by Anne Stuart
He'd dismissed Piers, giving in to the temptation to stand watching Alys as she slept. Alys, with the pale face and the plump body, all fierceness drained from her soul by the drugged sleep he'd offered her.
Christ, but he wanted her! It was an odd feeling, after having kept his hungers in check for so many years. He was used to controlling his needs, but this small, unspectacular woman was having a strange effect on him. If he didn't know better he'd suspect witchcraft.
Ah, but he was the expert at witchcraft around here. He knew, better than anyone, what was possible and what was not. And there was no possibility on this green earth that he would fall under the spell of a woman, particularly an ordinary little creature like Lady Alys of Summersedge.
She should have been a nun. But then, he'd been a monk for a brief period of time, and he knew far too well that holy orders couldn't quell unholy desires. He had looked down at her as she lay in her bed, and wanted her.
Then her sister had stirred, and silently Simon of Navarre had slipped back into the darkness. Claire had sat up, alert, but in the shifting shadows she could see nothing. She simply sank down on the bed again, falling back into a deep sleep.
And Simon of Navarre had wished her at perdition. He wanted to be the one to lie beside Alys's body, feel her warmth, listen to her breathe. He wanted to strip the ugly clothes from her body and discover just what fascinated him so.
He was still distracted by that curiosity the next day, as he sat in the chair beside Richard, watching her. He hadn't slept, though that was not unusual, and now he accepted the fact that it wasn't time for him to satisfy either his curiosity or his inexplicable lust. He was a man used to waiting, to making sure the opportunity offered the most. He would wait for Alys. For a while.
"My lord," Simon of Navarre said gently, but Richard had had enough ale to ignore him, something he was usually too wise to do.
"You may sit on my left hand, Alys," he brayed magnanimously. "Don't worry, we'll find you a husband. Though it might help if you could find something better to wear. That gown looks like it came from the charity box at the abbey. Your looks are nothing to brag of, but you could improve matters with a bit of color. Don't you think so, Grendel?" he demanded.
"I would hesitate to contradict you, my lord," he murmured. Claire had stopped, unwilling to move closer, and Alys practically barreled into her.
"Well, they can't all be beauties," Richard said with a wet belch. "What shall we do with Alys, wizard? Shall we send her back to the convent after all and make her a happy woman?"
"No, my lord. You should give her to me in marriage," Simon of Navarre said calmly. He could see a flash of something in Alys's eyes, but whether it was relief or despair, he couldn't tell.
Richard turned to stare at him. "Good God, man, you can't really have 'em both!" he shouted. "The church frowns on bigamy, just ask Brother Jerome."
"I'm certain you have far greater plans for Lady Claire," Simon of Navarre said calmly.
For a moment the hall was silent with shock. And then Richard laughed, a hearty bellow that made Lady Alys flinch and put a hand to her pounding head. "By God, you're right, Simon of Navarre! Take the plain one—she'll do for you, and once you're between her legs I doubt you'll know the difference."
"My lord Richard," Brother Jerome spoke up with stern reproof, but Richard just waved an airy hand at him.
"They've been in a convent too long, Brother Jerome. It's about time they knew what women were made for. That's why God fashioned 'em, isn't it? To procreate? I can't think what other use they could be."
Simon of Navarre watched with amusement as Brother Jerome struggled to control his dismay. As far as clerics went, Brother Jerome was not a bad man. A little too serious, a bit too eager to heap on the penances on his unruly flock, but not devoid of true Christian charity. Something Simon of Navarre wasn't always certain even existed.
"Come here, lass," Richard bellowed at Alys. "You're a sly one, cutting out your sister, but Grendel's got the right of it. She'll do far better, and while any baron of England would be lucky to get a bride of my blood, a pretty one will be that much more welcome."
"How fortuitous," Lady Alys said faintly, mounting the dais and taking a seat beside her brother.
"And no more whining about taking the veil, eh? You'll learn to like Simon of Navarre here well enough. He's got a sharp tongue, but he isn't known to beat his horses or his servants. Behave yourself and you'll do very well."
