The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) (45 page)

"You will not die. You are a fearsome knight; does not the world know that for a truth? I have no fears which are greater than your might. It is for Denise that I fear now."

"What of Denise? She is safe there. No harm can befall her in that strong tower."

"It can," Elsbeth said. "We must go to her. Her fear is great."

"Her fear is not so great as it was," Raymond said. "I left her in the care of Father Godfrey. He is writing a letter to her father, begging her release from Warkham with all haste."

"Father Godfrey? Nay, we must return," Elsbeth said, all pretense of serenity flown. "Hugh, trust me as you have urged me time and again to trust you. We have little cause for trust between us, yet I have trusted you when all counsel has urged me down a different path. Give me now the same. Trust me. We must return to Warkham."

Trust her? All was lost because of her. His quest a failure, his good name in Jerusalem spent, his future torn from his grasp to lie in her half-closed hands. She had given him nothing that he wanted and had taken from him all that he had hoped to find, and now she asked for his trust.

His trust. To walk into a battle he could not win. Gautier would not fight him, that had been proved. Nay, Gautier would use the men of his holding to fight for him. Odds of a hundred to one, if Raymond were discounted. There was no winning here. This was not a matter of trust; it was of logic and of might and of men, yet she made it a matter of trust between them.

"Of course we must return," he said against all logic and all reason and all wisdom. Because Elsbeth asked it of him. Because she trusted him to make all right. Because she believed him able to meet all odds. Because she asked him, and in her eyes he saw all the victory he would ever need. "Come, Raymond. We ride for Warkham Tower."

* * *

He had come looking for her, of course. She was not very difficult to find, not if a man knew where to look. The solar was oft used, as were the kitchens, but the chapel was the favored place for young girls to find a place of seclusion. He did not mind the chapel; 'twas quiet and full of heavy dark. Nay, he liked the chapel well enough.

He watched her as she slept, her blond hair shining like a streak of moonlight in the candle's glow. Such pretty hair.

He reached out a hand to stroke her hair, a gentle touch, hardly touching her at all. Yet he did touch. He had the right.

She stirred and mumbled in her shallow steep.

He crouched down and swept his cloak over them both, a cocoon of dark warmth in the vaulting darkness of the chapel. She awoke with a sharp start, moving away from him instantly.

"Sleep on, Denise," he said. "I will warm you."

But she did not sleep on. She tensed, stiffening against him where he held her hip close to his own.

"Why are you here?" she whispered.

Gautier smiled in the dark. It was good that she whispered. She knew that what he wanted from her had to remain secret. In secret and in whispers he came to her. In secret and in whispers would she remember this night. "I am here to find a girl who needs comfort and warmth."

"I do not need anything," she said, squirming from his side. Unsuccessfully.

"Nay, you are chilled. I will warm you," he said, stroking her hair. Beautiful hair, soft and white, and her skin smelled like... flowers, like summer.

"I am not chilled," she said.

"You are, Denise, and you must not lie. 'Tis a sin to lie."

"I do not lie!"

"Yet you are cold. I can feel it," he said, running his hand over her body, over the slim and perfect line of her form, over the softness of her skin.

"I do not..." she said, stammering, her teeth chattering, her body beginning to tremble. "I do not want you here."

"Nay?" He grinned, holding her firmly. "Have I asked what you want? It is what I want which should concern you."

"I do not care what you want!" she said loudly, pushing at his hands.

"Then you are in sin, Denise, for a woman to show her lord anything but docility is sin. Obedience. Submission. This is the mark of a godly woman. Is it not your mission on this earth to be as holy as Christ Himself?"

"I know not," she said.

 
“The path to that righteous holiness," he said, continuing on as if she had not spoken, "is submission. You must obey your lord in all he says. You must submit to his will, Denise. That is what is required of you."

"I do not care!" she said, trying to find an opening in the cloak, her hands frantic within the long folds of the fabric.

"Yet you must," he said, running his hand down her smooth, straight form. "I must show you the right path in this. I will instruct." She was as slender as winter grass, supple and unmarked by disease or childbearing. Unblemished. Pure. Untouched.

Until now.

