To Kiss in the Shadows (3 page)

Who was she to deny this poor fool his little pleasures? She picked out the last handful of stitches she'd put in awry, then carried on with the gossip she'd heard over the past handful of days.

“ 'Tis said,” she continued, “that he consorts with all manner of odd folk, from faeries to warlocks. He has unholy skill with his blade. He escapes from impossible perils and emerges from all battles unscathed.”

The man laughed. “By the saints, what a fanciful bit of fluff. Now, if bogles and ghosties are your fancy, rather you should concentrate on his younger brother. 'Tis Jason who consorts with warlocks and other such horrors. I daresay Kendrick, poor lad, hasn't the stomach for such things. Rather, he no doubt finds himself more comfortable in the pleasant and undemanding company of women.”

“Then he'd best not come here,” Lianna muttered, “for this collection of shrews is anything but undemanding.”

“Perhaps with luck he'll avoid them,” he said. “And you, lady, are you able to avoid them?”

Lianna wove her needle into the cloth to hold it, then rubbed her eyes with a sigh. “If only I could—”

A sudden commotion at the door made the man spring to his feet and pull the hood of his cloak close around his face. Lianna looked over her shoulder to find Maud and her companions sweeping back into the chamber as if they'd been royalty. And royalty, Lianna knew, was what they most certainly were not. Indeed, they were lower in station than her mother had been—making them lower in station than she herself was.

Yet another reason for them to hate her.

Maud looked at Lianna's companion. “This is a woman's solar, you fool. Who gave you permission to enter?”

“ 'Twas a mistake, my lady,” the man said, bobbing his head respectfully.

“Or did you invite him?”

Lianna realized Maud was glaring at her only because she felt the heat of the other woman's gaze. Perhaps the gossips had it wrong. Jason of Artane might have consorted with witches and warlocks, but he was likely just a man and possessed no unearthly powers. Maud, however, seemed to be fair burning a hole in Lianna's head with her gaze alone, which led Lianna to wonder about whom the woman really consorted with in the dead of night.

And by the time she'd thought that through, she found Maud's clawlike grasp encircling her wrist. Maud hauled her to her feet.

“How one as ugly as you could entice a man, I don't know,” Maud said harshly, “but you'll not sully my solar with your whorish ways. This will teach you your place.”

Lianna watched as Maud's other hand came toward her face. She'd never been struck in her life, and she could scarce believe it was going to happen to her now. The other thought that occurred to her was that this wasn't Maud's solar. It was the queen's solar, but since the queen was not at the keep, the right of the place likely should have gone to the woman of highest rank.

Which, as it happened, was Lianna herself.

Maud's hand continued toward her face. Lianna winced in anticipation of the blow.

A blow which never came.

Lianna opened her eyes, realizing just then that she'd closed them, only to find Maud's hand caught in another larger and stronger grip.

“Do not,” commanded the man.

“And who are you to stop me?” Maud spat.

The man flipped his hood back with his other hand and smiled pleasantly.

“Kendrick of Artane!” squeaked Linet. “By the saints, Maud, 'tis him!”

“Silence, you silly twit!” Maud hissed. “I know that.”

Lianna's first act was to gape at him in astonishment. Then she latched onto the urge to slink back into a comer and hope that Kendrick would forget her and everything she'd said about him in the past quarter-hour. She pulled her other hand from Maud's slackened grip and backed away, feeling her cheeks grow suddenly quite hot. By the saints, she had thoroughly insulted the man—and to his face, no less!

She was spared the humiliation of having to look at him, however, because he stepped in front of her and spoke to the other women.

“Perhaps I might escort you ladies to supper. I understand His Majesty plans to lay an uncommonly fine table tonight, and no doubt you'll want to seek your places early.”

“But,” Maud protested, trying to step around him and finish what she'd started.

Indeed, Lianna saw her hand still twitching, as if it itched to slap her.

“There is nothing here that warrants your further attention, Lady Harrow. Aye, I recognized you from your sapphire-like eyes, didn't you know? Tales of your beauty precede you wherever you go.”

Maud snorted in frustration, but Kendrick seemed not to notice.

“Let us be off,” he said. “I can see nothing here that either you or I need mark any further, can you?”

Lianna wondered if she should be stung by his words or expect them. But as he with one hand dragged the women from the chamber, he was with the other giving her a friendly wave behind his back.

She watched them leave. The solar door shut firmly behind them. The relief that flooded through her was enough to weaken her knees. She sank into her chair, grateful and not a little bemused. She had just thoroughly insulted the most eligible knight of the realm, yet he had accorded her the gesture of a conspirator. And he had also rid her of her banes—at least for the moment. A pity she could not find such a man to wed her, that she might be forever without such scourges.

The thought of Kendrick of Artane wedding with such a one as she sent renewed color to her cheeks. He was too brilliant a star in the firmament. Even had she possessed her beauty still, she could not have borne him as a husband. She wanted to be far removed from court, from pitiless tongues wagging at her, from being forced to attend a king who had no use for her except that she was connected to her land.

Ah, that a man might come and rescue her, free her from the king's wardship, and take her home. A pity she could not find one who was even uglier than she, that he might be grateful to have her.

She looked at her stitchery, then ran her fingers over her work, over the dark threads that depicted the scene laced with shadows. At least in those shadows made of thread there was somewhere to hide. Perhaps that was all she dared hope for herself, a piece of shadow somewhere where she could hide and forget her ruined visage.

But if she hid in the shadows, how would any man find her?

She pushed her work aside, surprised at the foolishness of her thoughts. It mattered not whether she hid or stood in full sunlight; no man would ever want her. The poor fool who would eventually be forced to wed her would like think his nuptials the blackest day of his life.

