by Tamara Leigh
He thrust a hand through his hair. Had he waited for the child to be born and taken it from its cradle, the same result could have been achieved without exposing himself to the temptation of its mother. But he had been too impatient, vengeance too strong.
He sighed. What was done was done. Five months from now, he would have his child and Juliana would be gone. Forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Shortly after noon, two homespun bliauts and a chemise were delivered. Doubtless they belonged to a heavy woman, for they were wide enough she could wear them to the end of her pregnancy. She hoped that would not be necessary.
As Lissant secured an unadorned girdle around her lady’s waist to contain the garment’s voluminous folds, Juliana scratched her hip, ribs, and shoulder. Not only was the chemise of poor quality, but it was worn too thin to keep the bliaut’s wool fibers from chafing. Was it Gabriel’s wish she suffer discomfort?
Regardless, she would not complain and, hopefully, become accustomed to it as did all women not of the privileged class.
Lissant stepped back. “It will have to suffice until we sew new gowns, but I shall begin this eve.”
Juliana blinked. “You have the cloth to do so?”
“Oui. Lord De Vere gave it to me. As it was to be fashioned into tunics for him, I fear it is not as fine as that of Lady Rachel’s gowns, but it is of good quality.”
Remorse thumped Juliana. She had believed the worst of Gabriel. Of course, his consideration was probably due to how it would reflect on him were he to clothe the mother of his child as a servant.
Lissant stood and gathered the garments Juliana had worn belowstairs.
“What of my own clothes?” Juliana asked. Though they would not fit much longer, she might gain a few more weeks.
“They have been laundered, my lady. When they are dry, I will bring them to you.” Lissant crossed to the chest, folded the garments, and replaced them.
“The lady whose chamber this was must have been small,” Juliana mused.
“Nay, merely young.”
“How old?”
The maid lowered the chest lid. “Lady Rachel was ten and two when Baron Leon Faison wed her, ten and five when she passed.”
“I am sorry. How did she die?”
“She took ill during King Richard’s siege. There was no physician to tend her, and she could not be saved. So grieved was the baron that even when defeat was certain, he would not yield to the English king.” She sighed. “Unable to bear the thought of living without his beloved, he longed to join her in death.”
Though Juliana hardly believed in love any longer, she was touched by this story that echoed those of the troubadours.
She considered the chamber. Though romance shone from every corner, it was that which raised a question. “Why did Lady Rachel not occupy the solar with her husband?”
“Ah, that. Lord Faison wished his wife to grow full into a woman before taking her to his bed. Thus, he surrounded her with beauty and tokens of affection while he waited for her to reach a good age for childbearing.”
Juliana touched a hand to her heart. Unless a bride was exceedingly young, few men postponed their husbandly rights.
Lissant nodded to the tapestry behind the bed. “As you surely know, the unicorn is the symbol of chastity and purity. My lady was that.”
And last eve Juliana Kinthorpe, pregnant with a child not her husband’s, had lain beneath it. Feeling the harlot she had become in Gabriel’s arms, she turned away. “You were her maid?”
“I was.”
Yet Juliana sensed no hostility toward herself. “What of the baron? Did he die?”
“It is thought he was among the dead brought out after the siege, but as some bodies could not be identified, it is not known for certain.”
Might he still be alive, languishing over the loss of his lady?
Ah, sweet suffering, Juliana silently bemoaned. To have loved and been loved so deeply—
She drew a sharp breath. More likely, Baron Faison had not touched his child bride because he was impotent, quite aged, compelled by the lady’s family to wait, or well-sated with others. As it seemed women were alone in the knowledge of how to love, none but the foolish ought to believe their love returned. Though she had once been among their ranks, Bernart had taught her the truth of a man’s heart.
“A romantic tale, non?” Lissant said.
Aye, a tale, Juliana silently acceded. Doubtless, one that grows more fanciful with each telling. She looked to the maid. “Do you miss your mistress?”
Lissant’s smile wavered. “She was beautiful and elegant for one of few years, but so spoiled it was difficult to tend her. She could charm, but I do not think she saw much beyond her nose. Even Lord Faison who worshipped her, oft fell outside her regard. But for all that, I miss her.”
Then this was not a tale the troubadours would embrace. It would take much embellishment to find an audience, and greater exaggeration of the baron’s immortal love than existed in this maid’s heart.
As if remembering it was a lady to whom she spoke, rather than a servant as Juliana looked in her new garments, Lissant’s cheeks flushed. “The nooning meal is soon to be served.”
Juliana shook her head. She was not embarrassed by her clothing. Rather, she declined so she might avoid facing Gabriel so soon after their confrontation in the kitchen. “I would prefer to eat in my chamber.”
Lissant looked momentarily disconcerted. “I shall deliver you a tray.”
“I thank you.”
The maid’s hand was on the door when Juliana called to her. “What of Baron Faison’s brother whose lands lie to the west? Is it true he bears ill will for Lord De Vere?”
Wariness lined Lissant’s face. “Why do you ask, my lady?”
