Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  Octavian's expression went as blank as a corpse. Gaspar realized then that the abbot had, indeed, decided to grant the stewardship to Nicolette and Milo. That sly old Brother Martin must have been damnably convincing. But Gaspar's hopes rose when Octavian said, "You have a point, of course. I daresay 'twould be risky, entrusting a woman with such responsibilities."

  "Potentially disastrous. And you should know that Lord Milo wants nothing to do with any stewardship, mindful as he is of his limitations."

  "Quite sensible of him."

  "Aye. But as for her ladyship—"

  "If women had any sense," the abbot sneered, "would Eve have taken the apple from the serpent?"

  Gaspar smiled, sensing impending victory. "I knew you'd feel that way. I told his lordship there was no cause for alarm, that you wouldn't think of appointing them—"

  "I may of think of appointing whomever I please," Octavian said with chilly authority. "Do noy presume to coerce me one way or the other. 'Tis true that women in general are base creatures, temptresses with corrupt souls." He rubbed Gaspar's belt against his cheek. "Have you not found that to be the case?"

  "I have indeed," Gaspar said, unnerved to find himself in such complete agreement with a sodomite on the subject of women, and dismayed that he seemed to have overstepped himself in Octavian's eyes.

  "However, despite the misfortune of her ladyship's gender, she may well be the best candidate for the stewardship. Brother Martin has presented her case most persuasively, I must say. He has described her managerial skills in the highest terms, extolled her learning and her authority with her staff. She's intimately familiar with the estate, having been brought up there. And, of course, one mustn't forget her connections. Martin reminded me that she seems to be something of a favorite with Queen Matilda. I can hardly ignore the importance of such an affiliation."

  Father Octavian sighed dramatically, drawing his hand along the length of the belt. "If there were someone better qualified for the position, I wouldn't be forced to appoint her—and it would be her and her alone, of course. One can discount the husband altogether. But, alas, no other candidate has presented himself."

  This was Gaspar's cue to say the rest of it, which clever Father Octavian appeared to have anticipated. Things weren't proceeding quite as smoothly as Gaspar had hoped. The abbot, one move ahead of him all along, was toying with him. But if he kept his wits about him, his cause might yet prevail.

  "Your mention of another candidate," Gaspar said, "brings me to a matter I've been meaning to discuss with you for some time, Father." Ever since last night, when he'd hammered his final strategy into shape. "As you know, I've served in a position of considerable responsibility at Peverell for nigh unto fifteen years now. I've commanded the men and supervised the running of the estate. If it's a steward you want, I'm here to offer my services. I doubt there's anyone better qualified, including—if I may be so bold—my lady Nicolette."

  "Oh, you're bold, to be sure," Octavian said in a low, almost purring voice as he walked toward Gaspar, "coming here this way to steal the stewardship out from under your mistress."

  Gaspar backed up against the desk. "Father, I assure you—"

  "But I rather like boldness in a military man." Octavian smiled, clearly amused to have rattled Gaspar. "You do appear to be well qualified."

  "If you appoint me, I'll serve you to the very best of my ability," Gaspar said, striving for the right mixture of subservience and aggression; Octavian seemed fond of both. The point was to make the bastard believe that Gaspar craved the position and would be entirely Octavian's creature once he had it—as if he'd demean himself like this for a job as a glorified caretaker. He had more ambitious plans—far more ambitious—but first he must make sure the abbot did not appoint Nicolette as steward. And the best way to do that was to offer himself as a substitute. "Your orders will be obeyed without question."

  "What an appealing prospect," the abbot murmured. "You may take off your shirt if you wish. We're all alone here, and you must be warm."

  Gaspar fought down the urge to snatch the belt back, wrap it around the faggot's throat and squeeze the life out of him. It wasn't Octavian's taste for men per se that sickened Gaspar. Some of Peverell's best soldiers shared similar appetites, a fact that troubled him little so long as they kept their depravity to themselves. But there was something about Octavian that made him seem more wicked than the general run of his breed.

  "'Tisn't that warm in here," Gaspar said. "I'll keep the shirt on."