"Stop! Raymond!" she cried, her voice muffled by the cloak and the darkness, by the celestial reaches of the stone itself. There was no one to hear her. And if they did? He was lord here. His will was law. "Hugh! Hugh!" she cried.

Aye, she would cry for the Poulains. They had kept him from her, always at her side. Yet now they gone. Even Emma was gone, she had kept this girl shunted away in the solar, dirty and forgotten. But he had not forgotten her. He had only waited for his time. His time was now.

"Hugh? Hugh has fled. You are alone, except for God. He has not left you. He sees you even now. Cry instead to God, little one," he said, reaching between her legs to feel the hairless place of her womanhood. "Pray and see if your prayers are answered. If you are righteous, He will deliver you. Pray hard and pray long, that is my counsel. But I will tell you now what God will say. Submit. Submit and you will be blessed."

"God would not say that!" she screamed.

She struck out at him, a tiny flurry of hands and feet and screams. This was new. Never before had he been fought with such fierce terror. He did not find it worrisome. She was small and smooth; he could take her at his will with none to stop him. So it had always been. So it would be now.

The cloak whirled in a sudden cold gust, and then there was the stamp of sodden boots drawing nigh. The cloak was pulled from him, the shelter of dark stripped off. The light of the single chapel candle was blinding for an instant, and he blinked hard, shutting out the light and finding temporary solace in the dark. A tall shadow rose up against the stone shadows. Blond hair shimmered softly in the flickering light. It was the Poulain. Gautier would not have thought it. Should Hugh not even now be running from Gautier's anger and the long reach of his sword?

"Hugh!" Denise cried out, scrambling against him.

"Be gone," Gautier growled out at the intruders, holding her fast.

Denise bit his hand, crying out, "Let me go!"

Gautier stood, taking Denise with him by the back of her thin neck. Hugh stood with his squire at his side, his look dark and cold as surely he had never looked before. Elsbeth appeared from out of the shadows. She was holding a lighted taper before her, pushing the darkness from her and from them all. It made a circle of light that she carried like an angel into the blackest portion of hell.

Yet Gautier knew that for a lie. Elsbeth was the key to it all, the weak, soft spot upon which rested his victory. Gautier smiled at seeing Elsbeth.

"Help me!" cried Denise, twisting in Gautier's grasp. Never had any child before shown such fight. He did not know what to make of her.

"Release her," Hugh commanded, coming up to him and grasping hold of Denise to take her in his arms.

Gautier hesitated and then let Denise go; the fight now was for Elsbeth, and if Hugh did not see that, so much the better. The child threw herself at Hugh, who pushed her from him and away from his blade. It was in Elsbeth's waiting arms that she found the warmth and comfort Gautier had promised.

Gautier stood to face Hugh and his anger, watching him tighten his grip upon his sword. And then Gautier smiled. This would not be a fight of arms. This battle was all of hearts, and hearts were turned with words, not steel. Hugh was outmatched.

"Returned? You have met the bargain, then?" Gautier said softly. "You have won Sunnandune from her, as you said you would."

"This is not of Sunnandune. This is all of Denise. What were you about with her?" Hugh asked.

"This is not of Sunnandune? All is of Sunnandune. Sunnandune is the key upon which all riches open. Do you care nothing for your knights, Hugh? They are ready. I have only to drop them into your hand," Gautier said softly, his smile relentless.

It was a temptation, Hugh could not deny it. So many knights, so much glory, so well received by Baldwin, the best man of the age, and all to be had for the price of forty virgates. It seemed a paltry price for so rich a prize.

"What of Denise?" Elsbeth said from behind Hugh, her voice rising to the smoky heights of the chapel. "You will not turn from that charge. Not with me, I cannot be tempted with a prize of many knights."

Hugh was jerked back from temptation at Elsbeth's words, and in his heart he thanked her. He would not be bought for so paltry a price as forty virgates.

Gautier turned to her and said easily, "I am about the training of this girl in the ways of a woman, though I do not answer to you, Elsbeth. Best you remember that."

"What training is it that takes place beneath the dark mantle of a cloak under the very rood of Christ?" Hugh said, shaking temptation from him, even as it clung to him like rain. With every shiver, he was doused yet again by visions of knights and glory and power. He did not know how to shake free of what permeated his very skin.

