by Delle Jacobs
"You do not offend me, Lynet. I know very well of Fyren's evil. And I am gladder than any that I no longer need fear him." If only that were true. But that was something Lynet did not need to know. "Where is the babe, Lynet? I would see her."
"She sleeps. But she will wake soon. Thomas has given us your chamber as he says you do not use it. You do not mind?"
Thomas knew better. The liar. "Of course not."
"Do you know, I owe my babe's life to the Norman lord? It was he who persuaded Botolf to let her go."
"Aye, so I heard. But do you know they have all but made a saga of your rescue? It was such a brave thing you did, Lynet. Alain says you could have been killed."
Lynet smiled, a bright smile as full of mischief as her sparkling brown eyes. "But Melisande, I would have been killed, otherwise. It was something Gerard taught me for my own defense, to go suddenly limp and drop. I confess, I was not certain I believed it would work."
"And the count?"
"It is something he does when he trains his knights and squires, when he wants them to all do something at the same time. I knew by his eyes he expected it of me, so I counted to be sure he knew when it would happen. But come, after such a long journey, and even a battle, you must be the one needing to rest. My dear, you do look ill-used."
Melisande suddenly stared at the blood-spattered kirtle that she still wore. "Oh, I am sorry, Lynet. I hope I have not offended you."
"Of course not. But the water is being prepared. Allow me to help you with your bath."
"It is my place to see to your needs."
"But allow me, in gratitude that you live, and for my babe. He is a fine-looking man, your Norman. Are you happy with him?"
"I– "
Lynet's saucy brown eyes grew narrow, and she laughed. She took Melisande by the hand and urged her toward the bath house.
* * *
In the hall that night, the wine flowed freely. Melisande sat with Lynet and the baby, between the two husbands. Husband. She was becoming accustomed to the word, although she thought she might never become accustomed to their Norman ways.
"You have not answered my question," said mischievous Lynet in a low voice.
"You needn't have whispered, Lynet. The men are too elated with their own successes to notice our small talk."
"You evade me. I ask again. Are you happy with him, Melisande?"
"I know him little, Lynet."
"But well enough, I vow. Your eyes do shine when you look at him."
"He is kind. He is not like the Norman I expected. Nor are they like Saxons, Lynet. Ah, but you would know that."
The corners of Lynet's lips turned up. Her brown eyes glinted. Melisande had always known Gerard was happy with her.
Melisande had never really thought of Gerard as Norman. Like Saxon men, Gerard did not look upon women as unequipped to deal with the world, mindless creatures that must have a man to tell them what thoughts to have. But the Saxons no longer ruled England. The Normans had come, and changed everything else. She supposed they would have their way about women, too. Yet Alain, her husband, did not seem so inclined.
"All my life, I have heard of Norman brutality. It was no mere rumor of the thousands slain, innocents and rebels alike, in the Harrying of the North. Even now, a generation later, it is said villages remain deserted and fields untilled. In my mother's day, many fled to Strathclyde and became serfs where once they had been wealthy artisans or merchants. Many more returned to their land and starved to death. My mother survived, having been married off to Fyren earlier in that year. Her family all died."
And none had lived to defend her against Fyren's evil and tyranny.
"Aye, I know the stories. That they raped and pillaged like their bloodthirsty Viking ancestors. They beat their wives, and killed them when they were dissatisfied with them. But I think, Melisande, there are such men everywhere. Mayhap there are also good men everywhere."
Was he really different? And did it matter? How could any man be satisfied with her, once he learned the truth?
If only she could use the challenge he had issued her, both to keep alive and to get the cloak from him. But the best she could hope for was to use it to keep him at a distance long enough to find a way to dispose of the malicious garment. But what if she did not? Or if his disappointment in her was so great that he did not honor his promise?
She had tried to think of a way to explain to him the danger of the cloak. If she had not already made such a fuss of disliking it, he might now believe her. But not now. Fyren's sorcery was widely speculated among the Normans. Anwealda had openly called her witch. And the Normans had seen her ways of healing. She had made a mistake when she had treated Robert so boldly. How could they not wonder about her? If she told him of the poison dye, how it worked through the skin, he would see it as nothing less than sorcery. And mayhap he would see that as the explanation of why she still held herself aloof from him.
She would be branded witch. And once so, would never have another chance to wrest the cloak from him.
Fyren had once said that magic was no more than knowledge beyond the ordinary man's ken, but then he had buried himself so deeply into his evil deeds that he had lost his humanity, and believed in his own lies. The magic became real to him.
She could never know. Was it, or not?
I am the spawn of Satan. You dare not refuse me.
