Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  The women had come to her asking for help. Rea­soning that there was safety in numbers, and hoping that her rank gave added protection, she'd kept the women by her side as much as possible for the last two evenings.

  The men were lewd, filthy, and vicious, but she preferred their presence on the far side of the room to any sight of King John. So far she'd been lucky. He'd been at Passfair for three days and she'd yet to catch sight of him. She knew she was lucky to be a small fish in a small pond. Her duties were unimportant, her rank only that of a knight's widow. The chances were good there would be no interaction between herself and the king of England. Her fear of doing something to change the future was beginning to abate.

  Stephan and Sibelle had been called to the pavil­ions the first night, along with all the other nobles staying at Passfair. The young couple returned very late. Jane sat in the bower waiting for them, telling herself there was nothing to be worried about. It was just a royal summons to exchange polite words. Very chivalrous, really. Stephan came in pale with sup­pressed anger. Sibelle's lips were swollen. There were unshed tears in her eyes. The couple didn't elaborate on their dinner with Cousin John, but Jane assumed he'd made a pass at the girl. Since then, Sibelle had kept to the bower, claiming illness. Sir Stephan was having an easier time of it with his wife tucked away. He had no trouble moving with confidence in the society of warriors and courtiers in the king's train.

  Jane hadn't seen Sir Daffyd since just before the king's arrival. Rumor had it he was quartered, with a willing lady, in one of the pavilions. Irritably she thought that rumor could go hang.

  She had not been able to talk Jonathan into leav­ing. He said he thought he might like to see a king. Like herself, the Templar stayed mostly in the back­ground, spending some time with Stephan at the royal camp, but more time in Passfair and Hwit with the villagers. She limited herself to the castle as much as possible.

  It wasn't so bad, she repeated to herself, bunching the cloth she was embroidering nervously in her hands. The supper tables were being set up; the noise from the men was getting louder. The hounds of hell, Jane thought, watching them through suspiciously narrowed eyes.

  It was bad if you were an outlaw. The hunt was going well. Three outlaws had so far been brought in alive. It was thought at least two more had been wounded but crawled off to die in the forest. Jane felt sorry for the ones brought in alive. She knew what crimes the men were guilty of, but she didn't think their crimes were any excuse for the pleasure the hunters got from flaying the men alive. She'd heard a great deal of screaming from the camp. She was very glad she hadn't seen any of it.

  She wished the dinner hour were over so she could take the girls out to the sleeping pallets she'd had placed in the kennels. The girls didn't mind sharing the dogs' vermin, and the dogs were proving to be very protective of their nighttime companions. The routiers had yet to discover the big deerhounds were about as fierce as Winnie the Pooh. At least they growled a good game, Jane thought. Maybe they would take on someone threatening one of their humans. She just hoped nobody got drunk and randy enough to test the dogs' limits.

  She sighed as Bertram came to fetch the serving women. He gave her a regretful look, but there was, after all, work to be done.

  Michael, Melisande shadowing him, came down the stairs carrying his lute as Bertram shepherded the girls away. Michael had been in the bower entertain­ing his lady. Now he'd come down to perform his duties in the hall. Jane wasn't too frightened for the boy around the fighters. So far none of them had shown any interest in young boys. He played lively music for them, and it didn't hurt that he had the large Melisande constantly at his side. The men greet­ed Michael's arrival with a cheer. His round face split in a wide grin at some of the crude words of welcome he received.

  Jane stood, intending to retreat to the bower her­self, but turned back at the stairs when a loud com­motion erupted behind her. The emotion and noise level of the shouting changed abruptly. She turned, expecting to see another bloody fight.

  Instead she saw a retinue of gorgeously dressed men and women entering through the screen. They were trailing behind a short, flabby, dark-haired man dressed all in shades of green. He wore a great many gold chains with medallions around his neck, and sev­eral rings decorated each hand. He was greeting the routiers with smiles and compliments on their hunt­ing skills. They were loudly praising his might, on the field and in the bedchamber. Sir Daffyd and Sir Stephan were on either side of the man, both looking down on him warily. He was, of course, John, king of England, count of this, duke of that—most of it real estate in France he didn't own anymore thanks to his own bungling incompetence. And a little help from his cousin Arthur of Brittany and the king of France.

