Red Adam's Lady

by Grace Ingram

  His arms closed on her again, and her belly quailed so that she thought she would vomit where she stood, but the little knife was in her sleeve and she knew she had the mastery. “I am no man’s whore!” she declared.

  “Sweet Julitta, with me you’ll find true delight. Here’s our vengeance, cuckolding Red Adam, and I’ll teach you the love you have desired since first we met.” He swung her round and pulled her towards the heap of bracken forethoughtfully piled against the wall that leaked daylight around the rotten withies, from which the chinking clay had cracked and fallen.

  “Take your hands from me!” she flared. The words of the harridan who had instructed her in the use of edged steel sounded in her ears. “Never threaten a man, don’t let him know you’ve a blade until it’s under his ribs, and never strike but to kill.” At the last resort she would do just that, but only if she could save her honor in no other way. She did not want a man’s blood on her hands, not even that of the Ladies’ Delight, and she had not grown up in an army’s tail without learning a trick or two.

  “You little tease!” he exclaimed, still grinning, still armored in his vanity. “Must a man marry you to enjoy your favors, puss? I’ll make you Lady of Crossthwaite yet, but we’re wasting our joyous hour, Julitta.” He closed his hold, and she shifted her feet slightly to be sure her skirts would not impede her legs.

  Hooves clattered outside, a young voice called, “My lord!” and he checked. His hold slackened, and she jerked free. A tall shadow ducked under the ragged thatch, blocking the entrance, and the voice said eagerly, “It’s sure, Lord Humphrey—” and halted.

  A lanky boy he was, stamped with the Lorismond seal; red head, bony nose, prominent cheekbones and wide mouth. He could have been Red Adam’s younger brother, or, even more surely, old Maurice’s son, for he had the blue eyes the old lecher had passed on to his bastards. This was the boy who claimed to be his rightful son, and whoever his dam had been no one would have denied his sire.

  He gaped blankly at Julitta, glanced past her at the eloquent heap of bracken and back to the man and girl. His eyes rounded like a startled child’s, and bright blood burned up his throat to his hair. “I—did not—” he stammered in confusion, backing a little.

  Humphrey grinned, but his voice was edged with annoyance. “You’re untimely come, Lord Geoffrey—”

  “Most timely, indeed,” Julitta said firmly, and tried to pass him. A hard hand snatched her back.

  “The lady—the lady seems unwilling—” the lad stammered, staring uncertainly from one to the other.

  “She’s feigning coy to heat my ardor,” snapped Humphrey brutally. “What do you know of women, you fledgling monk? Leave us to it, instead of bleating—”

  A screech startled them all, and she wrenched free. Round the building, yowling like a scalded cat and swinging a knotty branch for a makeshift club, came Alain. He hauled his stocky dun to a turf-tearing halt, bowling aside the red lad. Humphrey yelled and snatched at his swordhilt; Alain lunged over the dun’s neck, ramming the club into his belly. All the wind gushed out of him in an anguished grunt, and he went down writhing. The doorway was blocked; Alain backed his horse and smashed with all his force at the rotten wall. Clay flew wide, the withies burst apart, two more blows broke out half the hut’s side and set the whole structure reeling, and Julitta dived through the gap, out under the noses of three scared horses and an open-mouthed Ivar.

  Alain crowded his dun against Folie and dropped his own reins to grab hers close to the bit and force her to stand. Ivar rolled frantically from under the hooves, and the club menaced him. A bellow of wrath and pain from within the hut spurred Julitta; she flung herself astride, her skirts flying, caught the reins and hauled savagely to bring the terrified mare’s head down. Alain grinned, loosed his hold and wrenched the dun round on his haunches.

  “Stop them!” Humphrey, gray-faced and bent double, had staggered to the gap and was yelling at Ivar. “Hold her, fool!”

  Ivar scrambled up. “Run, m’ lady!” he yelled, as Julitta kicked her heels into Folie’s barrel and slackened the reins so that she fled as if winged. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Ivar snatch free the tethers, bounce into his own saddle, deal Humphrey’s chestnut a cut with the reins that sent him thundering up the slope into the woods, and follow him at a run. Humphrey lurched mouthing through the gap after him, and as he reeled against the shattered wall the hovel shuddered, the wall collapsed outwards, and the thatch subsided upon his head and bore him to the earth. Her last glimpse was of the redhaired boy, gaping helplessly; then she reserved her attention for Folie’s footing.

