Once Upon a Star
Page 12
“When I return we’ll make up for the time we’ve lost.”
“Not if your battle leaves you dead—or grievously wounded!”
“Ah, your concern touches me, Princess.”
She twisted around to look at him and saw that beneath his dark brows, Ambrose the Barbarian’s gray eyes glinted silver as the mist.
“Does it indeed? I am surprised that anything could touch you, my lord,” she retorted in her haughtiest tones.
“Those daggers from your eyes could kill me if they reached my heart. If I but had a heart,” he mused.
“Daggers? Really, my lord.” She spoke coldly, in the manner her mother would have employed when addressing a stableboy. “Indeed, I wish you safe journey.”
“You lie, Princess. You know you hope that Sandar runs me through.” He caught her chin in his hand and raised it, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Why don’t you just say it?”
“That would be unfitting speech for a princess of royal blood.”
To her chagrin, he threw back his head and laughed. “I am pleased to see that I have got my money’s worth with this bargain. Go ahead. Be just as royal and haughty as you want. Especially when you’re in my bed.” His voice grew deeper, huskier. “I’ve conquered every petty king and noble who has sneered at me, and I’ll conquer you, too.”
“How dare you…”
“This is as far as I’ll go.”
He pulled the destrier to a sudden halt and swung off the steed with surprising litheness for such a large man. Without a word he swept Lianna down beside him.
All around her the company drew up. They were near the portcullis, where soldiers in armor guarded the gates, awaiting orders from their duke.
The wind blasted around Lianna, slicing right through the heavy velvet cloak, whipping her hood back like a banner.
“William—you stay behind.” Ambrose addressed a stout, bearded man with hair and whiskers the color of summer wheat who spurred his horse forward at the duke’s words. “Guard my lady and the keep well! Take her to Randolph and see that she is made comfortable and shown the respect due her.”
Sir William saluted sharply and rode toward the gate to await the lady of the castle.
Lianna began to stride toward him, but Ambrose gripped her wrist and tugged her back.
She was conscious of the men on horseback all around them, watching, smiling, as their duke prepared to bid farewell to his bride.
“Not so fast, my lady. I have something for you before we part.” To her surprise, he removed the gold-and-ruby star-brooch from the shoulder of his cloak and pinned it to hers.
“It is a bridal gift. I command you to wear it always. It is a symbol that you are under my protection.”
“But who is to protect me from you?” She gazed defiantly up at him as the wind tore at her hair.
“No one can protect you from me.” Ambrose pulled her closer. She shivered and his hands tightened at her waist. His voice dropped. “No doubt a chaste public kiss is appropriate even for royalty,” he said slowly. “Am I correct?”
She was unnerved by his touch, by the way his eyes gleamed at her through the cold mist, but she nodded with outward calm. “You are correct. Most proper of all would be for you to kiss my hand—oh!”
Her startled cry was cut off as he swept her into his arms and his lips clamped down to claim hers. Heat and dazzling confusion suffused her as Ambrose the Barbarian roughly and thoroughly kissed her, holding her taut against him, his warm mouth waging a lusty battle against hers, his arms locking her entire body against his.
Struggling would be undignified and unbecoming a princess, Lianna thought dimly before she couldn’t think at all. She felt as if she was drowning, drowning in a hot sea of sparkling pleasure as his hand fisted in her hair and his mouth set hers afire.
The dark keep, the men on horseback, the mist, and the sea—all blurred to nothingness as the man she had wed against her will held her in arms of iron and kissed her to the depths of her soul.
When he drew back, Lianna could only stare blankly up at him, her eyes wide and glazed, her lips swollen and parted.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t break the spell.
Heaven help her, what evil magic was this? She wanted him to kiss her again!
But he only smiled, his eyes dancing as snowflakes melted upon her upturned face. He spoke so that only she could hear his words.
“I’ll be back before you can miss me, Lianna. And I’ll teach you about all the things a proper, true-blood princess doesn’t know.”
As he vaulted back upon the destrier, the laughter and shouts of his men rang out. Then he was off, straight through the village again, toward the dark wood that bordered the sea, his soldiers thundering after him.
Still shaken, her face hot despite the numbing cold, Lianna walked with as much dignity as she could muster toward those massive gates. William and the soldiers manning them bowed their heads in deference as the portcullis lifted and the new lady of the castle passed through into the great courtyard of Crow’s Keep.
4
AMBROSE’S KISS HAD chased all thoughts out of her mind—including her fears about this castle—but as the thunder of hoofbeats faded and the keep loomed before her, and servants and scullery maids peeped out at her in silent awe, and knights and pages and stableboys hurried forth to get a glimpse of her, she once more had to fight off a sense of dread.
The castle was much more stark than Penmarren. Everything was well ordered, large and spacious, with tapestries upon the walls, and tables and chests inlaid with gold and precious jewels, but there was a chill that seemed to mist from the stone walls, a sense of foreboding that clung to the recessed shadows of the great hall.
Surely the rumors that the place was cursed were as baseless as the one that claimed Ambrose had murdered his wife, Lianna told herself as she proceeded with the seneschal, Randolph, through the great hall.
