Lady Betrayed

by Tamara Leigh

  He turned a hand around the hilt of his Wulfrith dagger. “’Tis yours.”

  She laughed. “Do you not think it sacrilegious to make such a vow on so esteemed a weapon? Certes, the godly Lord Wulfrith did not intend it to be used to persuade your wife to whore herself.”

  His hand flew off the hilt.

  Juliana continued up the stairs.

  “When I have made a mother of you,” he called, “when a babe is in your arms, you will forgive me. I know you will.”

  Upon reaching the landing, she traversed the corridor. Nearing the chamber so distant from the lord’s solar that only the chapel lay beyond it, she felt pulled toward the latter where she would spend more time than usual beseeching the Lord to work light in the dark of Bernart’s heart. But first Alaiz.

  When she entered the chamber, her sister swung around where she stood before her bed and narrowed her eyes to make sense of Juliana’s indistinct figure. “Are you well?” she asked.

  She who must do the unthinkable? The vile? The ungodly? She took her sister’s arm and drew her onto the mattress edge. “I am well.”

  Alaiz lowered her chin as if to look close upon her hands. “Bernart does not like me.”

  It was not the first time she voiced that belief, but as before, Juliana said, “Of course he does.”

  “Nay. I may be almost blind, but I know when I am liked and when I am not. Though never has he looked well upon me, less so he does now.”

  Juliana was struck by her certainty, a reminder of years past when Alaiz had earned Bernart’s disregard for her refusal to be charmed by him and her objections to her sister’s embrace of long-suffering love. That was before marriage to Bernart, and not for the first time Juliana was haunted by Alaiz’s warning that were she not careful she might be granted such a love. How wise she had been for one so young.

  Alaiz sighed and settled her head on Juliana’s shoulder. “I am sorry to be a burden.”

  Nor was this the first time she apologized for that, but it was said with more regret and sorrow. Juliana had hoped she was too immersed in her shadowed world to attend to what was spoken between husband and wife before being sent from the hall, but might she have heard?

  Her vision neared its end, but her hearing had never been better, and her mind remained as sharp as when she had spent hours reading every word set before her. Thus, perhaps she had lingered on the stairs to listen in on what followed.

  “You are no burden,” Juliana said. “You are my greatest blessing.”

  It was true. Since Alaiz had arrived at Tremoral, Juliana had someone to love who loved her in return without asking anything of her. Though sorrow was still a close companion, and it made her ache to witness her sister’s struggles, she had something good to hand her from one day into the next.

  “You always take care of me,” Alaiz whispered.

  Juliana squeezed her eyes closed. “Ever I shall.”

  He feared he would retch.

  Pressing the back of a hand to his mouth, he hated himself more than Juliana could. But if she gave him a son, the gossip would be silenced and Kinthorpe lands would never be ruled by Osbern whose very existence fueled rumors of his brother’s lack of an heir.

  Bernart raised his goblet. Finding it empty, he pushed up out of the lord’s chair and limped to the sideboard. Pitchers of wine, ale, and honey milk were there. Reaching for the latter, he stilled to consider the ale he longed to have wet his throat and slosh about his belly.

  He poured the honey milk with a hand that trembled, and more violently when he choked down its impotence, then he slammed the goblet on the sideboard and peered down his chest and hips. The whimper spiraling up from his depths flooded him with revulsion.

  Though the injury dealt him could not be seen, other effects of his emasculation were not as easily hidden. Much of his body hair was lost or thinning, he carried excess weight he could not shed, suffered from sleeplessness, and had such difficulty holding his urine that the possibility of soiling himself was often present. Every minute of every day was torture.

  His thigh ached, a further reminder of the clash with infidel soldiers that not only cost him the ability to enjoy women and father children, but left him with a limp.

  Would a son ease his pain? Quiet the voices that taunted him long into the night? It was what he longed for, but the thought of another man touching Juliana, especially the one he intended to father his son, made his belly turn inside out.