  Jane's first reaction was to run up the stairs. She went with it.

  "My lady," she said, bursting in to find Sibelle ensconced behind a big embroidery hoop, "the king!"

  Sibelle jumped up, knocking over the embroidery stand. "Where?" She looked as if she thought he might be hiding under the loom.

  And she was acting as if he might be, too, Jane chided herself. She waited for her racing heart to slow down a bit before explaining. "He just came into the hall."

  "What's he doing here?"

  Jane spread her hands before her. "Honoring your house with his presence?"

  Sibelle looked unhappy. "I'm very honored." She helped Alais right the fallen frame. "As long as I don't have to see him."

  "Poor lamb," Alais comforted her.

  "It's Stephan who's the poor lamb," Sibelle retort­ed. "He must spend his days and most of his nights in company with the man. He's crude, and he's ugly."

  "Calm yourself," Jane said firmly. She looked

  around as as if to imply someone might be listening. "And mind your tongue."

  Sibelle looked down contritely. "You're right, of course. I don't know what I'm saying."

  As she finished speaking, Stephan entered. He came to Sibelle and took her hands in his. They kissed, then he said regretfully, "Since you are too ill to come to the king, he's decided to come to you at Passfair."

  Sibelle's eyes widened with fear. "What?"

  "I've told him you might be well enough to partake of the evening meal with him," Stephan went on firm­ly. He obviously wanted to get this little speech over with. And he didn't want to be argued with. "You will join us in the hall for dinner." He swept his gaze to Jane. "You and your ladies with you."

  "My lord ..."

  He clasped the girl fiercely to him for a few moments, stroking her back and shoulders. "It's only for one evening," he assured her. "Smile and be silent at his flattering words. I will be beside you, and it is I who will bring you to our bed tonight. Tonight and every other night, my heart."

  Jane witnessed this display of protective affection in a haze of chilling apprehension. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She balled her hands into fists, wanting to beat the stones of the wall in frustration. She stood still as a statue, cold dread twisting painfully through her. It settled like a lead weight on her mind as the women cried out, then began bustling back and forth between bower and bedchamber.

  "Lamb!" Alais cried, bringing Sibelle's blue silk wedding dress out of a clothes chest. "You must wear your best kirtle. You must go into the hall as proud and well dressed as any of the court ladies below."

  Sibelle broke from Stephan's protection to round on her serving woman. "Nonsense!" she hissed angrily. "Beautiful is the last thing I need to be tonight. I don't want to hear murmurs of how much I resemble the fair Rosamunde, flower of his father's heart," she mocked in a high-pitched singsong. "He's no troubadour, our lord John." She grabbed the dress from the stunned woman's hands.

  She rounded on Jane, a calculating look in her eyes. "Let me borrow your yellow kirtle. I can bunch the extra fabric up well enough with the purple belt."

  "You look awful in yellow, lamb," Alais protested.

  Marguerite came forward, touching Alais on the shoulders. "The point exactly, dearest."
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  Alais's troubled expression cleared. She threw back her head and laughed.

  "The dress?" Sibelle asked Jane.

  Jane pulled her thoughts from her own worries long enough to reply, "It's got a wine stain on the

  skirt."

  "So much the better," Sibelle answered. "Mar­guerite," she went on, "do you think that if we fas­tened the barbette a little loosely around my chin, it might make it look fatter?"

  Sir Stephan stood back, crossed his arms, gazing in proud wonder at his wife. "Hurry and get the dress, Jehane," he ordered his chatelaine.

  Jane was loaded down with a sense of personal doom, but she could still appreciate the cleverness of Sibelle's efforts to frighten off a king. She gave Stephan a conspiratorial nod, then hurried down to her room.