At any rate, it would do her no good to appear afraid.
It was easy for Lianna to meet those who lived and worked in the castle, to greet the cook, Berta, and the scullery maids, the pages and the squires, and the men-at-arms who guarded the keep. She knew the role of lady of the castle well, and it took no effort for her to smile, nod, and murmur questions or instructions to those who bowed or curtsied as she passed.
But during all that time, and especially that evening as she prepared herself for bed, she could not forget the parting kiss that Ambrose had bestowed upon her.
She sat by the window in the lofty bedchamber she had been given, drawing her silver hairbrush through her hair and thinking about that moment when his lips had seared hers.
She’d had many suitors—tall, short, fair, dark-or russet-haired, young, old, kindly or stern—and one or two had even been bold enough to kiss her when no one was about and when, eager to discover what it was like, she had made it known that she was willing.
But none of them had kissed her like that. None of them had affected her like that. None of them had ever clouded her brain, assaulted her heart, made her blood pound like a tempestuous sea in her ears.
Only Ambrose.
A barbarian.
She was ashamed. He was not worthy of whatever feelings had begun to alight in her heart toward him. He was all that she had been raised to despise. He had in effect forced her at swordpoint to marry him!
And she would have her revenge when Constantine came to free her.
But for some reason she found little comfort in that notion tonight. She wondered where Ambrose was, how he fared against Sandar. If he was hurt.
The thought tore through her and she caught her breath, taken aback by the pain that sliced her heart.
Surely she would not care if Ambrose had been hurt, even if he were dead. She would celebrate. Wouldn’t she?
She closed her eyes and remembered again the feel of his steely arms around her, the deep roughness of his voice—and his mouth, bruising and hungry upon hers as he bade her farewell.
He had many enemies, this barbarian.
She wondered, just before sleep claimed her at last, if he had ever had a friend.
The next two days dragged by. Each hour Lianna found herself listening for the thunder of hoofbeats that would signal Ambrose’s return. It did not come.
She took her meals alone in her room. They were served by a stoop-shouldered stern-faced woman named Marthe, who uttered not a word but only nodded or shook her head when Lianna spoke to her. She wondered if the servants were all so fearful of Ambrose that they dared not speak lest they offend him or someone who would report to him.
She thought of her own beloved nurse, of Else and Gwenlyn and Kira—and her heart ached with missing them.
On the second afternoon, she felt as if the walls of the castle were closing in upon her. She threw her cloak over her simple gown of cream-colored wool, tucked her braid inside the hood, and headed toward the bailey. The star-brooch winked at her shoulder as she hurried through the halls and all she passed bent their heads or bowed as she went by.
Their deference, born of fear, Lianna guessed, increased her desperation to be alone, to have time to think about what she could do in this time when Ambrose was gone that might help Constantine.
Perhaps there were maps, documents showing the placement of Ambrose’s troops, how many men he commanded, where he might be vulnerable.
Surely there must be something she could do to help Penmarren defeat him. She needed to get away alone for a while to think and plan. And perhaps she could gather some herbs, even now, in the dead of winter. Even dead roots would serve for some of her healing draughts. She’d not had time to pack her herbs and healing medicines when she’d left Penmarren, and she didn’t like being without them.
An idea came to her in a flash. Perhaps she would come across a plant that could be useful during Constantine’s attack. Kittle plants or umsbar weed, which could be used to make a sleeping draught—something tasteless but powerful to slip into the ale drunk by Blackenstar’s knights—and by the Barbarian Duke himself on the day Constantine stormed the castle.
Her stomach clenched at the thought, but she pushed the unease away. Whatever she could do to help Constantine and Penmarren—and to free herself from Ambrose—she must do. It was not wrong, she told herself, heading out toward the bailey with a brisk step. It was her duty.
But when she stepped out into the courtyard, making for the stable, she was dismayed to see William bearing down on her.
“Yes?” She stared at him questioningly, though she knew full well why he was there.
“Does my lady wish to leave the protection of the castle grounds? It is not advisable.”
“Oh? Am I a prisoner?” It wasn’t as if she could escape—she was much too far from Penmarren to try reaching it alone on horseback.
“Of course not, my lady.” William smiled. “But you are our honored duchess, and if you wish to ride out, I must accompany you. The duke ordered me to guard you well, and I must obey those orders. Besides,” he added with a slight bow, “it is a pleasure to protect so lovely a lady.”
“I wonder what he would do to you should you fail in your duty.” Lianna kept walking toward the stables, and the knight easily kept pace with her. “You are frightened of him, are you not?”
“Frightened, my lady?” William sounded amused. “No. But I respect him. I owe him. Why, he has made me his captain-of-arms when I have served him for fewer years than others—like Beorn. He has granted me an estate—farmland and a manor house—when the wars are finished and Blackenstar is secure. I will carry out whatever service he asks of me without hesitation.”
Lianna doubted that Ambrose could inspire loyalty. Fear, yes. That she could imagine. William was merely too wise to say so, however—and besides, no man liked to admit fear of another. She surveyed him closely, but could read only calm in his expression. “The servant woman, Marthe. Do you know her? She is fearful even to speak! I can only imagine what she has suffered in the duke’s employ.”
