by Tamara Leigh
At twenty feet distant, he dragged on the reins, and a clod of grass kicked up by his destrier struck Juliana’s skirts. He glared around the nasal guard of his helm.
She glared back. As he had not returned to the solar during the night and departed the castle before she arose, it was the first she had seen of him since their angry exchange.
Breathing heavily, surely more from emotion than exertion, he leaned down from the saddle. “You defy me, Wife.”
She lowered her hood. “You are surprised?”
“You know my feelings about this." He jerked his head toward Alaiz.
“I do. Just as you know my feelings about this eve.”
He startled, causing his armor to ring loudly. “Curse you!”
Hearing Alaiz catch her breath, Juliana squeezed her arm. “We shall watch with the others.” She nodded to where a half dozen ladies were mounted to observe the melee. Juliana would also have ridden to the field, but Alaiz was increasingly wary of going astride, even whilst sharing a saddle. Thus, they had walked a mile to witness the spectacle.
“You will return to the castle,” Bernart said. “Now.”
“We will not. But do you fear we will cause you grief, you have my word we shall behave.”
“I could have you removed.”
“Ah, but then I would have to cause you grief. And most unseemly that would be.”
Though his face was shadowed by his helm, she knew it darkened further.
“Your war games await, Husband.”
“We shall speak more on this tonight.”
Again, she dared. “Lest you forget, I will be otherwise occupied.”
Whatever harsh words he intended to loose were arrested by the sound of approaching horses.
Juliana turned. Two knights, at the fore one easily identified by his proportions and the hair spilling from beneath his helm. Gabriel de Vere grew impatient.
“God’s blood!” Bernart cursed.
Fear tripped across Juliana’s heart. She should not have left the castle. Should have spent these last hours beseeching the Lord to knock Bernart off his ungodly path.
Gabriel and Sir Erec reined in.
Outfitted in magnificent mail, over that a yellow surcoat, Gabriel contrasted with the unkempt man who had come into the hall last eve. Pinning Bernart with sharp blue eyes, he said, “Are we here to battle or flirt with the ladies, Lord Kinthorpe?”
Bernart sat straighter. “Careful lest impatience spoils your aim, old friend.”
“I assure you, it is as true as ever—especially after a good night’s sleep, for which I thank you.”
Bernart’s destrier snickered, pranced sideways. A yank of the reins brought the animal under control.
Did Gabriel sense Bernart’s anger as strongly as the great beast? Did Sir Erec? Juliana glanced at the knight and found his gaze upon Alaiz. To her astonishment, he winked.
Though Juliana would not have expected her sister to respond, her field of vision being so narrow and more blurred at a distance, she felt Alaiz startle.
“We tourney!” Bernart shouted and spurred his mount back across the battlefield.
A look passed between Gabriel and Sir Erec, then they guided their destriers around.
“Wait!” Alaiz hastened forward, causing her hood to slip and the sun to settle amid her hair.
As Juliana followed to assure her footing, Alaiz pulled a flower from the bunch. She halted between the two men, and as she reached to Sir Erec, Juliana felt Gabriel’s presence over her shoulder. “For you, Sir Knight.”
He smiled, and Juliana saw appreciation for her sister’s beauty in his eyes before a question clouded them. Doubtless, he noted her wavering, narrow-lidded gaze that sought to center it on the one at the end of her tunnel.
“I thank you, my lady.”
She inclined her head and dragged another flower free. As Juliana suppressed a groan, Alaiz turned. “For you, Sir Gabriel.”
She remembered the knight who had accompanied Bernart to Castle Gloswell years past. And certes, knew here was the one with whom her sister must lie.
Juliana ventured a look at Gabriel and saw recognition in his eyes for the girl who had been far older than her years—she who shared his view about courtly love and had shunned her mother’s attempts to impress those notions on her. That girl, focused instead on the written word, would have extended a word of advice long ere offering a flower.
