“I don’t want to have anything to do with him,” Auberan de Beaumartre muttered, his gaze darting between the baron near the window and the portly figure across from him.
Fingering the bottom of his goblet, Rennick glanced at Lord Oswald, then smiled at Auberan. “Because he’s part Welsh?”
“Yes! They’re all savages.”
“Savages who have no love for Norman kings or their taxes. Savages who can fight,” Lord Oswald said, his voice a low murmur, but firm and strong and very confident. “And this particular one has even more personal reasons for hating Richard.”
Oswald leaned forward so that his jowled face moved into the flickering candlelight. “He was once as loyal to the king as it is possible for a man to be, but given what happened…” He shrugged and sat back.
“What exactly did happen?” Rennick inquired. “Lovers’ spat?”
“No, and I would keep such suggestions to yourself. Those rumors about the king’s habits are just that—rumors,” Oswald said firmly.
Oswald of Darrelby was the most ruthless person Rennick had ever met or heard of; Auberan, however, was apparently as ignorant of Lord Oswald’s true reputation as the earl of Montclair, for he disregarded the older man’s obvious wish to leave that subject. “Those ‘rumors’ have been going around since Richard was fourteen, so there must be something to them.”
If Auberan wasn’t careful, Oswald would toss him off the battlements with no more thought than another man would flick a fly from his hand.
“That is not important,” Oswald rumbled. “What is important—and what most of the nobles will agree upon—is that we don’t want to pay the exorbitant taxes Richard raises to fight in foreign lands. That is what will unite the different factions, not his personal tastes. Besides, he’s not the only one at court with such tendencies, so condemning him for them may work against us.”
“Nor is he the only one who feels it justified to raise an army and go to the ends of the world to fight,” Rennick pointed out. “Richard had plenty of support for the Crusade.”
“Until the first stories of what was happening came home.” Oswald ticked off the reasons on his plump fingers. “Starvation, camp fever, massacres of unarmed prisoners. Worst of all, he failed to capture Jerusalem, yet the fool still thinks he’s the hero of the ballads sung about him by minstrels and other dolts who don’t know the truth.”
“He’s never even spent an entire year here in the whole of his reign,” Auberan added, “whereas Prince John has rarely left.”
“Because he’s been trying to wrest England from Richard’s rule,” Oswald replied.
“He will be a better ruler than his brother,” Auberan declared.
“He will be more easily intimidated,” Rennick said. “That is what is important to know about John. The barons and other nobles will find it easier to control him, and therefore the taxes will be kept low.”
Oswald nodded. “And that is the point we should make to our Welsh friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” Auberan mumbled. He eyed the baron. “And I don’t think he’s yours, either. Didn’t you see the way he looked at Lady Allis?”
Rennick smiled a small, cool smile. “Let him look.”
Auberan eyed him doubtfully.
“She was playing a woman’s game with me,” Rennick explained, lust filling him as he remembered Allis in his arms. Soon, there would be no more toying with him. Soon, she would be his, in every way. Soon she would discover who was truly the master of Montclair. “She has agreed to be my wife and we will be married before the summer is over.”
“I thought you were jealous,” Auberan said, “and Sir Connor’s ‘accident’ a warning to keep away from her.”
“His lance shattered, that’s all.”
Oswald’s mouth tightened with mounting impatience. “Be that as it may, we should try to win him to our cause. His Norman father was very well regarded by the Welsh as well as the men of the court. Edgar was a very clever fellow—married a Welsh princess and was lax in enforcing the king’s laws, so naturally those barbarians liked him. Now his sons have inherited their loyalty, if no money, and the other Welsh nobles will listen to them. By winning Connor to our side, we will have allies in Wales.”
“We don’t need allies in Wales. What are the Welsh to us?” Auberan protested. “Just a thorn in our side.”
