The Warrior's Game (3 page)

Ami ignored her king’s parting threat and yanked open the bedchamber door. Its leather hinges squealed in protest. If John thought she would stand idly by as his mercenary impoverished her, he was sadly mistaken.

Lost in blind rage, she slammed the door behind her and strode into the antechamber only to collide with something. Gasping, she careened back toward the door. The sound of subdued masculine laughter followed. Rage parted and she saw the large wooden tub set on its edge that blocked her path. Behind it a line of menservants snaked out the doorway, each bearing a yoke hung with a pair of water buckets.

Irritation spiked anew as Ami recognized new purpose in John’s suggestive dress. Of course the king hadn’t seen fit to tell his visitor he waited on his bath. Why, when his attire aided in tormenting his innocent ward?

Ignoring the startled chamberlain, Ami stalked around the tub. Another round of muted amusement escaped the beyoked servants as they shuffled to the side to let her pass. By God, but she couldn’t wait to put what distance she could between herself and her horrid monarch and his even more horrid mercenary.

How dare that commoner, that brute, that soldier derelict in all honor, name her worth less than what she knew was her true value, or stare at her as if she were some whore!

She thrust out of the antechamber only to collide with yet another manservant and his yoke. The servant stumbled back from her. Water sloshed from his buckets, spattering Ami. With a cry she yanked up her hems and danced as far to the side as possible. It wasn't far enough.

In many keeps and castles access to the upper living quarters was an open balcony with nothing but a railing to keep folk from falling to their deaths. Here at Winchester that balcony had been enclosed with wooden walls to shield the king from the general hubbub of his household, creating a dark and narrow tunnel, one that was presently crowded with servant after sweating servant, each one bearing seeping buckets. As dearly as Ami wanted to storm down the stairs, if only to vent what boiled in her, she wasn’t willing to risk her precious garments. While her mantle could tolerate some wet, the water would ruin her best gowns when she couldn't afford to replace them any time in the foreseeable future. Last year’s income from her properties had been far lower than expected. So, consequently, had been Ami's allowance.

Against the threat to her attire, she backed up a few steps into the tiny alcove created by the slight extension of the balcony past the antechamber's doorway. It was a useful bit of space, set with a bench so folk might sit while they waited to be called into their king's presence.

As Ami dropped onto the seat her rage parted to reveal the despair that lurked beneath it. John had given her precious home into the care of the basest of his slavering French mercenaries. Before long, it wouldn't be just fine gowns she worried about affording.

Tears welled, born of homesickness and hopelessness. She refused to let them fall. Once, far too long ago, she had lived a life of purpose, where her skills had been valued and she, free to come and go as she pleased within the confines of a world that cherished her. Despite the difference in their years Richard de la Beres had been a doting husband and lover enough to leave her gasping in spent passion when he was finished. She missed him dearly.

The lump in Ami's throat grew. She fought her despair with every weapon she had at hand. She told herself it was a miracle she'd left the king's bedchamber without ever seeing the interior of his bed.

That didn't help. No matter the truth, none of the women with whom Ami now shared her life would believe she returned untouched for no other reason than they didn't wish to believe.

The unfairness of this tore through her, feeding her anger to protect her from what threatened to consum her. Damn every one of those bitches and biddies. Not even twisting the truth to suggest Sir Enguerran had been present for the whole of her interview would save her. Once any of the wards learned that Sir Michel had also been present Ami, and her supposed use by the commoner and his king, would be the butt of salacious gossip for weeks. At least she hadn't been alone with the commoner! No gentlewoman she knew would ever believe her virtue intact if they discovered she'd been closeted with Sir Michel.

Ami clenched her fists. Years of protecting her virtue, of denying all her hopes and needs, all destroyed in a few short moments by some man's few careless words, and she had no idea how to begin repairing the damage they'd done to her. If it took the rest of her life she'd find a way to repay Sir Enguerran for his stupidity and John for his insults as well as for giving what was precious to her to his arrogant mercenary.

As for that baseborn brute with his foul black mail? Why, if he stole so much as a farthing of what was hers she vowed she'd cut out his ruthless greedy heart right through that metal coat of his.

As Lady de la Beres slammed the door John whirled to face Michel, his eyes alive and his smile wide. “By God but she’s magnificent! How could I have overlooked her? I hope she never again so abuses my majesty. It would be a terrible thing to have to break that spirit. Ah, but it's a greater waste to squander her passion on a man who has no more appetite than a eunuch. She is wasted on you, Michel.”

Michel shrugged off another of the king’s insults. John held suspect the masculinity of any man who didn’t nightly take a woman into his bed. After contracting one too annoying but thankfully curable afflictions in the baths Michel had chosen caution when it came to relieving his lusts. He now contented himself with the scattering of healthy maids he encountered as he accompanied John on the king's never-ending journey from property to royal property.

However, satisfying his baser needs was among the reasons Michel looked forward to marriage. Not that he had any expectation of visiting his wife’s bed more often than it took to create an heir or two, not given his common birth and English arrogance. Nay, once he was wed and had lands and the reliable income that came with them, he'd find himself a woman from his own class. She'd willingly serve his needs, grateful for the comfort and security her presence in Michel’s bed offered her.

The door reopened and the king's chamberlain stepped halfway into the room. The golden chain that crossed his breast, the symbol of his position, was a yellow streak against the bright blue of his tunic. His brown cap was pushed far back onto his bald head. “Your bath, sire?”

“I am ready,” John replied.