“You do not want it?” Alaiz stepped nearer.
Gabriel reached, and the links of his chain mail sang sweetly. “You are most kind, Lady Alaiz.”
As he drew back, Juliana thought how pitiful the spray of flowers looked between his big fingers. How feeble against his strong, tanned hand. A hand that would touch her this night. A man who would know her as no man had known her. Only hours until she went to him. Would he kiss her?
She banished the thought. Kissing was an intimacy reserved for those whose hearts moved toward each other’s—not merely for the making of a child, especially an illegitimate one. If he tried to set his mouth upon hers, she would turn away. Hopefully, the deed would be done quickly so she could return to her own bed. Small reprieve, for the following night she must go to him again.
Raising her gaze to his, she saw he watched her.
He smiled stiffly, returned his regard to her sister. “Is it your chamber I have been given, Lady Alaiz?”
She frowned. “I know not, Sir Gabriel.”
“It is,” Juliana said. “Doubtless, you noted it belongs to a lady.”
His eyebrows rose. “More, I noted the great number of books.”
Which had caused Bernart to curse over the price set by the one who owned wardship of their brother. He had declared it a waste since Alaiz could no longer read, but Juliana had persuaded him to part with the coin.
“I thank you for the fine accommodation, Lady Alaiz,” Gabriel said and urged his destrier nearer. “Any words of encouragement, Lady Juliana?”
Though his masculine scent swayed her senses, she thought it strange it was not entirely unpleasant. Regardless, he would benefit from a long soak. “Bathe thyself, Sir Gabriel, and surely a razor would not go amiss.” She drew Alaiz away.
Laughter she had not heard in a long time sounded from him, but was soon lost beneath his thundering retreat.
Minutes later, the teams swept toward each other with raised weapons and war cries.
The first knight to fall went down hard, the one who felled him Gabriel de Vere. Looking the fiercest of warriors, he spun his destrier around, traded lance for sword, and leaped to the ground. Within minutes, he had the knight’s ransom. Then as if death were a mere consequence of warfare, he hurtled toward his next opponent.
Gabriel a coward? One who had abandoned his friend for fear of losing life or limb?
This is not real battle, Juliana reminded herself. Fighting for ransom is not the same as fighting for blood.
Still, here was further proof he was not what Bernart told him to be.
Deciding they had seen enough, she turned a reluctant Alaiz from the violence and started back toward the castle.
The dirt and sweat of hard-won victory was not easily washed away in the waters of the wooded pool. Nor remembrance of the one whose delicate senses he had offended.
Gabriel scrubbed harder and groaned when ribs fractured during his last tournament drove pain through his back all the way to his breastbone. To gain his greatest ransom of the day, that of a northern baron, it had been necessary to leave himself open to that man’s son. Though the young knight’s spurs were recently earned, he had recklessly defended his father and landed a blow to Gabriel’s injury before Erec took him to ground.
Hoping his ribs were not further fractured, Gabriel gnashed his teeth and resumed scrubbing. Though the filth succumbed to his efforts, Juliana Kinthorpe did not. She lingered like a long-hidden memory come to light.
She had changed. When he had gazed into her eyes last eve and again this day, the joy she once e
xuded was absent. And he did not believe it was only because she looked upon the man she believed had wronged her husband.
He had felt sorrow and bitterness between Bernart and her. Had her expectations of love, which were too exalted for any man to fulfill, been the ruin of them? Was she repulsed by her husband’s diminished physique and limp? Did she turn from him, leaving him to seek the company of women like Nesta?
Gabriel grunted. He did not care. His friendship with Bernart was in the past, and Juliana…
Had she not yet gone the way of Clemencia de Vere, likely she would.
He slid beneath the water and altered the reach of his strokes to accommodate his injury. When he surfaced on the opposite side of the pool, his destrier had assumed a watchful stance. They were no longer alone.
“Gabriel!” Erec stood on an outcropping above the pond. “Come, man! We have bellies to fill.”