  The abbot's face froze into that death mask again. "Suit yourself." He turned and strode around his desk, seating himself behind it. "As for the matter of Peverell, well..." He tossed the belt aside and lifted a heavily ink sheet of parchment. "This is the appointment of stewardship. I can insert the name of anyone I wish—this very afternoon if I like—but I'm afraid it really doesn't look too good for you. I require a certain level of devotion and obedience in my subordinates, and frankly, you may be too strong-willed to satisfy me in that respect."

  So that's how it's to be. Gaspar considered the prospect of having Peverell—and its mistress—all to himself, once his plan came to fruition. Then he considered the degradation of submitting to the whims of this deviant little worm—but just for a single afternoon, long enough to get him to insert Gaspar's name on that document.

  He took off his shirt.

  The abbot smiled, his eyes glittering in the semidarkness. "But, of course," he said, setting down the document and closing his hand around the belt, "if we can manage to arrive at some mutually satisfying arrangement, I may rethink things."

  "What did you have in mind?" Gaspar asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  "It has to do with that problem I mentioned." Rising, Octavian circled the table and came to stand very close to Gaspar. "The one I said you might be able to help me with."

  "What sort of a problem is it?"

  "One of a rather sensitive nature. It might surprise you to know that I have...impure thoughts like any other man."

  This news did not surprise Gaspar in the least.

  "The Devil whispers things in my ear. He makes me lust in unnatural ways." Octavian eyed Gaspar's bare torso. "When the monks under my care have human lapses, 'tis my duty to correct them, and I do. But there's no one to correct me, to purge me of these sinful thoughts." He folded the belt into a loop.

  "I see."

  "Who better to punish me," Octavian said softly, "than a man such as yourself—a commander of soldiers? You know about discipline, and you're not afraid to exact it...are you?"

  "Nay," Gaspar managed.

  "My flesh is weak." Octavian moved so close that Gaspar could feel the rough wool of his robe brushing against him; it took an effort of will not to flinch. "I need to humble myself, to submit to your will." He took Gaspar's hand and closed it around the loop of belt. "Are you strong enough to do what it takes to break me of my sinful longings?"

  Gaspar pictured the abbot whimpering in pain, like a woman. Perhaps he'd even cry. "I should think so."

  Octavian smiled enigmatically. "About a year ago," he said, "my cellarer began overindulging in strong drink—much like your Lord Milo. In order to purge him of his fixation with wine, I made him drink half a barrel of it in one sitting. I've never seen anyone so sick. But the experience left his mark. He's been sober since. You don't suppose such a method might work with sins of the flesh?"

  God's bones. Gaspar wondered if he had the stomach for this. He thought of Peverell...and its mistress. Perhaps he could go through with it—even take pleasure in it—if he imagined the abbot to be Nicolette. He actually grew stiff at the thought of inflicting on Nicolette the indignities Octavian was so eager for.

  "Well?" Octavian said. "Have we reached an agreement?"

  Gaspar strode to the door and slid the bolt across.

  When he turned back around, Octavian was smiling. "It would seem we have."

  * * *

  Chapter 21

 
; "Blessed Mary." Nicki swayed as she read the document Brother Martin handed her. The color leached from her face.

  "Easy, now." Alex took her in his arms and led her to a bench in the corner of the prior's cluttered chamber, hoping she didn't faint. Sweeping a pile of drawings onto the floor, he sat her down and knelt at her feet. "What is it, Nicki? What's wrong?"

  Brother Martin handed Nicki a cup of his pear wine, which she accepted with a trembling hand. "That document," the prior told him, "assigns the stewardship of Peverell to Gaspar Le Taureau."

  "Gaspar!" Alex bolted to his feet. "God's bones!"

  "How did this happen?" Nicki asked in a small voice.

  Brother Martin shrugged helplessly as he took the sheet of parchment from her. "He visited Father Octavian a few days ago. That's all I know. I'm sorry, truly I am. I thought for sure..." He shook his head. "Clearly, I wasn't as influential as I'd thought. I am sorry."

  Nicki stared, hollow-eyed, into her cup.

