Rebellious Love

by Maura Seger

  A troop of knights was sent to the earl's manor to bring back a large squad of men-at-arms to strengthen the compound force. But it would be some time before they could arrive. In the meanwhile, drills went on constantly as skills already well honed in battle were sharpened even further.

  Under Lady Emelie's supervision, livestock was brought in from the nearby fields and housed in sheds set up in the courtyard. Some were butchered, the meat carefully smoked or salted. Unable to go to market herself, because the earl flatly refused to let any of the d'Arcy women set foot beyond the compound, she dispatched trusted servants to purchase large quantities of those few supplies not already well stocked. The grain bins were topped off, kegs of salted fish laid down in the cellars and barrels of cider and ale carefully stored for cooling.

  Verony found some distraction from her unhappy thoughts in the work of provisioning the compound. But there were other, far less congenial preparations that forcibly reminded her of the danger lurking just upriver in the royal keep. Lady Emelie spent all of one day going carefully through her medical supplies, taking the opportunity to begin Verony's education in the healing arts. Bandages were rolled and splints cut, even as a prayer was said that they would not have to be used.

  On the compound walls and in the courtyard below, pails of water were kept at the ready against an attack with flaming arrows. On the turrets above the drawbridge, vats of tar bubbled night and day, awaiting anyone foolish enough to try to storm the stronghold.

  As well as keeping watch for unwelcome guests, the guards also scanned the surrounding area for the telltale signs of tunneling. That tactic was frequently used to undermine even the best protected fortress. A tunnel was dug to the base of one of the towers, where the stress points were greatest. Timbers supported the passage, and dried wood, flammable debris, grease, anything that would burn was packed into the end furthest from the attackers. When the tunnel was fired the timbers burned and the ground gave way, taking with it, if all went according to plan, a corner of the fortress. Through that chink in the defenses, the enemy then tried to enter.

  In London, with so much cover provided by other buildings, a tunnel would be a more likely approach than an all-out attack. But if the idea occurred to John, there was no sign of it. Day followed day without the king daring to approach the d'Arcy stronghold.

  Not that they were without visitors. A constant stream of the most exalted lords of the land came calling with their retinues. Carefully screened before admittance, they provided ample news and encouragement. To a man, the barons expressed outrage at the king's highhandedness and their support for the d'Arcys. The earl found some grim amusement in the fact that even a few who had not previously been eager to join the nobles' cause now came over to their side. In the privacy of his own chamber, alone with the Lady Emelie, he acknowledged his appreciation for their sovereign's stupidity. But he also continued to worry about where it would all lead.

  There were, naturally enough, no further messages from the king. The serving woman who had accepted bribes to deliver them was gone. Verony knew better than to ask after her fate. Several other servants whose loyalty was suspect were also removed from the compound. Every possible effort was made to close even the slightest loophole in security.

  But no such effort, however well managed, could succeed entirely. A tiny crack persisted in the defenses. The supplies being brought in from the market became so numerous that merchants had to send their own servants to help with deliveries. Such men were permitted within the walls on the understanding that they would not remain long. The Earl Garrett presumed that news of the measures being taken to strengthen the fortress would reach John through this route. He saw no harm in that, but neither did he guess that the king would dare use the conduit in reverse.

  Verony was busy looking over several barrels of salted herring when the man found her. He was small and hunched, wearing the rough clothes of a laborer. His eyes, lingering on her beauty, were red-rimmed and watery. He scratched absentmindedly at the stubble of his beard, embedded with a few stray fleas, before he said: "Begging your pardon, lady. I have something for ye."

  Surprised, Verony replaced the cover of the barrel she had just inspected before turning to him. They were alone in the undercroft, the other servants having returned to the courtyard. But she felt no fear. A single cry would bring dozens of men-at-arms down on the man, who undoubtedly would not survive their handling.

  "What is it? I am very busy."

  "Aye, but this is important." Dirt-encrusted fingers dug in a greasy pouch suspended by a cord around his waist. Gingerly he removed a small, cloth-wrapped parcel and held it out to her. When she hesitated to take it, he said: "Go on! Think I want to get caught with this?"