“I am beginning to think we don’t need you, Auberan,” Oswald said in a way that made Rennick’s blood run cold. Auberan might come from a powerful family, but he was an annoying, stupid fellow. The ground at the bottom of the battlements could be the best place for him—another accident, of course.
“How difficult is it to comprehend that the more we have on our side from all parts of Britain, the more likely we are to avoid a charge of treason when Richard is dead?” Oswald demanded. “God’s wounds, man, have you forgotten what happened when that oaf William Rufus was assassinated? No one challenged the story that his death was an accident even though the man who shot him was the finest archer in England, because every single man in England—Norman or Saxon—wanted William Rufus dead.”
Auberan paled. “Are you planning to assassinate the king?”
“What did you think we were planning? A feast?” Oswald snapped.
“I thought…I assumed…”
At a glance from Oswald, Rennick rose and grabbed Auberan’s tunic, hauling him to his feet. “Are you with us, or not?”
“I…of course I am with you, if it can be done as you say, with no repercussions.”
Rennick let him go and Auberan fell back into his chair. “Do you think we would do this if we could not be sure of success? We are going to be cautious and careful, because anything else will be disaster for us all.”
“What about Percival? Does he—?”
“The lad is my squire and does what he is told. That is all he needs to know, for the time being. Later, if we think him worthy, we may invite him to join us in our cause.”
“Regardless of whether or not we have the earl of L’Ouisseaux and his son on our side, we must have more support from the nobility in Wales, and Ireland and the Scots,” Oswald said. He smiled indulgently. “But rest assured, Auberan, you don’t have to be friendly to Sir Connor if you do not wish to be.” He slanted a glance at Rennick. “Nor you, Rennick. Not after you both took pains to insult him. Leave him to me. He knew my brother.” Oswald’s voice hardened and his black eyes glittered in the candlelight. “He was with Osric when he died in the Holy Land. For the present, caution must be our watchword, and what we have discussed goes no further. Are we agreed?”
They both nodded.
“Good. Leave us, Auberan. I have another matter to discuss with Rennick.”
Auberan hesitated.
“Leave us!” Oswald repeated sternly, and this time, Auberan did not stand upon the order of his going.
When Auberan had closed the heavy door behind him, Rennick eyed Oswald. “Must we include that dolt in our plans?”
“His father will keep him in check, and even that fool knows he puts himself at risk if he talks too much.”
“You truly believe we must woo the Welshman to our cause?”
“Yes, and thus I would have been most annoyed if he had died.”
Rennick kept his face a blank mask.
“I would also be very upset if one of my friends is found to have done or ordered any tampering with lances.”
“Naturally.”
Oswald steepled his fat fingers. He wore no jewels, yet he was far wealthier than Rennick, and far, far richer than the king. “As long as you understand me, Rennick. I don’t want this Welshman harmed, at least for the time being, or suspicion about his accident to fall upon you. If he proves resistant to our request to join us, then I shall not care what fate befalls him and you can do what you like.”
Rennick nodded, knowing full well that if Oswald considered him a liability, his climb to power would be thwarted, utterly and completely—and his life likely
ended, too. “Yes, my lord.”
“So, you have finally brought the lady to heel, eh? Or should I say, to bed?”
“To heel, but not yet to bed.”
“Given how you feel about her, I should not be surprised you are so willing to wait, but I confess your patience astonishes me.” The mask of jovial friendliness disappeared. “But now that you have finally succeeded, Rennick, you had better wed and bed her soon. We need your alliance with her father and what that will say to others who hesitate to ally themselves with us. They will take your marriage as a sign of approval from a most respected man, and join us at last. Then we can move.”
As if putting his words into action, Oswald heaved himself out of his chair and poured himself some more wine, while Rennick struggled to contain his anger at being chastised like a child and reminded that he did not command much respect among the nobility of England.
However, he was indeed a patient man, and he could wait to have his vengeance on Oswald. Until then, he would be content to be second to Oswald—which meant that should disaster befall, there would be someone above him to blame.