  "Drink that, Nicki," Alex said. "'Twill do you good."

  "How did this happen?" she repeated in a toneless whisper.

  "Do as your cousin says," the prior urged her. "Drink that wine. 'Twill warm your belly and soothe your nerves. And then I think it's best that you two head back to Peverell. My weather clock says there's a storm brewing."

  Alex thought that unlikely; it was a clear, pleasantly breezy afternoon. Still, he was eager to get Nicki away from here. Her state of shock alarmed him. He needed to comfort her, to take her in his arms and kiss her and reassure her, but he could hardly treat his "cousin" so affectionately in front of Brother Martin.

  "He's right, Nicki. We should leave."

  "I'd ask you to spend the night," said the prior, "but Father Octavian won't allow women on monastery grounds after sunset."

  Alex squatted in front of her. "Drink the wine, Nicki."

  Shaking her head, she handed the cup to the prior. "Let's just go."

  * * *

  They were barely a mile into their journey home when the leaves began to shiver on their branches, surrounding them with an ominous murmur that made Alex's scalp tickle. Darkness swept through forest with demonic speed. The horses whinnied nervously.

  Damn. "What the devil is a weather clock?" Alex asked.

  Nicki, riding ahead of him on the narrow track, didn't respond. She'd spoken nary a word since they left the abbey.

  A chill wind whistled through the trees, raising goose bumps through Alex's heavy tunic. His hip began to ache. "Are you cold?" he called to Nicki, wondering if they should stop and retrieve their mantles from the saddlebags.

  She shook her head.

  The wind blew harder, tearing Nicki's veil right off her head. It flew down into the ravine next to which they rode, a streak of white that vanished into the raging waters far below.

  The first few raindrops stung their faces. "Hold onto your reins," Alex said, just as the rain slammed down in earnest, battering them like fists.

  "Nicki, take it slow!" Alex shouted over the suddenly hellish storm. Her mare looked skittish.

  She yelled something back, but it was swallowed up by the roar of the rain, driven right into their faces by the wind. He saw her pat Marjolaina on the neck, which seemed to calm the frightened animal—but only momentarily.

  Thunder crashed overhead, followed by a flutter of lightning. The erratic white light illuminated a horrifying scene in jittery images: the dappled mare losing her footing and toppling sideways into the ravine, Nicki flying after her.

  Screams filled Alex's skull...the horse's, Nicki's, his.

  Alex leapt from his mount, his feet sliding on the wet gravel. He tumbled down the grassy ravine, propelled by wind and rain, until a tree abruptly halted his fall. "Nicki!" he screamed, struggling upright. "Nicki!"

  He half-slid, half crawled down the rain-lashed slope, screaming Nicki's name, until a dark form materialized below him in the torrent. No, there were two forms, he saw as he scrambled closer—the mare lying on her side, half-submerged in the stream, and Nicki, kneeling over her.

  Alex gathered Nicki in his arms. "Nicki! Nicki, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

  "Nay."

  "Are you sure? 'Twas a bad fall."

  "The ground was soft. Alex..." She gripped his arms hard. "Marjolaina, she's...oh, God, Alex."

  Facing his back to the rain, Alex examined the horse, who stared at him with wide, stunned eyes and flared nostrils. A swift examination revealed that she'd broken a front leg.

  Alex unsheathed the sharp little eating knife that hung on his belt. Best to get this over with while the mare was still in a state of shock, before she tried to struggle upright. "Turn around, Nicki."

  "Oh, God. Oh, my poor Marjolaina."

  He drew her to close, kissed her forehead. "You know it's the only way."

  "I know. I know. I just...I just wish to God you didn't have to."

  Alex waited, rain hammering, while Nicki bent over her beloved Marjolaina and whispered something in her ear. She stroked the mare lovingly and kissed her on the nose. Then she rose and turned her back, her head down, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  Alex pushed the wet hair out of his eyes and positioned his knife on the mare's throat, just behind her jaw. Taking a deep breath, he dispatched her with a single stroke. He rinsed off the knife and his blood-spattered chausses swiftly in the river, then wrestled Nicki's submerged saddlebags from the dead horse's back. The saddle would have to wait until he came back to dispose of the body. Taking Nicki by the arm, he led her back up the ravine.