  They had regained the Crossthwaite turnoff before Julitta checked the mare and drew her firmly to a walk, though she seemed eager to gallop all the way back to Brentborough. She snorted and sidled, tossing her head and rolling white-rimmed eyes, and Alain, pulling his own sweating dun a little behind, spoke censoriously.

  “She’s no mount for a girl to handle, m’ lady.”

  “She runs as if the devil had his pitchfork at her rump, and today that’s served well,” Julitta replied. She turned in the saddle. “So have you, and I thank you with all my heart.”

  He shook his head, reddening. “God’s Death, m’ lady, if I went back to Lord Adam wi’out you I’d be lucky to get hung!”

  “Lord Adam, with me, is deeply in your debt.”

  He flushed a darker red, but his bold gaze met hers unabashed. “Happen you’ll not hold it against me no more, m’ lady, that I was once too free wi’ my tongue?”

  “I’ll forgive you. You’re an idle scoundrel and you’d rather escort a lady than fork dung—”

  “Show me t’man ’d rather fork dung than escort a lady!”

  She laughed, suddenly understanding the wenches who strewed his way. “Speaking of tongues, keep yours behind your teeth. If word of this attempt escapes, Lord Adam will tear it from your jaws.”

  He looked sharply at her. “Aye, m’ lady. A mort o’ scandal—it won’t be me fouls your name.”

  For a good quarter-mile no more was said. Julitta’s ears strained for movement in the woods; she hoped that Ivar would emerge from them to join her. Disappointment filled her as she realized that he would not come. Her service had cost him dearly. Once more he was a masterless man and a fugitive, and Humphrey was a vindictive man who would hunt him down to hang him for a horsethief. There was no way by which she could reach him, nothing she could do to help him.

  “M’ lady, how’d yon whoreson hound know to meet you back there without some Judas passed t’ word?”

  “How, indeed? It will be enlightening if anyone betrays knowledge of that meeting.”

  “If—oh, aye, m’ lady.” However seldom he bothered to exercise it, the Lorismond intelligence lived in him. “I’ll keep me lugs lifting,” he offered. “T’ traitor ’d look right well on a rope’s end.” Marveling, she realized that this idle rogue was, for no reason she could guess at, her man. “M’ lady, that boy—?”

  “Another son of your father’s, surely. But out of which mother?”

  “And why kept secret? He never hid none o’ them he got on serving girls.”

  “No,” She looked at him with some respect. Another thought came to her; he must be six or seven and twenty. “Do you remember his lady who was lost?”

  “Aye, m’ lady. But t’ rightful heir ’d never be hid. He can’t be hers!”

  “She was killed.” Everything she learned made her more sure of that.

  “He never murdered her, m’ lady! Never! Don’t you believe that.”

  “She cannot be alive.”

  “Lady Julitta, he never lifted hand to a woman in his life. Never so much as clouted me mother, God rest her, and a sillier gowk—No. Soft wi’ ‘em. Couldn’t pass by a sightly lass. Soft as pig’s grease. That’s the sort has his way wi’ ‘em. He never killed her.”

  She believed him. Against all reason, all evidence, she believed he spoke the exact truth. Murder had been done, and Lord Mau
rice had known it. “Who did?” she asked, and in silence they stared at each other.

  12

  Julitta and Alain crossed the drawbridge almost on the heels of another party, and drew rein among a throng of idlers gathering to an ominous spectacle. She picked out the participants from her elevation; Sir Brien, retribution on horseback; Godric half-drunk and blustering between two archers, his arms bound; the innkeeper grey-faced with fear, his wrists corded to a soldier’s saddle, and a grimy woodcutter jellied with dread similarly secured. His donkey, flicking long ears at the crowd, suddenly loosed a nerve-jarring bray, and Julitta saw in the wicker panniers on his back damning evidence, a forequarter of pork and a great piece of beef flank. She thrust Folie through the jostling spectators, compelling her to obedience though she jibbed and sidled. The woodcutter, in panic at thought of a noose about his windpipe, screeched his own innocence.