  Reluctantly Verony accepted the package. Her hand shook slightly as she unwrapped it. At the first glimpse of the contents, bile rose in her throat. Hardly breathing, she stared at a gold-and-ruby ring still attached to the finger where she had last seen it.

  The ring was a match to the one Curran had given her at their marriage, purchased some months later with funds from her bridal gift and given to him with great delight. He had worn it ever since, even as she wore hers.

  Fighting down the urge to vomit, Verony became slowly aware that the man was reciting his carefully learned message. Curran had not reached Canterbury. Captured by the king's men, he was being held outside London. Unless Verony gave herself up to royal custody at once, he would die. If she was so unwise as to reveal this to the d'Arcys, Curran's death would be assured. He would perish by the slowest and most unpleasant methods that could be devised.

  "Six hours, lady," the man concluded. "That's all ye've got. Be at the north entrance to the tower before then, or your lord dies." Gesturing at the severed member, he taunted: "That's only a sample of what they'll cut off 'fore he dies. He'll be praying for his end long 'fore it comes."

  Every instinct in Verony screamed denial. She opened her mouth to summon the guards, to denounce the repulsive little man, to blurt out this latest outrage. No sound came. Fear for Curran's life kept her silent. Without the ring, she would not have believed him taken. But with it, she could only accept that he was in mortal danger and that she did not dare do anything that might cost his life.

  Whereas only days before Verony would have sworn that she would never again keep anything important to herself, now she knew she had no choice. The earl would never permit her to leave the fortress even to save Curran's life. Her own well-being and that of the d'Arcy child she carried would outweigh even his great love for his son. But while she waited safe behind stone walls, what further horrors might occur?

  Time was the crucial factor. She had to prevent Curran's immediate death while giving the family a chance to rally their forces and approach John in terms not even he could misunderstand.

  Hurrying upstairs to that part of the compound used by Mark and Arianna, Verony carefully printed a note in block letters she knew her sister-in-law could read. The serving woman who watched her approach the cradle where her nephew slept saw nothing amiss in her interest. Nor did she notice when the tiny slip of paper was hidden inside the child's swaddling clothes. Arianna, Verony knew, reserved to herself the pleasure of bathing her son. Each evening she took delight in his excited squeals and splashes as she gently washed, dried and powdered him. It was a special time for them, but one that would be spoiled at least for that day. Arianna's shock when she found the note was easy to imagine, as was the swift action she would take to alert the family.

  Convinced that she had done all possible to warn the d'Arcys without endangering Curran, Verony took firm hold of her courage. Wrapping herself in a warm cloak, she began looking for some way to leave the compound.

  CHAPTER 12

  A man was waiting outside the west wall of the tower. Though wrapped in an all-enveloping cloak, his size and manner marked him a warrior. He strode back and forth impatiently. It was clear he had been there some time and was not pleased.

 
Verony approached warily. It had taken several hours for her to secure a safe way out of the d'Arcy residence. Only by hiding in one of the merchants' wagons and enduring the seemingly interminable delay until they departed was she able to slip unseen past the sentries.

  By the time she jumped free of the wagon near the river road, she was stiff with cold. Her limbs ached, and a dull pain throbbed in her head, but neither slowed her pace. Unaccustomed to being by herself in a town of any size, she found the closely packed streets of London far more ominous than the familiar pathways of her forest. Good sense alone, even without her overriding dread of what might happen to Curran if she did not reach the king soon, made her hurry.

  Treading carefully to avoid the piles of offal and debris, she kept her head down and her eyes away from the multitude of peddlers, gawkers, prostitutes and ne'er-do-wells pressing in at her from every side. Once a man reached out to grab her, but she managed to evade his touch. Several whores, out for the afternoon trade, noted her escape and laughed derisively. They lost no time approaching the man, who allowed himself to be consoled.