  Sibelle was ready to face the king a few minutes

  after Jane returned with the stained overdress. Alais was right about the color not suiting the girl's pink complexion. Veiling covered her glorious hair, and her small face seemed rounder. She didn't look awful, not like the girl who'd come to Passfair not so long ago, but she didn't look great, either.

  "You'll do," Stephan decided when he saw the fin­ished product. He stepped up to her and kissed her forehead. "And I love you," he proclaimed in front of the other women. He shook a teasing finger at her and gave her his amazing, wide smile. "Just don't look like this after the king's gone."

  "Never," she promised, eyes shining into his. Then she lowered them demurely, holding out her hand. "I'm ready now, my lord."

  Jane trailed behind, the last person out of the room, the last person down to the hall. Stephan and Sibelle were already seated at the high table. The king occupied the chair in the center, Sibelle was seated to his right, Stephan was farther down, some­where near the end of his own table. Jane was glad there were too many people of high rank present for there to be any room for her lowly self at the high table. She ducked her head and hurried to a place at a nearly empty trestle set up in the back of the room near the screen wall. It was just across from the routiers' table, but it seemed safer than somewhere closer to the king's sight.

  As soon as she was seated with her back to the high table, she began to relax. From her shadowed corner, she could survey the crowded room without being noticed. Bertram, as usual, had the serving of the meal well in hand. The girls were assigned to the higher tables. Michael and another lad, the swine­herd, she thought, were bustling around the routiers' table, keeping them in meat and ale. Melisande and her pups, grown to about half her size, were roaming the hall scavenging scraps. Jane did not look up toward the high table. She did, however, spare a fleet­ing smile at Sibelle's ingenuity. She figured the girl was going to be okay.

  "You're lovely when you smile," a chocolate-rich voice said from her left.

  She looked up and up. "And you're very tall when you loom over me," she answered, still amused enough by Sibelle's ruse to give Daffyd a friendly answer. Besides, she was happy to see him. She couldn't help it, and for once she didn't try to fight it.

  He immediately threw his long legs over the bench and took a seat beside her. "Better?" he asked, turn­ing a winning smile on her. She nodded. "You seem in good spirits. Enjoying the king's visit, lady?"

  She gave him a sarcastic look. Bertram came by and piled both their trenchers high with bread and meat mixed with an unrecognizable greenish-gray vegetable mush. It did smell strongly of onions. What didn't? She poked at the concoction with her spoon, then took a bite of coarse black bread. She wondered what the high table was being served.

  Daffyd set to his meal with gusto. After washing down a chunk of bread with a swig of ale, he looked at her plate meaningfully. "You don't eat enough," he complained. "Though I admit I like you long and willowy."

  She ignored the compliment. He'd been hanging out with courtiers. They always talked like that. "And I must admit I don't much like English fare," she told him. "I

  much prefer the food of my own land." She pushed her plate away, then folded her hands before her on the table and looked up at him imploringly. "You wouldn't have any baklava with you, I don't suppose?"

  He chuckled and shook his head. "I've heard of the sweet, though," he answered. "It's nuts and honey in a pastry, isn't it?" She nodded. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'll have a talk with the king's cook."

  She supposed he was joking, but the thrill of plea­sure she felt at his thoughtful words was pleasantly undeniable. He was smiling, his eyes full of amuse­ment and something unreadable. He reached out toward her face,' his large hand stopping just short of touching her. "May I?" he asked, his rich voice quiet­ly intent.

  She could see the callused palm and elegant fingers from the comer of her eye, feel the warmth of his skin on her cheek. She moistened her dry lips with her tongue as she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Instead of touching her, he flipped her veil back a single fold. "There," he said. "I'd almost forgotten what you look like. Sometimes it's hard to really get a good look at anyone in these dark buildings," he went on. His voice was chocolate and cream when he added, "I like you in sunlight more than in shadows, Jehane."

  Jane felt his words as much as heard them. He used his wonderful voice to caress her, making her feel alive and beautiful and excited. She moistened dry lips again, almost wishing the touch came from his lips instead of her tongue. His hand moved to hover above hers as they rested on the table surface.