Just as the others had been warned Juliana was not to be trusted, the maid had been cautioned. “Curiosity. During the ride to Mergot, your lord spoke briefly of it.”
“Did he?” Lissant shrugged. “It is true. But then, Dominic Faison is a dark one.”
“A dark one?”
“Not only does he serve a king not of his choosing, he lost an arm during the crusade. He hates the world for it.”
Juliana was swept with sympathy for a man she did not know. Though many had given their lives in answering the Church’s call to send the infidels from the Holy Land, there were those whose suffering went so deep that ever they would bear scars that reminded them of the horror to which they had been subjected. Bernart was not the only one.
“I am sorry for it,” Juliana said.
Lissant opened the door, “I shall return with your meal.”
Juliana lowered her gaze to the rushes. If she escaped Gabriel, might Dominic Faison help her cross the channel to England? Or was he too embittered? More, would she have a chance to find out?
She looked around her chamber, this time with the eyes of one who knew something of what had gone here. Was it true the frivolous Lady Rachel felt naught for her husband? Or had she yearned for the touch he denied her as Juliana had been denied Bernart’s?
She considered the garden tapestry adorning the far wall. A lady and her lover sat among flowers, faces rapt with infatuation.
Juliana moved to it and ran a hand over the tight weave, touching the faces of love. If only life were like this, if such feelings between men and women existed in reality as they did in the imagination.
She started to turn away, paused. Since hidden passages were often concealed behind such hangings, perhaps…
She was not disappointed—until she discovered the narrow door was locked. Doubtless, by Gabriel’s hand.
Standing in the tapestry’s shadow, she fingered the keyhole. Could another instrument be used to open the door? If so, what lay beyond?
She pressed her teeth into her lower lip. Though she had given her word she would not attempt another escape, she remained determined to return to her sister. Should an opportunity arise, she would take it. And she had good cause. If the Lor
d could forgive her the sin committed with Gabriel, surely He could forgive her for protecting her sister.
A sound caught her ear. Guessing Lissant had returned, she hastened from behind the tapestry.
The door swung inward, and Gabriel’s gaze landed on her, shifted to the wall hanging.
Did he know? Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the tapestry’s sway.
Heart pounding, she stepped forward. “There is something you require, Lord De Vere?”
“Your presence at table.”
“I sent Lissant for a tray.”
“And I told her you will take your meals belowstairs.”
“I prefer to remain here.”
“Even so, you will join me.”
What did it matter where she ate? Considering what he believed of her, he ought to appreciate her absence. “For what purpose?”
He put a shoulder to the door frame. “Though your time at Mergot is short, I will not have you spend it sulking. You are a guest and will behave accordingly.”
“A guest? What absurdity! I have no freedom, little privacy—”
“If it is privacy you require, the tower will more than meet your needs.”
As trapped as she felt, the tower would be more a prison and harder to escape.
“Cook waits the meal on you, Juliana.”
She clenched her hands amid the coarse material of her bliaut.
Gabriel’s gaze caught the movement. “Are you ashamed of your appearance?”
She looked down her front. She was not ashamed but so pricked with discomfort it was all she could do to keep from scratching at a dozen places. Perhaps it was her show of pregnancy to which he referred…
Raising her chin, she advanced on him.
Gabriel turned and strode the corridor ahead of her. With their arrival in the hall, the din of soldiers and servants subsided.
As told, Cook had delayed the meal. From the expressions of those in the hall, few were uncomfortable showing their displeasure. And why should they be? It was not as if she were of import. Not as if she were their lady and owed forbearance and respect.
Only as she ascended the dais did it occur to her it might be the lower tables at which Gabriel expected her to dine. Though it was known he had fathered her child, her place was not alongside the Baron of Mergot in the chair his wife would one day occupy. Still, she followed him around the table at which Sir Erec and the false priest sat.
Gabriel claimed the high seat, gestured for her to take the chair beside his.
She supposed she ought to be grateful, for it implied she was to be treated with more respect than what the cook had afforded her. Unfortunately, it also meant she was flanked on one side by Gabriel, on the other by his brother.
As she settled in the chair, servants filed into the hall bearing the day’s main meal.
Ignoring the men on both sides of her, Juliana considered the tables below the dais. It seemed all eyes were on her, but whereas resentment had shone from them moments earlier, now there was confusion and curiosity. The castle folk were at a loss as to her place at Mergot.
She was a lady who held a chamber abovestairs, ate at their lord’s side, and was allowed to move freely about the donjon—even if under constant watch. Yet she carried his illegitimate child and he made it known she could not be trusted. Perhaps she might use their confusion to her advantage.
Shortly, the noise in the hall resumed, the occupants turned their attention to the meal, and a trencher appeared before Juliana.
Relieved she was not expected to share with Gabriel or his brother, she lifted her spoon and chased a morsel of venison into its bowl.
“You depart on the morrow?” Gabriel asked.
“If you have no further need of me,” Sir Erec said, “it is time I return to Fey.”
A lesser castle of Mergot? Juliana pondered. Had Gabriel awarded it to his tournament partner?