After taking a sip of wine, Oswald said, “Prince John makes Auberan look like a prodigy. John has already done many stupid things another king would have had him executed for long ago. We must move soon, and I want you firmly allied to Montclair before we do.” He gave Rennick a knowing smirk. “Why, come to think of it, when news of your betrothal to Allis of Montclair reaches our sovereign’s ears, Richard might even wonder if he misjudged you when he did not select you to be in his retinue.”
Rennick didn’t answer as Oswald set down his goblet. “Now I bid you good night, Rennick. It grows late, and my journey here has wearied me.”
Rennick watched Oswald stroll from the solar. Then he slowly surveyed the luxuriously appointed chamber. One day soon, all this would be his. He would be rich, he would be powerful, and he would have the woman he had desired for so long.
He would be respected.
And Richard would be dead.
Chapter 7
Connor moaned. His mouth was as dry as the dust of the desert and his head ached like a punishment for his sins. As he opened his eyes, a pain like the devil’s pitchfork pierced his left shoulder.
Drawing in a quivering breath, he surveyed his surroundings. Although it was dark, he could make out his bossed wooden chest that normally contained his armor and few personal possessions. His three-legged camp stool was near the small basket of apples he kept for Demetrius. His hauberk, gambeson and surcoat were neatly folded and placed upon the stool, with his helmet, sword and belt on top of the pile.
He had no memory of being brought to his tent and put on his cot. Somebody must have carried him here. Those two soldiers who had questioned him about Richard, perhaps.
He looked around, trying to gauge the time of day. The east side of his tent was brighter, which told him it was dawn, or shortly after. He had slept through the afternoon and the night, so he had not eaten since yesterday morning.
Closing his eyes, he heard again the bone-jarring crunch as his lance shattered and relived the instant anguish of the collision. His eyes still shut as if fearing what he might see, he raised his right hand to gingerly feel the bandages and sling around his left shoulder.
He remembered the flare of recognition in Lady Allis’s brilliant brown eyes when he had entered the tent, and his relief that she seemed more concerned for him than angry. He recalled the way she had undressed him. He could scarce draw breath as she started to undo his sword belt, and it was not just because of his physical pain.
Later, the agony overwhelmed every other sensation, until the draft she gave him took effect. After that, his memories became disjointed…vague…like the Welsh mountains in the mist.
Her gentle, graceful hands. The little wrinkle of concentration between her shapely brows. Her soft lips pressed together, then parting, as if opening for him in anticipation of his kiss. Then the dreams. Incredible, exciting, tantalizingly vivid dreams.
He had told Lady Allis how much he admired her hair, and how he had wanted to make her smile. Her response had been a slow, seductive smile of pleasure and wonder, as if she had been waiting years for a man to say such a thing.
Half afraid of her rebuke, yet inspired by that smile, he had dared to lean close to her and brush his lips over hers. Softly, gently he kissed her, tasting the merest hint of wine and honey on her mouth. Miraculously, she did not protest, but slid her arms about his neck and drew him closer.
Warmth had turned quickly to heat as their kiss deepened. He could not say at whose insistence it began to change, nor did he care. All he knew was that now they were kissing with unbridled, fervent passion. Mouth upon mouth, tongues entwining, he had never known such intoxicating kisses.
He held her so close, her breasts, her hips, all of her seemed pressed against him as if they were as good as naked.
Then, suddenly, they were. His whole body trembled as her desire-hardened nipples touched his bare chest, and his arousal met the tousled hair between her thighs. With a sigh, she arched back, and he wound his hand in the glorious mane of her blond hair before trailing a row of heated kisses down the curve of her chin, her neck, her collarbone. Cupping one luscious breast, then the other, he swirled his tongue about the peaks, the soft sounds of her excitement adding to his own.