"I do not answer to you, Poulain," Gautier said, still grinning.

"Answer to this, then," Hugh said, twisting his sword to press it against Gautier's throat. His sword gleamed silver in the dim and holy light, throwing light and divine menace like the very sword of God.

"Will you kill me?" Gautier asked. "And lose all you came to find? I think you are wiser than that, Hugh. I know you well."

"You do not know me," Hugh said.

"Aye, I do. I chose you from among many, and I chose very carefully—the perfect man for my daughter. And the perfect man for me."

Hugh looked back at Elsbeth standing frozen in the center of the nave, the soft glow of the taper embracing her in light. She looked at him, her dark eyes wide and solemn, her arm tight about Denise.

"You will not turn from this, Lord Gautier. Not this time. Answer me. What have you done to her?" Elsbeth said to her father, her eyes devouring him as surely as the hawk devoured the hare.

"Nothing but what any man may do when his eye is captured by a comely lass. Even your pretty husband may find warmth with other bodies in other places," Gautier said. "Do you not remember, Elsbeth? Do you remember none of it? I remember," he said with a tender smile.

"Nay, you lie," she said, her voice loud and strong, pushing memory from her, chaining it in the dark. He said that Hugh was like him? A bold lie, boldly told. Hugh was nothing like her father.

Nothing... except that they had bargained together to rob her of her legacy.

"A lie? When have I ever lied to you, Elsbeth? Never. It is this man from Outremer who is the Prince of lies," Gautier countered.

"Nay," she said. "Hugh—"

"He has lied with every breath, Daughter—you know the truth of that. His words were nets of entrapment, woven of gold and silver strands of flattery, fit to catch the most wary of women: You. Elsbeth, he sought to catch your heart and you know why. He had to have Sunnandune of you. He never meant to stay. He never cared for you. And still does not. See how his eyes shine when he thinks of the glory of Jerusalem?"

"He lies, Elsbeth!" Hugh said. "He seeks to save himself."

"Aye, but only with the truth," Gautier said softly, looking hard at Elsbeth. "I have no other weapon, nor need one. Come, Elsbeth, you know 'tis true. I have never lied to you."

Nay, he had never lied. He had instructed her in duty and taught her the weight of it. He did not lie now. She knew the truth of what he said regarding Hugh. She had ever known these truths, yet she had thought, deceiving herself most willingly, that things had changed. That Hugh had changed.

Yet what had changed? Did not Jerusalem still need men of blood? Did not Hugh still love Baldwin? Did not Elsbeth still cling to Sunnandune?

Nay, nothing had changed. There was no lie in that.

"There are other crimes and sins beyond the sin of deceit," Hugh said, turning from Elsbeth to face the charges of her father. "Worse crimes. Dark sins. Speak to that, if you would speak, Lord of Warkham."

"He is very much like me, Elsbeth," Gautier said to her. "How does that sit with you? Well, I would think. Did I not arrange all well for you, Daughter?"

"He is nothing like you!" Elsbeth said sharply, her flame flickering. She disliked Gautier for some dark reason, and she was drawn to Hugh as to a bright flame on a cold night. Hugh could not be like her father. She had always and only wanted to escape her father. He was nothing like her father.

But had she not always and only wanted to escape Hugh?

"Leave, Elsbeth," Hugh said. "Raymond, see it done. Get them gone from here. I will not have her drink in his lies."

Raymond turned to Elsbeth, Denise wrapped within her arms. But Elsbeth would not move. Her eyes were trained on her father, and she would not be moved.

"Nothing like?" Gautier said and laughed. "Your mother could argue better for my cause. I won her heart as he has won yours, and in just such a fashion, by passion and by artful courtesy. Can you not see it, Elsbeth? Aye, we are alike. Why else did you fall but that this falling was so familiar?"

A light came into Hugh's eyes, a light of holy horror, and then all was shadowed and shuttered, shut against the awfulness of truth.

"Raymond!" Hugh shouted. "Take Elsbeth out! No more will she hear this man's lies."

"Lies?" Gautier said, backing up a step from the drawn sword. "I do not lie. Look to yourself, Poulain, to see the Prince of Lies, Deceit, and Flattery."

"
You
are all lies," Hugh said, "all deceit, all trickery."