“Too, a fortnight hence, my lord father and lady mother cross the channel to visit,” the knight added.
“I am pleased Sir Abel and Lady Helene will soon grace France’s shores.”
Dipping her spoon again, Juliana returned to the matter of escape. If she succeeded and persuaded Baron Faison to aid her, what then? She was not fool enough to believe Gabriel would not follow. And this time he would likely confront Bernart, then the struggle to possess her child would lead to bloodshed. Unless she was not at Tremoral.
If neither man held her, there would be no reason for battle—other than that, as men, they were inclined to violence. Either way, if she could steal into the castle and bring out Alaiz, there was less chance any would die. But where could her sister and she go? They could not return to their childhood home until their brother was of an age to take control of his lands.
What of the Church? If they claimed sanctuary at a convent distant from Tremoral, Gabriel and Bernart might not find them, and were they hunted down, their pursuers would not be permitted within the walls. But how long would they be granted sanctuary in the absence of coin? And what of when the babe was born?
Think, Juliana, she entreated. You may not have Alaiz’s sharp wits, but neither is your head empty. For the sake of your sister and this babe, think!
The solution was slow to form, and when it did, she had to turn it this way and that to make it fit her circumstances, but finally…possibility.
God willing, she would escape Gabriel. God willing, Bernart would believe her tale of having fled an unknown abductor and her relief at returning to him. God willing, he would lower his guard ere Gabriel came again, allowing her to take from his coffers the great sum needed to ensure the Church made a place for Alaiz, the babe, and her.
She shuddered, whispered, “God willing.”
Though not unusual for the noonday meal to linger well into the afternoon, Gabriel ended it an hour later. Obviously, work on the inner wall took precedence.
Without a word to Juliana, he descended the dais and Sir Erec followed. Though the others were reluctant to abandon their meal, they also rose. Within minutes, only Juliana, Gabriel’s brother, and the servants remained. As the latter cleared the tables, Juliana felt Blase’s regard.
“What think you of your first day at Mergot, Lady Mary?” he asked.
She would have to become accustomed to that name. “It is far too long for a day barely half done.”
He smiled, leaned back in his chair. “Your accommodations are comfortable?”
She lifted her hands. “I am not in chains.”
“Most fortunate. Four months past it might have been different.”
Meaning Gabriel’s anger had lessened.
“But time has a way with such things,” Blase said on a sigh.
She knew she should not argue, that she would likely be more stung by his words than he hers, but she said, “Does time also have a way with your conscience, false priest?”
Something flashed in his eyes, and for a moment it was Gabriel before her. How blind she had been not to heed the resemblance he bore his brother.
She had thought they shared only dark looks, but it went beyond that—the nose, chin, height, build. What mostly distinguished one from the other were the eyes. Blase’s were so penetrating a green it was almost unholy. The length of their hair was also different, the false priest’s only skimming the neck of his tunic. And though he was also plain of face, he was more attractive. Too, he had the ability to smile and laugh, as done in the guise of Father Hermanus.
A moment later, a smile returned to his face. “The state of my conscience is between the Lord and me. I answer only to Him.”
She inclined her head. “And so you shall.”
He quaffed the remainder of his wine. “I must apply myself to the books.” He stood.
Juliana frowned. “You keep Gabriel’s accounts?”
“There is no other he trusts.” From the twist of his lips, it was not a task he enjoyed. What would he rather be doing? Swinging the sword hung at his hip?
“I know acco
unting,” she said. “If you would like, I will post for you.” It was not that she wished to do him a favor, but time would pass more quickly with something to distract her.
“I will consider it.” He turned away.
Of course, her time would be better spent seeking her escape, she reminded herself as he withdrew from the hall.
She fingered her spoon. Would its slender handle fit the door lock, granting her entrance to the passageway? Not likely, but she would try.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was not enough to try. To succeed, something more was required.
The spoon handle having failed to open the lock, for three days Juliana had gone behind the tapestry while Lissant left her to nap and instead applied the utensil to mortar. If she could dig out what surrounded the stone in which the lock was set, she could remove the block and gain entrance to the hidden passageway. But though the mortar was giving, her progress was slow.
She stared at the pieces made of the spoon. Its bowl and handle were both ground down considerably, and now that they had parted ways, there was not enough to grasp without also grating her flesh across stone and mortar.
Sitting back on her heels, she dropped her chin and yielded to self pity that wet her face. After sacrificing several minutes to the crippling emotion, she shoved to her feet and stepped from behind the tapestry.
By her calculation, she had an hour before Lissant returned to rouse her for the evening meal—time that could be spent grinding, each loosened particle of mortar and stone drawing her nearer Alaiz. But though she flung herself around the chamber in search of something to replace the spoon, it was futile.
Perspiration causing the homespun gown to cling and irritate her skin all the more, she halted at the center of the room and tried again to think her way out of captivity. But it was true. It was not enough to try. Something more was needed.
Juliana considered the blue ceiling with its embellished corners. It was too fanciful to feel the presence and hope of God half as well as even a chapel in ruins.