Supper in Bernart’s hall did not appeal, but after this day and in preparation for the next, sustenance in abundance was a necessity. However, since the sun would light the land for another hour and the meal would not be served until its setting, he called, “I will join you shortly.”
Erec shrugged and turned away.
Catching his reflection in the water lapping at his waist, Gabriel rubbed a hand over his jaw and considered scraping the stubble from it as Juliana suggested.
Nay, he had come to tourney, not to please a woman who loathed him.
He emerged from the water, dried, and donned the fresh clothes he had brought to the pool. As he tugged on boots, he promised himself he would have new ones made following the tournament. Though the majority of ransoms gained this day would be set aside for restoration of the barony King Richard had awarded him for his aid in reclaiming lands seized by France’s King Philip, he could afford to keep his feet better than he had of late. Perhaps he would also have new tunics sewn.
Once his belt was buckled, his sword on one hip, the Wulfrith dagger on the other, he mounted his destrier and walked it out of the ravine to where Erec awaited him.
“Never have I seen you so clean,” his friend said as they guided their horses through the trees. “Since when have you cared what any think of you?”
Erec had washed his hands and face and donned a fresh tunic, and that was all. As mindful as he was of his appearance, not until the conclusion of the tournament would he bathe. Wise, for it was a waste of time considering the morrow would see him dirty again. If not for Juliana, neither would Gabriel have bathed until tournament’s end.
The silent admission made him scowl. “I do not care what any think of me.”
Erec chuckled. “Except Lady Juliana.”
He was too observant—only an asset in tournament.
“She is a beautiful woman,” Erec said. “A pity she is wasted on one like Kinthorpe.”
Gabriel looked sharply at him.
Erec’s mouth twitched. “What?” he feigned innocence.
“What rumors have you been listening to?”
Erec shrugged. “There are several, but the one most heard is that Kinthorpe is like his brother.”
Gabriel considered the possibility, rejected it. Not even Acre could have so changed Bernart.
“Three years of marriage and no children,” Erec mused.
“There are other reasons babes are not born of wedlock.”
“Which brings us to another rumor. The women servants tell Lady Juliana is frigid.”
She who had trained in the art of romance? Gabriel recalled her oft-repeated profession of love for Bernart. Still, that did not mean she was as passionate in bed as she was out of it.
“What think you?” Erec asked.
Gabriel shrugged. “I do not.” Whatever the truth of Bernart and Juliana’s relationship, it was not his concern.
Ahead, the castle stood against a cloudless sky. It was white, from the donjon rising off center to the outer wall and towers. Painted against this backdrop were the many-colored tents of participants not accommodated inside the donjon.
Even at a distance, the bustle of activity was visible—servants scurrying, squires cleaning and polishing armor, knights reliving the day’s battles, merchants entreating tourneyers to browse their offerings, and women enticing men to sample their wares. Wares Gabriel would not sample. But a drink…
Aye, though only enough to dull his pain sufficiently to allow him to sleep well. He had many a ransom to take on the morrow.
CHAPTER SIX
“You think I have not prayed?”
Juliana lifted her head but did not look at the one who trespassed on her sanctuary. She knew why he came to the chapel. And what she must do.
“I pleaded to be delivered from the infidels, but God was unmoved. I prayed the loss of my manhood was but a terrible dream. Unmoved. I cried out for death. Unmoved. He does not care, Juliana.”
She did not want to feel more of his pain, but his words wounded as they had the night he revealed his horrendous injury.
“Do you know how many tears I shed knowing I could never make love to you?”
Emotion clawed at her, but she stared at the altar with its large cross and candles on either side.
Bernart lowered to the kneeler beside her, cupped her prayerful hands between his and pulled them apart. “No matter how much you pray, no matter the bargain you think to strike, He will not be moved. Ours is a cruel God.”
“’Tis men who are cruel,” she whispered. “Men who make themselves God.”