  "Do you know of any shelter nearby?" he asked as he lifted her into his saddle.

  She nodded as he saddled up behind her. "My uncle had a hunting lodge near here. I'll guide you there."

  * * *

  The lodge, a thatched stone cottage enveloped by overhanging trees, looked huge until they stepped inside. The entire front end, Alex discovered, was an enormous byre for the horses and dogs that Henri de St. Clair and his friends would take hunting with them, and here they stabled Atlantes. A single, small room in back was reserved for human habitation, and although it was hard to see much, for night was falling and the storm still raged, it appeared to have been unoccupied for some time.

  This back room had one window and a door, both curtained with skins that had come loose and flapped wildly, letting the wind blow the rain onto the muddy earthen floor. Dumping their saddlebags on a rough-hewn table, Alex ducked out into the maelstrom for a rock, which he used to nail down the skins.

  As he did this, Nicki built a fire in the clay-lined cooking pit, using wood piled up next to it. When it was lit, Alex breathed a sigh of relief. The openings—except for the smoke hole—were sealed, and the fire crackled reassuringly. Despite the omnipresent rumble of rain, their little sanctuary felt almost cozy.

  Taking Nicki in his arms, he found her shivering violently beneath her sodden tunic. "You've got to get out of these wet things. We both do." He reached into her saddlebags for her mantle, but found it to be drenched from its dunking in the stream. Retrieving his own mantle, a long, silk-lined cape of gray wool trimmed in black lambskin, he handed it to her. "You can wrap this around yourself."

  "Wh-what about you?" she asked, teeth chattering.

  Alex turned his back to give her privacy and unbuckled his sword belt. "I'll be fine." Nicki's lips were blue. He would have foregone the mantle even if she'd been a man.

  His hip, which had ceased to pain him during their mishap at the ravine, throbbed in earnest as he stripped off his wet clothes. His drawers were only slightly damp, having been shielded from the rain by both his chausses and tunic. They would dry quickly if he stayed close to the fire, which was already filling the room with its blessed warmth.

  Keeping his back to Nicki, he dragged one of the benches that flanked the table close to the fire, draping his tunic and chausses over it and setting his boots as close to the flames as he thought safe. When he straightened up, he found Nicki struggling to spread h
er clothes over the bench with one hand while clutching the mantle closed with the other.

  "Here." Alex took over the chore, finding that she'd removed not only her tunic, but her linen undershift, which was nearly as wet. He laid her wet slippers next to his boots, trying not to think about her nakedness beneath his mantle. She was wet and cold and just had suffered two terrible shocks—finding out about Gaspar and losing Marjolaina—and right now she needed his comfort, not his lust.

  For the past week, he'd contented himself with her kisses, as he'd promised her he would. She still balked at any hint of further intimacies, and he'd been reluctant to pursue them. At first he'd told himself that his reserve had to do with her petition to Father Octavian. Had she been able to remain at Peverell without bearing the requisite heir, his services in that capacity would not have been required. That was haphazard logic, though, because regardless of the stewardship, he would still have been bound by his oath.

  He finally arrived at the remarkable, and somewhat humbling, conclusion that he loved kissing Nicki just for the sake of kissing her, without it being a prelude to seduction. He reveled in it, just as he had reveled in holding her hand those enchanted afternoons in Périgeaux. It wasn't that he didn't still desire her; he did, intensely. The feel of her in his arms—the soft weight of her breasts, the cradle of her hips, her scent and warmth—kept him aching with need as their lips caressed. But it was a sweet ache, the same ache he'd felt as a youth, when he'd learned to live with the wanting, to savor it for itself, to dream with breathless anticipation of a release that hovered always out of reach.

  Nicki crouched near the fire, obviously seeking its warmth. Thinking a hot drink might soothe her, Alex fetched his tin traveling cup out of his saddlebags, filled it with pear wine from the flask Brother Martin had sent them away with, and set it on an iron trivet at the edge of the fire pit.