  Juliana had been his from the moment she wailed her way into the world. As she grew into a woman, she had made him the envy of many a man. If not for the one whose betrayal cost him all, none of this would be necessary.

  Bile searing his throat, he swallowed, coughed, swallowed again.

  He had to do it. Must do it. Would do it.

  Now to lure his prey to Tremoral.

  CHAPTER TWO

  France

  April 1195

  Gabriel stared at the field from which he had retreated with the breaking of his lance.

  Why did Kinthorpe wish to meet over swords? It was how many years? Aye, four since Bernart gathered a hundred men to take the city of Acre from the infidels. The memory of it was nearly as clear as the day it impressed itself on Gabriel.

  Following months of siege, sickness, and food shortage, Bernart and his followers presented a pitiful image of Christianity knocked to its knees.

  At the age of twenty and four, Gabriel had earned the reputation of a knight of great skill and courage, but he was also endowed with enough wits to know the difference between courage and desperation. He had confronted Bernart over an undertaking destined to fail and reminded him and the others that previous attempts by the Christian army to go over the wall had led to mass slaughter.

  Though Bernart resisted, a score of men walked away. Determined to convince his friend, Gabriel assured him King Richard and his forces would soon arrive to give them victory. Less and less he believed it himself, but another score left the ranks of those soon to die.

  Enraged at what he named betrayal, Bernart had cursed Gabriel, accused him of cowardice, and set off for the walled city.

  In the darkening of day, the coming of night, Gabriel had stared after the diminished band of soldiers, sworn he would not follow, and told himself his friend had the right to choose his own path. But what a bloody path it had been, just as he had known. And Bernart was not the only one to bear its scars.

  Remembrance made Gabriel grind his teeth. He knew he had saved the lives of those he dissuaded from following Bernart, but he was burdened by anger and guilt—anger toward his old friend for those who stayed his side, guilt for not trying harder to deter Bernart whom he had known since they were pages at Wulfen Castle aspiring to one day possess a Wulfrith dagger. Then there was the thought that had he not persuaded so many to turn from Bernart’s quest, they might have broken through the city’s defenses. Impossible, but Gabriel could not put it from him.

  He returned his attention to the melee. On the field, countless knights and foot soldiers engaged in the mock battle of tournament, the purpose being to capture and ransom as many opposing knights as possible, preferably without seriously injuring or killing them. During the past two hours, Gabriel had taken three opponents. If his good fortune held, he would take as many more before the day was done. By nightfall, his purse would be heavy with the coin of their ransom.

  A smile twitched at his mouth. France’s tournaments were lucrative. Given a few more years, the siege-ravaged demesne King Richard had awarded him here on the continent would rival many a barony on either side of the channel.

  Narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare, he searched the battlefield for sight of the knight with whom he had entered into a partnership upon their return from the crusade. Fighting as a team and dividing their winnings between them, they had captured more than eighty opponents in the past nine months without being ransomed themselves. But that blessing was about to turn.

  “God’s tears!” Gabrie
l thrust his helm on his head, seized the lance his squire held, and started for his destrier.

  “Your reply, Lord De Vere?” a voice called.

  He had forgotten about the messenger who had taken the opportunity of Gabriel’s need to rearm himself to deliver Bernart’s invitation to tourney across the narrow sea.

  Fleetingly, Gabriel considered the generous purse promised the participant who gained the most ransoms at Tremoral—enough to complete restoration of his castle’s inner wall. Tempting, but not enough. “No reply,” he called over his shoulder.

  The man hastened forward. “Be it yea or nay, my lord?”

  Gabriel put a foot in the stirrup and swung his mail-laden body into the saddle.

  The messenger stepped into the destrier’s path. “I am not to return without a reply.”

  “Then you shall be long in France.” Gabriel turned his mount aside and spurred the animal forward.

  Once more upon the field, he focused on Sir Erec Wulfrith who struggled to hold against three knights, determined the best approach, and couched his lance beneath his right arm.

