobble his life together again?

He looked away to scan the armed men on the walls. They, too, looked pale, but the pallor could have been from the rapidly failing light. "I am Lord Galeran of Heywood," he announced in a voice loud enough to be heard by all,

"rightful lord of this castle. At first light tomorrow I will approach with my men and my family's men and expect admittance. Deny me at your peril."

He waited a moment in case there would be a response, but there was none, not even defiance. The only movement was Jehanne's blue scarf blowing in the chilly wind.

Galeran swung away and rode back down to the camp. There he dismounted and turned his weary horse over to John.

"Why tomorrow?" his father demanded. "If they'll let you in then, they'll let you in now!"

"Perhaps I need time to think before meeting my wife."

With that, Galeran walked away, away from the camp, away from everyone.

And, thanks be to God, they let him go.

* * * * *

He stopped after a while because there wasn't any point in pushing onward unless he wanted to walk all the way back to Jerusalem—which was strangely appealing. He leaned against a tree, slid wearily down to sit, then rested his head on his knees.

Dear Lord in heaven, what was he supposed to do now?

He knew what he was
supposed
to do. Kill Lowick, banish Jehanne to a convent, probably after beating her black and blue, put her aside, and find a more virtuous wife.

Or perhaps even give her to the courts to be executed.

He fought down the need to vomit up that cold mutton pie.

What about the children? Gallot and the bastard. Perhaps they were young enough to come to love another woman as their mother, but Jehanne would never recover from losing them.

He'd been surprised when his cool-headed, quick-witted wife had revealed a passionate maternal longing, but once established, it had become the ruling force in their lives.

Her desire for a child had eroded their sexual pleasure and made her silently miserable every month of the year. That misery had driven him to do the one thing he had no wish to do—leave her and take the cross.

Their childlessness had not mattered at first. Betrothed at sixteen, married at seventeen, life stretched before them like an open road, and the tangled pleasures of fighting and bed play absorbed all their attention. After a year or so, however, the questions started—well-meaning questions about when Jehanne would quicken. Galeran was even taken aside by his embarrassed father to check that the young couple were actually doing all that was necessary.

They certainly were, and enjoying it so much that they were in no great hurry to have the fun interrupted by pregnancy and birth. The concern of all around began to affect them, however, so they took measures.

Herbs were recommended, and dutifully used. Prayers were offered. Jehanne even agreed to wear an amulet to keep away the evil spirits that could eat a woman's children before they started to grow.

Still, it was all more a matter for amusement than concern. At eighteen they lived in youthful optimism that everything would come in time, and in the meantime they had much to absorb them,

Jehanne had already perfected her skills as chatelaine and was an industrious, efficient manager. Galeran was continuing to develop fighting skills as well as the administrative abilities he would need to run the barony when Jehanne's father died. He was entranced by the power and prestige of Heywood. After all, as a younger son, he had never expected to become a landed lord so easily.

The unexpected marriage had come about because Jehanne's brothers had died, leaving her heir to her ailing father's estates. Fulk of Heywood decided to marry her off quickly to a suitable young man, one old enough for responsibility but young enough to be trained by him.

He naturally looked to the large family of his neighbor, William of Brome. Will, the eldest son, was already married. Eustace, the second son, was nineteen and all a man could want in a son-by-marriage.

The betrothal negotiations were well advanced, when Eustace threw everything into disorder by announcing that he felt called to become a priest, a fighting priest opposing the Moors in Iberia. Fulk howled, Lord William raged, but Eustace held his ground as firmly as one would expect of a holy warrior.

Thus Galeran found himself the focus of dynastic plans. Just sixteen and more interested in horses and hounds than women, he was not consulted. He was summoned from Lancashire, where he served as squire to Lord Andrew of Forth, stuffed into unusually fine clothes, and taken to Heywood to be betrothed to a frosty girl a few months older and a few inches taller than he. Scarce over that shock, he was told he would live at Heywood and complete his training in arms under Lord Fulk, while learning how to manage property.

Despite the shock, Galeran recognized his good fortune. He was being handed a castle and estates of his own and was likely to have them soon, since Lord Fulk was ailing. The only mold in this tasty loaf was his betrothed wife.

The Lady Jehanne made no secret of the fact that she would prefer to marry another, Raymond of Lowick. Tall, handsome Raymond had been her father's squire, and was now known throughout the north for his skill with arms. At her father's command, she had accepted that she was to marry Eustace of Brome, who was equally tall and handsome in a rough-cut way, and who had also proved himself in battle.

She had not expected to marry a slightly built boy.

"I'm a full two months older than you" was virtually the first thing she said to him.

He had sisters and knew how to handle that. "Then you'll doubtless die sooner." But his voice had cracked on it, and he would have given his right hand that it not, because she wasn't his sister. She was that frightening creature, the woman who would one day be his wife.