She didn't dare look at him, Simon of Navarre noticed. She kept her eyes downcast like a docile creature. He suspected that she was, in truth, no more docile than her high-strung younger sister. She was just more adept at hiding it.
A clever woman. A danger. But far less dangerous in his bed, where he could keep an eye on her.
Richard swung away from his sister, his quicksilver attention dismissing her as he focused on Simon of Navarre. "There's but one thing that occupies my mind. Why, my Grendel?" he demanded. "Why take the lesser when I've offered you the greater prize?"
He could feel Claire's curious eyes on him as well, and he suspected she was just as bewildered. "My lord, I could give you any number of satisfactory answers to your question. Perhaps I wished to please you by accepting what you valued less. Or I cared little which one I took, and Lady Alys seemed less troublesome."
"Both admirable reasons," Richard said sagely. "Neither of which are particularly like you, Grendel. What is your real reason for choosing plain Alys over the lovely Claire?"
"Perhaps because I don't consider Lady Alys to be the slightest bit plain, my lord," he said.
It worked, as well as he could have hoped. Brother Jerome nodded in approval. Lady Claire looked suitably pleased at the praise to her sister, something which raised her a notch in his esteem. Lady Alys managed to lift her gaze from the bread in front of her to cast a curious, hopeful glance in his direction. It was, of course, tinged with doubt, but he was already used to the lady's intelligence. She would take nothing at face value. He would have to work hard to keep her off balance, but he always relished a challenge. It kept him alert.
"Reasonable, I suppose," Richard announced. "I should be used to your odd ways by now. When do you wish to be wed?"
If he answered in three months' time, the wedding would be performed that day. And while he had a great deal of interest in seducing shy Lady Alys, he wasn't particularly eager for the complications of marriage quite yet.
"As soon as it pleases you, my lord."
Richard rose to the bait, as always. "We shall see. Lady Hedwiga will have something to say in the matter, and I expect she'll insist on waiting. My sister needs time to accustom herself to the change in her circumstances. She's not used to men, and she's certainly not used to men like you. You need to woo her, Grendel. Court the girl. Write her love poems. Bring her flowers. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Alys?" he demanded.
Alys looked up, her hazel eyes wide with relief. "Yes, my lord," she said softly. And Simon knew perfectly well it was the delay in their nuptials, not the anticipated courtship, that she found pleasing.
"If he wants you, and for some reason he seems to, then he'll have to earn you," Richard pronounced, draining his ale. "Though I shudder to think of what offspring he'll get on you."
And Simon of Navarre noticed lazily that Lady Alys shuddered as well.
The curving stairwell was shadowed, lit only by the narrow arrow slits, but Claire moved swiftly downward, keeping her full skirts tight to her body. She didn't dare change her clothes—it would cause too much comment, and right now the smartest thing she could do would be to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
A difficult thing, given the looks God had graced her with. Alys loved to tease her about her vanity, but indeed, it was no such thing. As she had told Alys, the pleasing contours of her face and form were no accomplishment of hers, and therefore nothing to take pride in. She had been fashioned a beauty by a generous God, and while she took pleasure in that fact, she
took no responsibility.
Brother Emory had warned her, the holy sisters had warned her, and they'd been right. This was her first trip out into the world, and she had discovered she was, indeed, extraordinary. They stared at her when she moved through the halls, the old women with pleasure, the young ones with jealous anger. And the men.
She shuddered. She disliked the hunger she could see in their moist eyes, their thick-lipped mouths. Even her own brother let his red-rimmed eyes travel over her with a look that felt like a touch, and she hated it.
There were only three men in that castle of men who seemed impervious to her: the magician, Simon of Navarre, who possessed an entirely illogical desire for her older sister; and Brother Jerome, whose calling and whose goodness precluded lustful thoughts.
And then there was the knight The handsome one, who stared at her with cool dislike, the only one in a crowd of leering men. It was no wonder he'd caught her eye.