She would never know. Until she found herself at the Gates of Hell.
* * *
"You will sleep with me tonight, Melisande," he said quietly as he climbed the stairs beside her. His long arm draped across her back, his hand resting just below her shoulder.
She had come to expect that already, and found no need even for response. How odd it was to find such joy and comfort in his arms, even knowing how it would one day end in pain and death. Yet even the smallest touch from him, she treasured.
And Thomas had given her chamber to Gerard's family, as he had given her mother's to Chretien. No point in protesting, really.
With fingers that skimmed lightly over her, he helped her undress, undid her laces, lifted her gown over her head. She stopped him when he raised her chemise. Disappointment filled his eyes, but he said nothing. She combed through her free-flowing hair, and pulled it back to braid.
"Leave it," he said.
"But it will tangle."
"Nay, leave it." He raised his hand in a gesture that both caressed her cheek and smoothed her hair away from her face.
So she left it to fall about her shoulders and crawled beneath the thick down quilt. She watched as he shed his own clothes, his skin like gold in the candlelight.
He was so very beautiful. Strong, blocky, with muscles that bulged out like crags on the fells, rugged and fascinating. The silky black hairs spread lightly over his chest and tapered downward and disappeared at his waist, to reappear and surround his manhood. She loved the feel of them between her fingers.
Had she done that? Aye, she had. It was not a memory. Simply knowledge.
He hid nothing from her. Not even the great bulge of his erect member. Well then, they would find out tonight if he was right. Or if she was. But, for his vows, men did not long deny themselves, once aroused.
"I do not think you can keep your word," she said.
He laughed, like a roll of thunder, yet soft and quiet. "You will see. You accept the challenge, then?"
"Aye."
She watched as he hung his dagger by its belt around the post of the bed. That would be the way she would go, then, for the dagger would be at hand when he learned the truth. Still, she prayed for one more day, one more chance to get the cloak. She must not let it all be in vain.
"The night is cold, love. Shall I draw the bed curtains?"
"Nay. I do not like them."
"Aye, I have noticed you do not use them. Yet are you not cold at night?"
"But when the curtains are drawn, I think I cannot breathe. Only leave the candle burning."
As he slid hi
s strong body beneath the quilt, the glow of his skin dimmed from the gilt of the candlelight to silver in the shadows. He snuggled her closer. His luminous black eyes seemed ready to mate with hers.
"But I will have you, anyway, Melisande."
"Nay," she answered nervously.
"Because you will give yourself to me."
"Nay."
"You will, for you desire me nearly as much as I do you."
"Nay, it is not so."
"It is not, you say?" His eyes glowed with wickedness. He pressed the length of his body against her side, draping one muscular thigh over her leg, forcing his knee between both of hers. He nuzzled at her throat with secret whispers laced with tiny bites. She moaned and pushed against him.
"You said– "
"I said little enough about persuasion, love. This is persuasion." He captured her mouth with sweet lips and tongue, held her hostage with the plunging depth of his kiss.
He would soon control her entirely. She would lose everything because she would give it away. She must stop him! Yet if she might just savor this moment firs- His hands cupped over her breasts, and fingers found hard nipples waiting for them. A whimpered cry escaped her as a core of fire shot through her.
"Nay," she pleaded, and frantically pushed against him.
He stopped. Sat up on the bed, watched her as she coiled away from him. He read her thoughts, she was sure. Yet, he did not know. Must not know.
"Very well," he said in a resigned tone, and lay back down onto the feather mattress.
Ah, she wished she might just tell him all, let it be done with, for she did not want to see him suffer. She had heard men suffered. It was worse than a dangerous wound, some said.
"Melisande, I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. I will not tease you anymore."
Teasing? Nay, even more now, she did not understand what it was he called teasing.
"You did not frighten me."
"I know fear when I see it. What is it that frightens you so, love? You do not truly think I will hurt you?"
What could she say? He said he would not hurt her, but he did not know how sorely he would be tried.
"Tomorrow," she said.
Once again he drew her into his arms and touched a kiss against her forehead.
"It will be a long night," he said.
And what would she tell him tomorrow?
* * *
She bolted upright, taut as a bowstring.
"He's here!" she gasped.
Instantly, Alain sat up and took her into his arms.
"It's a dream, love. It is but a dream."
"He's here. I know he is!" She trembled, her hand squeezing his arm.
The candle had failed. Alain could see nothing in the room's utter darkness. "It is only a dream, love. Wake up, now, and it will go away."
"I am awake."
"No one is here but you and me. I will relight the candle."