They said no words, and needed none as the tension of their need and desire grew. She pushed him back and he fell onto a bed—a wondrous strange bed, round and soft, covered in silken sheets of rich ruby-red shot through with golden threads. Pillows of royal blue and cream cushioned his fall. Above, a canopy of white silk so thin it was almost transparent moved in the breeze scented with roses and spices. Around the bed were fine lamps of burnished gold, their flickering flames lighting marble pillars and tall vases covered in intricate patterns of bold, bright colors. A carpet covered the mottled marble floor and a door nearby opened to the starry night. It was as if they were in the palace of Saladin himself, as he had so often imagined it when the nights of his journey were long and lonely.
More beautiful than the room and the stars, though, was Allis. Her long blond hair waved about her perfect body as she stood in the lamplight, watching him.
He held out his hand and she took it, her long, graceful fingers curving around his broad, callused ones. Lithe and supple as a cat, she crawled upon the amazing bed and stretched out beside him.
Carefully, slowly, as if she were made of the most rare and precious glass and one false move could shatter her or send her fleeing from him, he touched her. She smiled, but her body trembled, too, as if she were both willing and afraid.
“I will not harm you, my lady,” he murmured as he leaned upon his elbow and looked down at her, his shoulder no longer painful. “I will never harm you.”
“I know.” She brushed a lock of his hair back from his shoulder. “My Samson.”
Her arm curved about his neck and she drew him down, closer and closer, until they kissed again, mouths parted and tongues lightly teasing, tasting, touching.
He moved down to once more pleasure her breasts. “I want to love you. I want to excite you. I want to pleasure you.”
“Yes,” she sighed, her breath coming in short and swift gasps. She writhed as he flicked his tongue over her pebbled nipples. His hands roved over her hips and between her thighs, readying her. Arousing her. He would be easy and gentle, tender and yet as passionate as ever he had been in his life.
Instinctively she parted her legs, and in the next instant, he was somehow between them, raised on his hands and looking into her face. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, she might have been asleep, except that her body undulated like a reed upon a wave.
“May I love you, Allis?” he whispered, his whole being crying out to do just that, but part of him fearful that she would not want him. That she would open her eyes and in them he would see a look of revulsion that would remind him that he was disgraced and cast out.
&
nbsp; She did open her eyes—and there he saw not just passion and desire, but need and understanding, as if she knew all that he was and had done, and accepted him nonetheless.
“Allis, I will love you as no man has ever loved you,” he vowed as he began to gently push inside her warm moistness. “With my heart and my body, with all that I am or ever will be.”
She surrounded him and welcomed him. She accepted him and loved him. Their bodies united, he was made whole again.
Then he felt the ropes of his cot through the thin straw mattress beneath him.
His eyes fluttered open. There was no oriental canopy of silk above him, but only the fabric of his tent. He lay not on silken sheets and cushions, but on a straw mattress and worn pillow.
He sat up. He must have nodded off, to dream again of loving Allis of Montclair.
As joy had washed over him in his dream, so despair came upon him now. It was as if God had given him a vision of heaven, only to allow him to awake in hell, and one of his own making.
Because once, he could have aspired to gain the love and hand of such a woman, before his pride and vanity, and that of his king, had brought about his downfall.
He ran his hand over his perspiring brow and tried to dismiss the notion that those dreams were deliberately sent to torment him and remind him of what he had lost. More likely they were caused by the potion she had given him.
He frowned. At least he thought all those disjointed memories were only the products of a drug-induced sleep. Telling her about her hair and wanting to make her smile…that seemed different. More real, much less a dream.
No, they were all dreams. They had to be.
He rolled over on his right side and got to his feet. Dizzy, he swayed a moment, then sat heavily. Dreams or not, coming to Montclair was a mistake. Yes, there were rich men here, and great potential for ransom. Yes, he needed money because he had vowed that he would earn a sum equal to all that his father had spent to send him on the Crusade and then some, enough to get his family’s estate out of debt and provide a good dowry for Cordelia—but now look where he was. His left arm all but useless, his lance shattered, and a fascinating woman perhaps thinking him some kind of beast.
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