  “I never knowed nowt, m’ lady! I never knowed they was thieving! I only taken t’ stuff as they bid me! Oh m’ lady, me good lady, ’tweren’t no blame o’ mine!”

  Godric spat in his face. “Whoreson liar! Had thi share, tha did!”

  The crowd gabbled, swaying back and forth, and Alain came up alongside on his steady dun as they pressed close, to force them back from Folie when she tried to plunge.

  “Silence!” Julitta cried, and to her secret surprise was instantly obeyed. “Back!” The throng retreated, leaving Sir Brien, his men and the conspirators in the center of their ring. “Sir Brien?”

  He saluted her. “My lady, my men and I kept watch on Godric as you bade us. When the woodcutter brought faggots for the ovens Godric placed flesh from the kitchen in the empty panniers, under stale bread and broken meats. Roger and Eric will bear witness to that. We followed the woodcutter from the castle and took him at the inn, in the act of handing over the flesh to Herbert the innkeeper. There are five of us to testify to that.”

  “A lie!” snarled Godric, his brow greasy with the sweat of fear. “I give him nowt but kitchen leavings, that I’ve full right to bestow.”

  “Kitchen leavings?” repeated Julitta, and signed to one of the soldiers to lift the pork and beef from the ass’s panniers and hold them for all to see. A gasp went up from the crowd, and she turned sternly on the woodcutter.

  He waited for no question. “I did as he bid me—I took t’ flesh to Herbert at t’ inn—but I swear to you by Our Lady I never knowed ’twas thieving, noble lady.” He would have plumped down on his knees but the tether prevented him, and at his distressful wail in her ears Folie danced sideways with upflung head. Julitta reined her in sharply, and Alain swung from his saddle and moved to take her bridle at need.

  “Hidden under kitchen leavings? You knew.” Her rejection struck him speechless. She turned grimly on the innkeeper, who was of harder stuff.

  “I bought what was offered me,” he said sullenly. “There’s no crime in that, m’ lady.”

  “To buy in open market, no.” Julitta demolished that specious defence. “To receive in secret what’s sent in secret, that’s conspiring all three of you to rob your lord.” The crowd was hushed as though she were a judge pronouncing sentence, and with an odd shock she realized that indeed that function was hers, delegated by her husband with all else. Lifting her gaze from the three criminals, she saw the nods of agreement, Brien’s approval, dismayed alarm among the scullions, the men-at-arms’ respect. At one side the girl Thyra drew breath with a croaking sob and stared up with wild eyes, and Constance set an arm about her.

  Julitta squared her shoulders. The responsibility of life or death was a chilling weight. She surveyed the three; the woodcutter despicably craven, the innkeeper maintaining his hardihood, Godric invincibly surly. He had committed his depredations unchallenged until he reckoned them hallowed by usage into his customary right; there was no repentance in him. Her hesitation was a barely perceptible pause before decision.

  “You robbed Lord Adam. You shall go before him for judgment. Bestow them in the cells.”

  The guards moved briskly, a pair to each prisoner. Sir Brien dismounted to supervise. Grooms led away the horses. Julitta remained in the saddle, above the bustle, listening with unmoved face to Godric’s curses. Comment and speculation buzzed through the crowd. One voice wondered audibly whether Lord Adam would swing them from his gallows or content himself by lopping their right hands, and the woodcutter sagged whimpering between his guards.

  “No!” shrieked Thyra, breaking from Constance’s hold and plunging clumsily at Julitta. “You shall not—bitch—devil—it’s all spite—because he’s my brother—jealous because Lord Adam favored me!” A man grabbed her and recoiled with a yelp, blood leaping; red-streaked steel gleamed in her grip. Julitta reined Folie aside; the mare squealed and flung up her head. The crazed wench stabbed, reaching high over the saddle bow to gut her, and she struck hand and knife aside. The point scored Folie’s rump, and Julitta straddled a fury. A kick sent the girl spinning; then the palfrey was rearing up with forehooves flailing, shrieking outrage. Men scattered. Julitta clung grimly. Alain’s face and upflung arms were at her thigh; his open mouth yelled something she did not hear; the crupper jarred her spine as Folie bucked, twisted, bucked, reared again. Hands gripped girdle and knee and dragged, hauling her from the saddle as Folie towered back and up; then the bright arches of steel drove down to shatter her. Bone crunched, warm wetness spattered her face, the earth jarred her side and a heavy weight flattened her.