Perhaps he wasn't that handsome. He was tall enough, and his pale hair was cut short in the Norman style, presumably to fit under his helm. He looked very strong, very stern, with flinty blue eyes that never seemed to soften, a hard mouth that never seemed to smile. He looked at her with blatant disapproval, and her mischievous nature had immediately been aroused.
She had more important things to think about this morning than a dour knight, however. She'd managed to escape the tower room Richard had allotted them, but just barely. Alys was ill, with a pounding in her head that she insisted was nothing dangerous; she simply needed peace and quiet. While the serving women sat by her side, Claire had slipped behind the tapestry and out into the empty hallway, intent on finding her way to the stables.
She'd been too long without seeing Arabia. She'd raised the mare from a foal, and there was no greater bond between horse and mistress imaginable. She loved her sleek, beautiful horse with a passionate intensity. The only creature who took precedence was Alys, and while Claire loved her more than Arabia, she would far rather spend time with the horse.
She had no idea whether she'd be able to escape the stifling confines of Summersedge Keep and go for a run through the countryside, the wind slapping her in the face. She needed fresh air, away from the smell of men and dogs and smoke. She needed the sun on her face, or the rain drenching her skin, she didn't care which, as long as she was out in the fresh air.
There was a door into the courtyard at the bottom of the tower, and she stepped out, keeping close to the walls. The kitchen buildings were a hive of activity; Richard the Fair obviously put a great store by his meals. In the far corner men at arms were training, and she stopped for a moment, peering in their direction, looking for the stern and handsome knight. Would he fight well? She suspected he would. A man would have to feel very sure of his abilities to pass judgment on women he'd never even spoken to.
"Silly," she said to herself, the soft sound of her voice barely heard over the noise of the midday courtyard. "Who's to say he disapproves of you? Maybe he just has a gloomy expression. It might be the result of a wound."
The more she thought about it, however, the more unlikely it seemed. While that handsome face was not devoid of battle scars, the old wounds were slight, pale, and well-healed. She wondered how the rest of his tall, strong body had fared.
She giggled at the deliciously naughty thought. Alys wouldn't understand. Alys was never tempted to do something wicked, just for the fun of it. Alys thought fun was working hard, loving others, taking care of her sister. Alys was a bore.
Still, Claire loved her dearly. And if she had any say in the matter, neither of them would be sacrificed to Richard's pet demon.
True, he wasn't monstrous looking, if you avoided gazing into his golden, merciless eyes. But there was something about his tall, ominous presence that made Claire shiver with superstitious horror. The very thought of sweet Alys bedding such a man was enough to make her weep.
Still, there would be time. Richard had decreed that Simon of Navarre must court her elder sister, and if the wedding date were dependent on how successful the courtship was, then Alys might very well die a maiden. There was no way a sensible woman could ever be tempted by one such as the wizard, and Alys was a supremely sensible woman.
Claire could smell the stables, ambrosia under the hot sun. No one seemed to realize she'd slipped out of the castle, and she darted forward, intent on reaching the stables before anyone noticed that Lord Richard's golden-haired sister was about.
The shadow loomed up out of nowhere, huge and threatening, cutting off the light, and Claire uttered a small scream, one that was silenced by the hand that clamped over her mouth; the other hand wrapped around her waist and drew her back into the shadows.
She kicked back, furiously, biting down hard on the hand that silenced her, hard enough to bring blood. She was released, just as suddenly, flung away from her attacker into the shadows. The man who'd captured her didn't curse, which surprised her. She was even more startled by the sight of his stern face glowering down at her. It was the grimly handsome knight who'd been watching her.
"How dare you lay hands on me?" she demanded. "Who do you think you are, to assault Lord Richard's own sister? I'll have you whipped…"
"I doubt it," he said calmly enough, his voice low and clipped. "My orders come from your brother himself."
Claire stared at him in disbelief. "You lie."
"I never lie. It's a sin."
"And I suppose you never sin," she snapped back.
"All too often, my lady. But I make my confession, and Brother Jerome gives me penance and absolution. I would think you could do with both of those gifts."