"Nay, stay with me. You are right, it is but a dream. I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you."
He smiled, then remembered he could not see him. "Have you forgotten? This is my place. I am your husband. I mean to always be here, so that you need not fear the night anymore."
"I know not why you are so patient with me."
"I do not find it hard. But let me light the candle again."
"I do not need it. Only, please, just stay with me."
Alain urged her back down to the warmth of the feather mattress, and once again brought the down quilt up to her neck and tucked it in. He adjusted his arm about her and lay back onto his own pillow. It was progress, of a sort, that she now woke and recognized her dream for what it was, only the wildness of her own tortured mind producing the terrors of the night.
He leaned back and watched the darkness.
The darkness moved.
CHAPTER 18
The hairs on his neck bristled. The darkness was nearly total. Whoever was in here could not see any better than he could. Alain rolled to his back, removing the arm that encircled Melisande's waist, reached behind him for the dagger hanging on the bedpost, and eased it into his hand.
With his other hand, Alain grasped Melisande's hand, slowly moving it until she could feel the shape of the dagger in his right hand. She took in a sharp breath. He rolled to whisper in her ear, nuzzling at her affectionately.
"Be very still."
"Aye," she whispered.
"Go to sleep, love, all is well," he said aloud.
He lay upon his back, right hand crossed over his chest, clasping the dagger and poised to strike. The assassin would come for him, for he would have to be killed in order to get to her. He forced his lungs to breathe like a sleeping man as he waited. Still, he saw nothing, nor heard. But the room smelled of another occupant. He held still, poised for battle.
A movement. So slight, he wondered if he imagined it. Nay. It was there. He squeezed her hand, released it. The darkness between him and the shuttered window deepened. The shadow within shadows grew denser. Nearer.
The scent of a man, a big one. The almost silent sound of air, breathing in, out. The slight crack of a flexing arm. Closer. There.
With a wild shout, he lunged, guided by instinct. A grisly scream rent the silence. Bone cracked, tissue collapsed beneath his blade. He leapt up, shoved blindly against a heavy male body that staggered back from his fierce thrust.
"Run, Melisande! Run!"
He slashed out again, again caught flesh that yielded beneath the blade. The cry of victory burst from him as he wrestled the weakened opponent to the floor.
Light. Gerard burst through the door between the chambers, holding a rush light torch, freshly sizzling from new fire. Chretien came through the other chamber's door, a torch in hand. Warily, Melisande reached his side, then bent over the sprawling, bleeding body.
"Anwealda," she said, and her tone had a note of flat satisfaction to it.
Nor was he surprised. He had taken too many victories away from Anwealda not to expect retaliation.
"You are well, lady?"
"Aye. You?"
"He had no chance to strike. How did you know?"
"I cannot say. Something woke me. Mayhap a noise."
"I sleep lightly. I would also have heard."
"Well, something. A smell, mayhap. Aye, I think it was the smell of a candle just snuffed."
It could have been. Yet, she had known someone was there, not merely that a candle had gone out. Had she a special gift? It was said the Celts had second sight. Did Saxons? Or perhaps, like him, she had detected the man's scent. It was not particularly subtle.
"It is unimportant now," he said. He leaned over the dying man, saw a feeble word form on the man's lips.
Again Anwealda struggled to say something. He bent lower.
"Witch," said the man, then his body went limp.
Alain knelt to close the staring eyes, then stood.
"How did he get in here?" Gerard asked. "He could not have slipped past the gate."
"The bolt hole," Alain guessed. "He must know this hall as well as any. Lady, do you know?"
She shook her head. "But if any could, it would be he. Fyren would have told him. He had Fyren's ear."
Several knights gathered on the balcony beyond the door, shoving each other aside, gawking into the chamber.
"Remove him," Alain said.
Several came forth to carry away the body.
"Well, we have only Dougal to worry about now," Chretien said. "And I think he has little heart to fight if the others are gone."
"Anwealda's knights will go to Dougal," said Gerard, "but it will matter little. I count those he has lost, and it is too many."
"Thomas, send to Rufus in the morning," Alain said. "He must know of this."
"Yet," said Chrétien, "do not grow too cocky or careless. This war is not yet won."
Alain smiled, once again admiring Chrétien's caution. If Anwealda had had such a man among his own, he would still live, and mayhap even be the victor.
"Aye," he replied. "'Tis wise to not count the chickens before they are hatched. Tomorrow, have the bolt hole blocked. We will not count the war won until Rufus sits in Carlisle and the last enemy alive has pledged to him."
He looked again to Melisande, who stood behind him. "Do you sleep now, lady?"