  Stop this! Stop if right now, a stem voice in her mind demanded. Think of where you are! Think of who's here. This is no time to lose your head to a skilled seducer. Get out of here. Right now. An affair with a Welsh mercenary is the last thing you need.

  Oh, shut up, her heart and her body screamed back at the voice of reason.

  He leaned closer, and she didn't try to pull away. She hardly noticed the shouting from the rentiers at the next table as they jumped to their feet, hardly saw the green-clad figure suddenly moving in their midst. But Daffyd did. As the group of ruffians gathered close about the king, he pulled away from her. Spin­ning on the bench, he rose to "his feet. Jane stared up at the long form standing above her once more, so drunk with his nearness, so bereft at this sudden abandonment, that for a moment she wasn't aware of what was going on around her.

  It was Daffyd's fiercely whispering, "The king!" that brought her back to her senses.

  Jane almost jumped out of her skin at the shock. The king! She bolted to her feet and tried to squeeze herself behind Daffyd's wide-shouldered form as a shield. He gave her an odd look but didn't try to move away. Jane peeped out from behind his stalwart arm, hoping the king wouldn't turn her way. She felt safe enough behind Daffyd's sheltering form to risk a look at the king.

  What was he doing down here below the salt, any­way? She thought he was frowning furiously, the red flush on his face from anger. Looking across the room, she saw Sibelle was no longer at the high table and decided that the lady of the manor had retreated to the safety of her bower. Now the disappointed king of England was looking for some low amusement with about the lowest men of the thirteenth century.

  He moved, laughing boisterously, and the hard men trailed him like puppies, toward the hearth. He had his arm around the routier commander, Louvrecaire. Louvrecaire made a comment and a lewd gesture, and the king laughed harder. Louvrecaire called for wine. Michael rushed forward with a jug too big for him to carry.

  Jane knew it was going to happen. As she watched, the accident seemed to unfold before her in slow motion. The scrawny boy's foot slipped on some wet straw, he tumbled forward, trying desperately to keep hold of the wine jug. Dark liquid arced out of the jar's mouth as Michael fell flat on his face at the king's feet. The king's green surcoat was soaked from chest to hem with purple wine brought to Passfair as a wedding gift. The half-drunken routiers laughed, loud and long.

  The sound must have been galling to the fat little man who held all their lives in his hands. He took it out on the prostrate boy, drawing back his foot
and kicking him viciously in the ribs. The child cried out in pain. He curled up in a tight ball. The king kicked him again.

  Appalled, Jane started forward automatically. Something hard as steel held her back.

  It was Melisande who came to the boy's defense, rocketing forward through the crowd to stand, teeth bared and growling, hackles up, over the whimpering child as the king drew back his foot one more time.

  In the room's sudden silence, the king drew a sword. One moment the dog was bravely defending Michael. The next she was a blood-covered heap on the rushes, struck down and forgotten. The king turned back to his crowd of cronies.

  They were laughing again, but with the king, not at him.

  23

  The world turned red around Jane. Fire and ice came together as a terrible, killing rage rushing up to drown out her reason. The focus of her rage came nearer. She lunged for him, wanting only to scream and strike out and pay him back for the pain he so casually caused. She lunged but couldn't move for­ward. She was caught, tight bands of steel wrapped around her middle. She struggled in silent fury, fling­ing her head back against a mail-sheathed wall.

  A voice in her ear hissed, "Stop it. Calm down, girl. There's nothing you can do." The words did nothing to soothe her. She kicked back at the leg of the man holding her. He didn't budge. He didn't release her. He just murmured soft words she didn't hear in her ear.

  She jerked her head away, and as she turned it, her eyes met those of King John. Little, covetous eyes, she thought. Pig's eyes. They drank in the sight of her, and she almost spat at them. The king stepped closer, his hot eyes raking her head to foot. A slow smile

  spread across his bloated features. Jane tried to pull away from Daffyd again.

  He hauled her into a tighter embrace. "Excuse my lady," he said to the king. "She was fond of the animal."