They'd already made the vows and signed the documents, witnessed by thirty or so men of standing in the norm. Now they'd been sent to sit together at the opposite end of the hall while the contented men drank their health. They were both dressed in the finest silks and bullion, but Jehanne wore hers as if accustomed, and Galeran had never had such fine clothes in his life.

His dark hair was neatly trimmed. Hers had clearly never been cut. It rippled in a shimmering fall of pale gold silk down to her slender hips. Coming from a dark-haired family, it seemed a marvel to him, but a marvel like lightning, or dragon-fire, or flood.

Dangerous rather than desirable.

His skin was dusky, for his family came not long ago from southern France, where the sun was hot. Jehanne's bloodlines were more northern. Her translucent skin, smooth as fine, polished horn, lay neatly over delicate bones. Her red lips promised warmth, but her clear blue eyes were winter-cold.

She tossed her head, causing the golden silk to undulate like a live thing. "I wanted to many a
man.
Even your brother would be better than you."

"My brother preferred the Church." He hoped she caught the silent rider that it was now clear why.

Her lips tightened and she looked him over. "I'd think the Church would appeal to you too. You don't have the build of a fighting man."

That remark was enough to double Galeran's devotion to his military training. He knew he was small, but he had every faith that he would grow. Perhaps he would never be as big as his father or older brothers, but he would grow. Surely he would soon be bigger than his wife. Despite his size, he already had considerable skill in swordplay and riding, and though scarcely acknowledging it, he set out to show Jehanne that she was not marrying a priest.

He enjoyed such exercise too, except when his bride-to-be came to observe.

She watched his sword work one day, then commented, "Your left arm is weaker than your right."

He turned, shaking sweat from his hair. "Everyone's is, including yours."

She smirked. "No, it isn't. I'm left-handed."

"Cursed, you mean," he retorted, referring to a common superstition.

She tossed her head. "Only by you, sirrah."

But as she walked away he turned back to his work, satisfied that he'd scored in that bout.

Perhaps that was why she changed tactics and waylayed him in the quiet of the stables. "Since we're to be married, Galeran, you had better kiss me."

He moved uneasily away. "I don't want to kiss you."

"Of course you do." She cocked her head and studied him with a slight smile. "Or is it that you don't know how to kiss?"

He felt the red rise in his face, "
I
know, but you shouldn't."

She laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Then I'd never know if you did it right." Chameleonlike, she turned sultry and moved forward to lay a hand on his chest. "If you learn to kiss properly, Galeran, I might let you do more. ... Or is that what you're afraid of?"

She'd used perfume—something flowery, but spicy too— and it rose off her like a warning.

This new territory terrified him so much, he dodged away from her. "You speak wickedness. One day, Jehanne, I will beat you."

She laughed. ""You’ll have to grow a bit first."

When he lunged for her, she danced away, still laughing at him. He could have caught her, but he came to his senses.

He might be her promised husband, but that didn't mean he had a husband's rights.

Yet.

The thought of husbandly rights led him to thoughts of husbandly duties. The wedding was but four months away and Jehanne was right—he didn't know what to do. At least, he knew the facts, and had seen his brothers with a maid now and then, but he had no practical knowledge. He hadn't been much interested in women before his betrothal, and since then he'd been at Heywood. It didn't seem right, somehow, to dally with the maids in his wife's home.

But he did need some practice, and so he overcame his scruples and started to kiss the wenches who appealed to him. He found the business pleasant enough. It also introduced him to other joys—the soft feel of a woman's body, especially her breasts; the warm glow in her eyes when she was pleased; the sultry smell of a woman—so different from that of a sweaty man; the feelings in his own body, demanding more.

He didn't act on those demands—that still didn't seem right—but he often thought of visiting Brome, where he knew the names of some willing women.

Then, one day, Jehanne came upon him with his favorite dairy maid in his lap. Though stung by guilt, he was heartened by the naked fury in his betrothed wife's eyes. He knew then that he had wanted Jehanne to catch him, wanted to see her angry over it. He pushed the maid off his knees and gave her a playful swat on the rear to send her on her way.

Jehanne, of course, swiftly controlled herself. "I suppose you're practicing," she said with a dismissive air. "Are you hoping to get it right before we're wed?"

"Why would I care as long as I broach you and get you with child?"

She virtually snarled at him. "So I won't laugh at you."

"If you don't laugh at me, I won't laugh at you."

And he scored that time too, for she stormed off with angry color in her cheeks.

But perhaps, after all, she won that bout, for he found he didn't like to upset her and gave up his games with the maids. More man ever, though, he wanted to visit Brome so he could truly practice for his wedding night.