"What makes you think I'm a sinner?"
"We're all sinners," he said heavily. "Particularly women."
Claire was not one to take such words lightly. She moved closer, observing him in the shadows. He was just as handsome close up, with his darkly bronzed skin, his icy eyes, his pale hair. And he was just as disapproving. "If we're sinners, it's because men lead us astray," she said."You say you're following my brother's orders? And what are they, pray tell?"
He'd drawn a scrap of cloth from beneath his tunic and was casually wrapping it around his hand. "I've been commissioned to watch over you and your sister. To protect you from insult, and from error."
"I don't need your protection, whoever you are. I can take care of myself. Go watch over my sister if you must."
"Your sister is the least of my worries. And I am Thomas du Rhaymer. Knight to your brother, Lord Richard."
"So you said." He didn't smell of ale, or sweat, like most of the other men in the keep. "I absolve you of your duties, Sir Thomas. Go away and watch over some other hapless female." She started past him, but he reached out and caught her, whirling her around to meet his stern gaze. His grip was not painful, but it was unbreakable.
"I'm afraid that's not your choice, my lady. I take my orders from my liege lord and no one else. He's told me to watch over you and make certain you behave yourself, and I intend to do just that."
He was still holding on to her arm, unwilling to release her, and she told herself he was infuriating. In truth, he was. But he was also interestingly masterful.
Claire, however, was not interested in being mastered at the moment. She was interested in riding. "I'm on my way to visit my horse," she said grandly. "You may accompany me if you wish, Sir Thomas."
"No, my lady. You'll come back inside the keep."
She glared up at him, no longer appreciating the firm grip on her upper arm. "I'll do no such thing. I'm going riding."
He didn't bother to argue. He simply hauled her with him, back to the thick oak door at the base of the tower. She struggled, but it was useless against a man of his strength, and he simply shoved her through the door, following her and closing them into the darkness.
"My brother will cut off your hands," she hissed at him.
He began dragging her up the circular stairs. "I doubt it. My hands are far too valuable to his lordship, and I
'm simply following his orders. He told me to beat you if I'd a mind to. In theory I don't believe in beating women, but you may be an exception."
They'd reached the first landing by that time, illuminated by an arrow slit, and acting purely on instinct, she kicked out at him, her leather-slippered foot connecting with hard, solid shin.
It hurt her far more than it must have hurt him, but he uttered a strangled cry and slammed her hard against the stone wall, practically leaning against her in his fury. "Do that again, mistress, and you won't sit down for a week."
She searched her memory for a suitable curse. The Convent of Saint Anne the Demure hadn't been fertile ground for attaining curses, but one emerged when most needed. "Camel-swiving son of a goatherd," she snarled.
He paused, and she thought he was going to hit her then. Instead he choked back a sound that was infuriatingly close to a laugh. But Sir Thomas du Rhaymer didn't appear to be a man intimately acquainted with laughter.
He released her, suddenly. "Get back upstairs, my lady," he said. "And do not make the mistake of kicking me again."
Her sleeve was wet where he'd held it. She glanced down, and saw the dark red stain of blood on her upper arm. "You've hurt me," she gasped.
He sighed, already weary of her. "Nay, my lady. I was bitten by a she-wolf a while back, and I bled on the sorry bitch."
She was speechless. No one had ever dared to speak to her in such a manner. She wanted to slap his cool, disapproving face, but she didn't dare. She wanted to kick him in the vitals, but she doubted she'd survive such an attempt.
"Pig," she said succinctly, turning her back on him and attempting to climb the stairs. Unfortunately her foot had born the brunt of his shin, and she found herself limping quite badly.
Doubtless he knew what had lamed her, and doubtless he didn't care. "Vixen," he replied evenly.
She found her brother in his solar, stretched out in one of the ornately carved chairs, a leg of fowl in his hand, his lips besmeared with grease. He looked none too pleased to see her, but Claire could not have cared less. At least his pet wizard was nowhere to be seen.