“Marthe.” Sir William halted before the stable doors, and Lianna did, too, turning to face him. The knight shook his head, his face somber. “No, my lady. You mistake the matter.”
“It is true. She does not speak.”
“Aye, that is true, but not because she is fearful of Duke Ambrose. She is devoted to him. Marthe was attacked—ravaged—when she was a young maid in his father’s court. She worked in the old duke’s household, and one day she was returning from the village with her parcels and was set upon by men traveling along the road. She was grievously hurt, but she recovered—except after that day, and the horrors she experienced, she never spoke again.”
“Oh.” Lianna bit her lip, her heart going out to the silent stick of a woman who had served her meals since she’d arrived. “I see.”
“If it were not for Duke Ambrose, no one knows what might have become of her. He was only a lad of sixteen summers at the time, but he set out to find the men and bring them to justice. Which he did, I might add. He killed them all.”
Lianna sucked in her breath. “I see,” she repeated shakily. Perhaps Ambrose was not such a complete brute as he had been painted. He had cared enough for a servant girl to punish the men who had harmed her. That didn’t fit with the legends told of him from forest to sea.
“And if it weren’t for Ambrose, who knows what would have become of Marthe?” William continued in his quiet way. “She was too ill and skittish to work for some time, and afterward, when she didn’t speak, many might have sent her packing as useless. But Ambrose found a place for her in a manor house where she could serve a gentle and quiet lady. And when he himself became duke, he brought her back to his own household. He has always made certain she had a livelihood, food to eat, shelter, and no one is allowed to mistreat her. I know few men who would take such pains for a servant, but Ambrose is loyal to all those who are loyal to him.”
“Well, yes. It would seem so.” Lianna was too stunned by all she’d heard to think of anything else to say. She needed time, time to mull over what William had told her.
They went into the stables together and he helped her to mount a splendid white mare, then he himself took a dun horse with the thickest mane she had ever seen. Lianna waited until they had ridden out past the gates before she gave a low cry.
“What is wrong, my lady?”
“I have forgotten my gloves, and the air is cold.” She shivered. The air was cold, but her gloves were shoved deep inside the pockets of her velvet cloak. There was no need for William to know that, however.
“Would you kindly go back to the hall and ask Marthe to fetch them for me? If you please?”
The knight hesitated, eyeing her uneasily, but he could hardly tell the duke’s bride to fetch her own gloves. “Perhaps you’d care to ride back within the gates while I do so?” he said at last.
Lianna gave a laugh and flashed him her most brilliant smile. “The guards are right there watching,” she pointed out. “Where do you think I might flee, Sir William, in the twinkling you will be gone? And with the guards to see my every move?”
He warmed under the power of that sunny smile.
“Very well, my lady. I will return, as you say, in a twinkling.”
And I will be gone in a twinkling, Lianna thought, but she kept the bright smile upon her face.
She waited only until he had dismounted in the yard and disappeared inside the castle before kicking the mare and galloping straight for the belt of trees that lined the road.
“My lady! Halt! Halt!” The guards ran after her, calling for her to stop, shouting for Sir William, but she was off like the wind, her hood blowing back, her braid bouncing free, her sights set on the glorious shadowy depths of the forest.
Moments later, she found a curving track that led along a rocky outcropping, and
this she followed, knowing that the rocks would leave no telltale hoofprints for Sir William to follow. Many was the time she had escaped her nurse, her ladies-in-waiting, or one of the soldiers sent to guard her on her expeditions in search of berries or healing herbs. She had long ago mastered all the tricks involved in eluding those who would follow her.
And on this bright, cold day her tricks worked like a charm, just as they always had. In a short time she found herself deep within the shadows of the forest, surrounded by the bare winter trees, her mare picking its way along a rutted path glossy with patches of melting snow.
When she spotted the dull purple roots of umsbar weed straggling beside a rock, she dismounted and began to gather some, careful not to crush them. Looking around, she found kittle as well, peeking out from some dead leaves clustered at the base of a pine, and filled the deep pockets of her cloak. She had just spotted some dead lavender at the rim of a gully when she heard a woman’s scream.
Her head flew up and she listened, her heart thudding. A man’s shout followed, quickly joined by more, and above all, the continuous, bloodcurdling shrieks of the woman.
The fracas came from straight ahead, just beyond a thicket of pines. Leaving her mare, Lianna dashed through the trees at a run, her kid boots making little noise on the forest floor, but when she reached the clearing beyond the trees, she skidded to a halt and her hand groped for the dagger hidden in the folds of her gown.
Three men—outlaws by the look of their filthy, tattered clothes, scarred and cruel faces, and the knives and sticks they brandished—had attacked a peddler’s wagon. The peddler and his gray-haired wife were frantically trying to beat them off as their terrified horse reared and whinnied. Even as she watched, one of the outlaws dashed in and swung a stick at the man, knocking him to the ground.
The woman screamed again as the outlaw arced his blade at her husband. At the last moment he rolled aside, nearly under the horse’s hooves, but the knife slashed his arm and blood spilled into the earth as he howled in agony.