With a nod, the man threw the door wide and stood aside as a pair of men rolled a large tub to a stop in the center of the room. As both Michel and his master watched, the servants snapped a greased cloth into place on the floor and lowered the tub atop it; they laid another greased sheet within the tub to help it hold water. Only then did the many men bearing buckets begin to file into the room, each man circling the tub as he emptied what he carried into the tub.

John shot a sly glance at Michel. “What befuddles me is that you might still want the lady now that you’ve met her. She’s disgusted by you, I fear.”

Michel's jaw tightened in exasperation. If the lady was disgusted it was because John had done his best to make sure she was. “I care nothing for what she thinks of me.”

“You should care. She’ll fight you, making your marriage hell,” John jabbed.

“She may try,” Michel replied with a shrug, “but she will fail.” God had made Adam the master of Eve just as He had made Man and his Sons the master of dogs, horses and the other creatures of the earth. It was akin to a sin for any of Adam's get to make himself vulnerable to those he was charged to dominate.

“I’m warning you Michel, Lady de la Beres isn’t the sort of woman most men would have as a mate. Bedding her will be like riding an unbroken horse.” He paused to shoot his mercenary another sly look. “I vow I find myself longing to see what that might be like.”

“Use her as you will, my lord,” Michel agreed without hesitation, refusing John the outrage he expected. “All I ask is that you support any bastard she bears and that you’ll agree to meddle with her no more once our vows are said.” It was sons of his own blood Michel wanted to raise, not one of John’s by-blows.

Just as Michel expected John's smile flagged. The king turned his back on his mercenary to walk to the side of the tub. There, he opened his belt and stripped off his strange robe, tossing the garment toward the room's corner where his body servant ably caught it. With his every motion John suggested this match of theirs was over.

It was another reminder of how reluctant John was to fulfill the promise he'd made his mercenary. And that made it past time for Michel to retreat, leaving his king free to sulk and lick his wounds until he finally gave way as he knew he must.

“By your leave sire, I'll depart today for Sussex to view the lady’s estates.” The properties were close enough to Winchester that the journey would be easy, a day's ride out and no more than a week to interview her bailiffs and assess the state of repair of buildings and walls.

John looked over his shoulder at him. “Wait a little before you go.”

“How can I when you’ve named me her estate's administrator?” Michel countered. “It’s my duty to make myself familiar with her lands, doing so as swiftly as I can. I'll not have Sir Enguerran enrich himself with her assets as he gives up the properties.” Nor did he trust John. Michel wouldn’t put it past the king to let his mercenary wed the lady all the while knowing her estate wasn't what it should be.

Contempt darkened John’s face as he stood naked beside his tub, shifting to again look at his knight. “That craven bitch's son? He barely has balls enough to wipe himself much less to steal from me. Nay, her properties will wait until d’Oilly accepts he cannot afford the fee I named. Far better that you act as my temporary warden here when I depart for Windsor on the morrow. It will give you access to the queen's hall and time to engage the lady so you might know her better.”

Michel’s exasperation grew. Damn him, John was dodging again. “Sire, you know I dare spend no public time near the widow for fear the whole of the court takes note of my interest. That would only add fuel to what already smolders among your nobles.”

“Piss on de Vesci,” John snapped, speaking of the lord of the powerful northern keep of Alnwick and waving away the possibility of rebellion. “Plot as he may that cur is nothing but a hotheaded oath-breaker, a miser who refuses to pay the scutage he rightfully owes his liege. No man trusts him enough to follow him into a garderobe much less to war.”

Michel eyed his king, wondering if John purposefully blinded himself. It was no longer only the northern barons who whispered of rising. The lord of Dunmow had joined the malcontents, a man whose extended family included the earls of Essex, Oxford and Hereford. It was said he'd been driven to it after John's royal justiciar Bishop Peter des Roches had delivered heavy-handed justice to a baron accustomed to gentler treatment.

“Let them bare their swords. That frees me and mine to squash them like the insects they are,” John continued, his voice rising with each word.

Although a lift of Michel’s shoulders acknowledged his monarch’s sentiment, he didn't have his employer's confidence in the nobles John counted on as loyal, men like the earl of Pembroke and John’s half-brother, the bastard earl of Salisbury. Such was the legacy of being thrust into a world that had rejected him for most of his score and ten years. Michel knew without doubt there wasn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t break his word given the right motivation, for he'd been that motivation more than once.

His rancor vented, the king continued in a quieter tone. “You'll have almost a month here. After I spend a few days at Windsor I'll move on to Kensington and the queen. That should be long enough for you to convince the lady to choose you as her husband.”

If Michel had allowed himself the expression he would have gaped. For the lady to choose him?! Lady de la Beres would never choose him, not if he were the last man on earth.

And then Michel saw it, the whole of John's ploy. The king counted on d’Oilly to complain over Lady de la Beres’ new bride price and how he’d been stripped of her properties. Then John, being John, would see to it that a rumor circulated about a second offer for the lady’s hand, Michel's offer. Noble outrage would follow. Pretending to bow to public pressure, John would give the lady the right to choose her own husband, knowing it wouldn’t be Michel she chose.

And that would leave Michel right where John wanted him, with only the noble heiress John had first suggested. Michel knew well what would happen after that. Every gently born man in the kingdom would come for him with their swords bared, men far more skilled at war than the boys who usually challenged him. Before long, Michel's life would be at an end.

As Michel felt the future he wanted slipping from his grasp, suspicion ran wild. Was his death part of John's plot? That heiress of John’s was also an orphan. If Michel died after their wedding, she, along with her income of several hundred pounds a year, would simply return to John’s custody and control.