She rose, turned toward the door, and put her shoulders back. Dinner called and 'twould go worse for her if she were late, for then she would be noticed the more.

She left the solar with her head down.

 

 

 

 

Jason of Artane rode through the barbican, cursing his
father, his next older brother, and the weather, the last of which had been foul for the past pair of fortnights and was fair now only after he'd suffered out in it for a month. The early morning sunlight streamed down fiercely, as if it sought to pound good cheer into him with its rays. He stifled a hearty sneeze in his sleeve and wondered why he'd ever agreed to humor his father by following his brother from one end of the island to the other.

It had been a miserable journey from Artane, he had been sent on a useless errand to distract him from his true purpose, and he was certain he'd caught a healthy case of the ague the night before from having to sleep in a drafty stable instead of the nice warm inn he'd selected. He supposed he had only himself to blame for the latter. If he'd kept his cloak pulled together and his lips clamped shut, he wouldn't have been recognized. Instead, he'd given his name when asked and let his cloak fall away from the blood-red ruby in the hilt of his sword. The usual reaction had occurred.

Men had crossed themselves.

Women had screamed and fainted.

Jason had sighed in disgust, downed the tankard of ale he'd managed to obtain, flipped a coin to a speechless patron in return for the rough bread and hunk of cheese he had filched from him on his way out the door, then sought out the most comfortable part of a hayloft for his bed. Such, he'd supposed, was the lot of a man who had squired for the lord of Blackmour.

That lord would have found the tale vastly amusing. Jason found the kink in his neck and his rapidly stuffing nose anything but.

He sneezed again as he rode into the bailey unchallenged. Guardsmen who would have demanded any other man's name merely gaped at him and weakly waved him past. Jason knew he should have been amused. After all, 'twas seldom that a man of a score and five had such a fiercesome reputation without having done much to deserve it.

It wasn't that he was a poor swordsman. Even he, modest though he considered himself to be, was well aware of his ability. One could not be the son of Robin of Artane and not have had some small talent for swordplay granted him. But whatever mastery he had of his blade, he had paid for himself by time spent in the lists.

He also didn't mind that the souls about him suspected him of all manner of dark habits. He had been first page, then squire, then willing guest of Christopher of Blackmour for most of his life. Some of the mystery surrounding the man had been bound to have cloaked Jason as well. He knew the true way of things, so idle gossip and charms spat out in haste when he passed didn't trouble him.

What did trouble him, though, was the fact that he'd finally found a purpose for which his soul burned, a cause so just and noble that it drove sleep from him at night, and here he was still unable to pursue it. Obstacle after obstacle had been placed in his path—lately and most notably the task of finding his brother and delivering a message from their father.

Jason scowled. It was his father's ploy, of course, to keep him from his course. But it would serve Robin naught. Jason was determined. Never mind that his course was one his father had forbidden him to pursue and one his former master had counseled him against.

But what else was he to do with himself? His eldest brother, Phillip, had estates aplenty and the burden of someday inheriting their father's title to harrow up his mind and try his soul. His other brother Kendrick burned like a flame, driving himself from conquest to conquest, as if he sought to force a dozen lifetimes into the one he would be allotted. Jason had no stomach for the tidiness of Phillip's life or the incessant roaming of Kendrick's. But he did have the stomach for a bit of crusading. A goodly bit. A bit that might take him out of England for years and give purpose to his life.

That it might also brighten up his reputation was nothing to sneeze at either.

But he sneezed just the same, all over a guardsman, who hastily backed away as if Jason had been spewing curses at him instead of the contents of his nose.

Jason scowled at the man and continued on his way toward the stables. At least his path there was clear—and likely only because his sire hadn't been able to find a way to thwart him so far from home. No doubt he would find more distractions awaiting him in France, should he by any chance find Kendrick, discharge his duty, then sail to the continent before he was too old to hoist a sword. But he would never have the chance to set foot on yonder shore if he didn't finish his business on the current shore, which was, of course, why he found himself chasing the king's court from London north, following his brother's erratic trail, and sleeping in haylofts with inadequate bedding.

The only positive thing to come of his journey so far was that he hadn't found the king at a monastery, as was often his custom. Jason knew he'd have trouble enough with the king's courtiers and whatever clergy he found himself surrounded by without scores of monks trying to exorcise the demons from him as well.

He dismounted in front of the stables and found a cringing stableboy at his side. He handed the lad his reins, knowing that no one would dare abuse his horse or pilfer his saddlebags. He would likely find them in the usual place—well away from any living soul.

Jason looked about him but found no sign of his brother in amongst the horseflesh. Perhaps Kendrick was romping out in the fields with some fair wench, crushing flowers and hearts beneath his heel with equal abandon.

The thought of flowers made his nose begin to twitch, so he decided to leave the fields for a later time and concentrate his search first on the castle itself. He crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps into the great hall.

He made himself known to the highest ranking of Henry's aides present there. The man was a foreigner of indeterminate origin, so Jason tried first French, then Latin. After receiving baffled, unhelpful shrugs in response to both, he gave up and excused himself with a bow. Obviously, he would have to search on his own.

He looked about him but saw no sign of his unruly brother. That meant nothing. Kendrick could have been anywhere, in any guise, stirring up any kind of trouble. That he was even rumored to be at court came as something of a surprise. Kendrick made no secret of his loathing of the king's flaws. Henry had an inordinate fondness for anything or anyone who had not sprung from English soil, and he seemed determined to beggar the country entertaining his entourage and building his monuments in London. Jason could only assume Kendrick was here to flatter the king into giving him, or selling him at a reduced price, some bit of land Kendrick had taken a fancy to.

Either that or Kendrick had been instructed by their father to lead Jason on a merry chase for as long as possible—likely in hopes that Jason would regain his good sense before he rushed off to do something foolish in France.