  As he matched his horse’s rhythm, his concentration was rent by a question. Was it revenge Bernart sought? It was no secret he blamed Gabriel for his failure at Acre, the deaths of those who followed him, his laming, and abuses suffered during imprisonment. But if revenge, why now?

  Gabriel jerked his head in his helm, cursed. He had more important matters to consider, namely Erec’s opponents who did not know there would be ransoms to pay. But hardly did he put Bernart from his mind than the air rushing past whispered of the lady he had not allowed himself to think on for a long time.

  Juliana the fair.

  Casting back to the year 1189, two years following his father’s disavowal and months before going on crusade, he recalled her tearful flight into the garden. Oblivious to all but her pain, she had not seen him where he leaned against a wall.

  Chest heaving, she dropped onto a bench and clapped hands over her face.

  He needed none to tell him the cause of her misery. He knew Bernart. Too, a half hour earlier he had earned his friend’s derision by declining to join him in sporting with kitchen maids who were not averse to play between the sheets.

  As Gabriel had considered his friend’s betrothed, he realized women could be as injured by inconstancy as a man cuckolded. Despite a choir of warning voices, he approached Juliana and spoke her name as he lowered beside her. And all that beat in him stopped when she looked up.

  Staring into her dark eyes, he felt something he thought never to feel for one who would likely go the way of his mother, and in that moment acknowledged the girl he ever scorned was on the verge of womanhood, a gem ready for polish. And soon to be his friend’s wife.

  “Gabriel,” she had choked, and he was struck by the sound of his name on lips that only ever called him Sir Knight—and with disdain. Then she leaned forward as if to come into his arms. He did not think he would have pulled her to him, but that choice was taken from him by Bernart shouting her name from somewhere within the donjon.

  For a moment longer, he held her gaze which had never considered him so intently, then rose and traversed the path to the donjon. As he neared the entrance, his friend burst into the garden. Tunic dragged on backward, hose rent from the haste with which he had dressed, Bernart rushed past Gabriel and dropped to his knees before Juliana. Amid his desperate pleas for forgiveness, Gabriel slipped away.

  After that, Bernart cleaved to the vow of chastity his betrothed demanded, she crossed the threshold into womanhood, and the scorn Gabriel preferred to feel for her became something approaching infatuation. But Juliana the fair—of auburn hair that tempted a man’s hands and brown eyes warm enough to send the chill from the coldest night—was a woman he could not have.

  Did her eyes still sparkle with mischief and delight? Did her laughter sing across the air? Or had the years matured her into a treacherous creature who besmirched the marriage bed?

  Thoughts moving to Clemencia de Vere whose faithless body had pushed him into the world, he gripped his lance tighter.

  Had Juliana become like his mother? After three years of marriage, had the sweet glow of wedlock waned? Did she forsake her vows to pursue the ideas of love espoused as a girl?

  It mattered not, he told himself. She was not his problem. She was Bernart’s.

  Determining which of the knights stood the greatest chance of unseating Erec, Gabriel loosed a battle cry, crouched low in the saddle, and held until the iron tip of his lance met chain mail.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Barony of Tremoral

  England, May 1195

  He had not come.

  Beneath the table, Bernart clenched his hands so hard they trembled. Though Gabriel refused to answer the challenge, Bernart had convinced himself his enemy would accept his invitation. Now with the participants gathered in the hall following a day of practice and tomorrow the start of the tournament, he was proven wrong.

  He glanced at Juliana where she sat beside him, in one hand a goblet, in the other a spoon, though not once had she put the vessel to her lips nor eaten from the trencher between them. The only movement about her the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, she stared across the hall at the stairs she surely wished beneath her feet.

  Though it was two months since she accepted his plan and little more was spoken of it, she knew the time was nigh. And waited to be led to bed like a lamb to gutting.