His hands tightened on hers. “You think that is what I do?”
“Do you not?”
He sighed. “I know what I ask of you—”
“You do not ask!” she corrected as Alaiz had done and wrenched her hands free. “You demand!”
His lids fluttered. “I wish I did not have to.”
“Then do not!”
“Though I did not die at Acre, it is as if I am dead. A son will give me something to live for. To love.”
Love? she silently scorned. No longer was he capable of that. “Then I should not keep Gabriel waiting.” She stood.
As she started for the door, he lurched upright and caught her back against him. “He will not hurt you.”
There were many ways to hurt a person. Though she did not believe Gabriel would abuse her, she would be wounded as never she had been.
She tried to turn to Bernart, but he held her fast as if he could not bear her gaze. Then his moist breath filled her ear. “The wine poured after the feast was of the best quality and undiluted.”
That she could not know, having retreated abovestairs once the obligation of sitting at table was done.
“All imbibed heavily,” he rasped, “including Gabriel.”
She almost laughed. Most hosts who wished to impress their guests served the best unwatered wine at meal, reserving that of lesser quality and alcoholic content for when their guests’ senses were too dulled for them to notice or care. He was clever, sacrificing his reputation of generosity to lull one among the many into a false sense of security—causing his prey to indulge more than he might otherwise with ransoms to be gained on the morrow.
“Indeed, he drank more than expected,” Bernart continued. “I vow, he will remember little of this night.”
Of small comfort. “You are certain he is alone?”
“Aye, his squire keeps his tent outside the walls, and I have ensured Nesta is much occupied.”
Because Juliana had warned him of the woman’s attempt to enter Gabriel’s chamber on the night past. She pulled out of his hold, drew the hood of her light mantle over her head, and strode down the aisle.
“Juliana!”
She halted, prayed that in this place the Lord had seeped into one of her husband’s cracks.
“Three nights”—his voice broke—“and ’twill be over.”
Providing a babe took. She opened the door, stepped into the corridor, and quietly closed the door. She stood there a minute. And another. Prayed. And prayed harder. But Berna
rt did not drag her back inside and beseech forgiveness.
“He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass,” she whispered. “He hath set darkness in my paths.” Such were the lamentations of Job of the Bible, believing God hid His face from him. So it seemed He hid it from Juliana, though it was Bernart of whom she spoke—he who fenced her in, setting darkness before her into which she must now venture.
She peered down the corridor. Though normally lit by four torches, this night only one burned just off the stairs at the far end. As it was past middle night, the flame was nearly exhausted, casting just enough light to guide but too little to creep inside the chamber that lay twenty feet distant. Too little to reveal who came to Gabriel de Vere. Bernart had seen to all.
Juliana eyed the dark line between door and floor that proved no light shone within that room.
Three nights. An eternity that began now.
She forced her feet forward, halted, and pressed a hand to the wall alongside the door. Her heart raced, breath came in sips, palms moistened. How was she to give herself to Bernart’s enemy?
The idea of love espoused by her mother returned to her. But try though she did to convince herself her lover awaited her and in his arms she would know the passion and adoration denied her, it was no use. No lover was Gabriel de Vere. But the sooner she went to him, the sooner she could leave.
She opened the door just enough to slip inside. In the seconds before she eased it closed, the corridor light straining into the chamber was so muted she could barely make out the bed. But she was well versed in Alaiz’s chamber.
She swallowed, winced at the loud click of her throat, listened.
Utter silence, as if Gabriel were not within. But he must be. Just because the breath and snores of Bernart’s sleep were easily heard did not mean every man’s rest so disturbed another’s. She lingered at the door to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark lightened by moonlight slivering through the shutters’ seams. Still, it was not enough to determine Gabriel’s position on the bed.
Be done with it, she told herself. Be Tamar. Be Leah. Be any but Juliana.
It took a half dozen steps she turned into a dozen before the brush of her knees against the mattress told she was at the bed.