  A clamor of voices filled her ears. The inert body across her own jolted and lifted away; an arm passed under her shoulders and heaved her up, while a distracted voice exclaimed, “My lady! My lady!” in her ear. Someone was screaming steadily and witlessly. She gulped for breath, found a man’s shoulder behind her head, put up her hand to her face and brought it away stickily red. The shock cleared her senses. She blinked up into Brien’s horrified face, past his head to two appalled soldiers staring at something beside her. She twisted to her knees beside Alain, sprawled with upturned face, his hair soaking scarlet and his eyes gazing blankly at the sun.

  She stiffened. The blood had almost ceased to run, was blackening into clots as she looked, and through it she could see the crescent-shaped wound crushed into his left temple and the brain spilling through it. She reached out a shaking hand and closed his eyes. “Lord, have mercy!” she whispered aloud. Then Sir Brien’s arm was about her again, and his anxious voice in her ears.

  “My lady, my lady, you’re not hurt? Dear God, that mad bitch—she didn’t—”

  Julitta shook her head and climbed unsteadily to her feet. She was trembling in every muscle, and her knees were unstable under her, so that she was thankful for the knight’s arm and leaned dizzily on his strength. “Alain—”

  “Poor gallant fellow—but he saved you—you’d have been trampled but he shielded you—killed instantly—”

  She stood shaking, gazing down at his body. Violent death she had seen many times, but this man had given his life for hers, had gone from her in that instant’s unhesitant valor as she had just learned to value him—gone before God’s judgment with all his sins upon him. But the Lord Christ had spoken words she recalled about those who laid down life for love or duty; she trusted God to deal mercifully with Alain for that sacrifice.

  “Send for the priest,” she commanded, recovering control of her voice. “And his kin—what kin had he? There must be Masses said for his soul. And this night he shall lie before the altar.”

  Someone spread a blanket on the trampled earth. Two archers lifted the dead man on to it, and one knelt and with rough piety straightened his limbs and folded his hands, before they covered him and carried him away. Others had caught and brought back the struggling mare, wild with the scent of blood in her nostrils; Brien’s angry gesture dismissed her to the stables. The forgotten prisoners were hustled away.

  Only then did Julitta give heed to the mindless screams that had not ceased since first she had become aware of them. She freed herself from Brie
n’s hold and turned to Thyra. The girl was crouched on the ground, her hands on her belly and her head thrown back, howling like a bereaved dog. Constance hovered over her, holding her by the shoulders and trying to coax her into quiet. The donkey pattered forward and brayed again. Julitta felt a crazed giggle rising in her, and as she fought it the nightmare steadied to reality.

  Brien slapped the girl’s face, halting her in mid-howl. “Murderess! You’ve killed your child’s father!”

  She blinked at him and lifted a hand to the print of his fingers on her cheek. Her gaze sought Julitta, and malevolence made it human. “Bitch! I’d ha’ gutted you but for him!” Then intense surprise wiped all else from her face; she gripped her belly and wailed on another note.

  “Her travail’s on her!” cried Constance.

  Brien backed, looking helplessly to Julitta. Justice must relinquish Thyra until her labor had been accomplished. Adela moved from the crowd to stand over her, and Julitta was relieved; here was competence. She drew a long breath and spoke firmly.

  “Take her in, to the chamber next to mine. And someone in Heaven’s name rid us of that ass’s voice!”

  The chamber, next to the stair, was cluttered with the seneschal’s accounts, but they made room amid chests and tally sticks to lay a straw pallet on the floor and the girl on that. Lack of space gave good reason for excluding all but Adela and Constance, and since the sight of her incited Thyra to snarls or whimpers, Julitta left her tending to them and watched from the doorway. Constance would have been rid of her.

  “It’s not seemly for a girl who’s never borne a child to witness a delivery.”

  “I am mistress of this household and my duty is here.” Julitta could have added that she had played midwife more than once, in camp and castle.