  What was he to do? Everything was in place, from her time of breeding, to the chamber in which the deed would be done, to the rumor imparted that if she did not ripen with child, he would rid himself on grounds of consanguinity and take a new wife. So should he choose another to lie with her?

  As with each time he imagined any possessing what belonged to him, self-loathing flooded him. Regardless of Juliana’s grim countenance and the resentment she radiated, there was no woman more beautiful. And many a man in the hall agreed. They stared at her and quickly looked elsewhere when they found Bernart watching them. But ever their eyes returned to the Lady of Tremoral.

  It roused both pride and jealousy—and worry over the risk he took in exposing her to men of whom she could have her pick did she herself choose to take a lover.

  Should he abandon the plan? If he did, might he regain what good he had of Juliana before demanding a son from her? Would what looked more and more like hatred disappear from her eyes?

  Nay, he must stay the course. Though he would not have the satisfaction of taking a child from the one whose betrayal cost him everything, the speculation must be silenced. So who?

  Sir Kenelm? Too old.

  Sir Arnold? A lecher.

  Sir Morris? Too handsome.

  Sir Charles? Cruel.

  As he seriously considered Sir Henry, the hall’s great doors opened.

  The eyes of the man who strode inside were as cool as the night air he brought with him and turned cooler when they settled on Bernart where he sat in the lord’s high seat.

  He had come.

  His entrance calming the din to a murmur, unease rippled through Bernart. Gabriel de Vere was nearly as remembered—tall, broad, and unkempt from his shoulder-length brown hair down to well-worn boots.

  In looks and temperament, he offered little to attract a woman, but as Bernart knew, Gabriel’s presence alone drew admirers like birds to newly seeded fields. Were he as restrained and particular as once he had been, most women seeking his attention would be disappointed. Most.

  Though ever Gabriel resisted the carnal, inclined as he was to embrace their knighthood training at Wulfen that included respect for the weaker sex, he had his vulnerabilities. Thus, on occasion he succumbed. Bernart was counting on the thrill and bloodlust of daily battle, and revelry and drink of nightly celebration, to present several such occasions.

  He looked to Juliana and saw the disbelief on her face shift toward anger. Though it was no secret Bernart had severed his friendship with Gabriel, only she knew th
e true depth of her husband’s feelings—and shared his enmity. But how long before she realized the reason for Gabriel’s attendance? How long before there was no question it was hatred she felt for her husband?

  He rose from his chair. “Lord De Vere!”

  Gabriel, followed by a knight whose exemplary grooming differed considerably from his own, traversed the remainder of the hall and halted before the dais. “Lord Kinthorpe.”

  Though twenty and eight, the same as Bernart, his hair was beginning to silver at the temples, and there were lines around his eyes, nose, and mouth that had been finer when he strode into Bernart’s cell in the dungeon at Acre.

  Watched by the multitude, Bernart summoned a smile that could not be more false were it cut from the devil’s mouth. “You come to tourney, De Vere?”

  “By invitation.”

  Bernart heard Juliana draw breath, felt the stab of her gaze. “You are late.”

  “So we are.” No apology.

  The knight beside him stepped forward, set a hand on the hilt of the Wulfen-awarded dagger he wore on his belt the same as Gabriel. “Sir Erec Wulfrith, my lord.”

  Bernart recognized him. Three years younger than Gabriel and him, he had trained at Wulfen, but Bernart could not recall if he was the son of Everard or Abel Wulfrith. And had he not also been at Acre?

  “Most unfortunate,” Sir Erec continued, “our ship was blown off course during the crossing from France. We have ridden hard these past days to attend your tournament.”

  Considering their combined renown on the battlefield and the reputation of those of Wulfrith descent, there would be protests against their late entry.

  “You are welcome at Tremoral, Sir Erec and Sir Gabriel.” Bernart swept a hand before him. “There is food and drink, entertainment, and”—he returned his regard to the latter—“wenches aplenty.”

  That last was crude in the hearing of all, but having made it appear he overly indulged in drink, most would forgive him. And those who did not…