  A drunk, stumbling from a tavern with the curses of the owner floating behind him, almost fell into her. But again Verony's swift reflexes served her well. She darted on, past the markets and public kitchens, beyond the separate quarters housing butchers, fishmongers, gravediggers, Jews and others who for one reason or another lived apart, through the warren of twisting lanes abutting the tower where the lawyers and scribners were housed, until she came at last to the small, secluded entrance set well back in a stone wall.

  "Ye took long enough," the man snarled when he saw her.

  Verony did not bother to answer or, in fact, to acknowledge his presence in any way. His sneering comment and the long, slow scrutiny of what little he could see of her body made his attitude clear. She was just one more of the king's women, little better than the whores she had seen earlier, and certainly entitled to no better treatment.

  Her determined self-possession must have angered him. Grasping her arm cruelly, the man pulled her inside. "Don't go all high and mighty on me, girl," he ordered. "I know what you are, make no mistake. Many the time I've waited for some doxy the king fancies, and let me tell you, you're all the same. Whatever you've got between your legs he'll tire of quick enough. Then you might be glad of someone like me to keep you warm."

  Verony's stomach lurched sickly. The man's touch on her coupled with the horrifying knowledge that she might shortly have to bear far more from John sapped her courage. Her legs trembled and, just for a moment, threatened to give way.

  Pride came to her rescue. Not for the world would she allow such a churlish lout to see how he affected her. Verony drew herself up regally, her voice hard and cold. "You say you know who I am, but it doesn't seem to have occurred to you that the king might not appreciate my being delayed or"—she stared pointedly at his hand on her arm—"being handled by one such as you."

  The man's small eyes widened. A harsh laugh broke from him. "Ye've got courage, I'll say that much. And maybe ye're even right. The great lord John never minded what happened to his women after he's done with 'em, but before . . . that might be another matter." He thought it over for an instant while Verony tried desperately to still the ragged beating of her heart. Finally the man said: "Come on then. Sooner he's had ye, sooner you and me can work something out."

  To emphasize the pleasure with which he contemplated this eventuality, the man pinched her bottom painfully. Verony bit back her protest. Without the protection of an escort or even of her rank, she was utterly helpless to prevent anything the guard might choose to do. If he had been in the king's service long, the chances were good that he knew how to use a woman harshly without marking her. It would be only her word against his when she was brought to John.

  Silently, she followed the guard across the open field inside the walls and up the steep wooden stairs to the royal keep. Once inside, they kept to the narrow, twisting passages used by the servants, avoiding those places where the nobility congregated. Verony was glad for the discretion. The thought of being recognized filled her with horror. A single careless instant could be enough to send word of her presence there racing back to the d'Arcy compound, and bring down the violent confrontation she hoped desperately to prevent.

  In a small room set high in the keep, the guard left her. He pushed her inside, allowing his hands to once again linger on her body, gave a final leer and disappeared, locking the door behind him.

  Verony stared at it for a long moment, her breath catching in her throat until her lungs constricted painfully. Only then did she ease her rigidly held body just enough to breathe with some semblance of normality. Looking around cautiously, she noted the room's spare furnishings, consisting of a table and chair and a bed.

  The luxury John so enjoyed was not evident. The room, really no more than a cell, was not remotely part of the royal chambers. Isabella undoubtedly knew of its existence, but had her own reasons for overlooking what went on under her roof.

  Shakily Verony sat down in the chair, keeping her eyes resolutely away from the bed. It took all her courage and strength to fight the tide of panic rising within her. What if her desperate ploy did not work? What if, no matter how great her sacrifice, Curran still died? If her note was not found ... if the d'Arcy men could not locate him in time . . . Biting her lip hard to force back the tears that threatened, she refused to think of her ultimate fear: that her very presence in the king's house might already be useless. To the depths of her soul, Verony believed her husband still lived. But the possibility that she might be wrong did not elude her.

  How long she waited she had no way of telling. From far below in the bailey she heard the shouts of the guards as one watch gave over to the other. Nobles, merchants, clergy, all manner of people having business at court came and went as the light slowly began to fade and the day gave way to dusk. Her stomach growled emptily but the very thought of food made her nauseous. She did not doubt for a moment that John was deliberately drawing out her torment and could only be grateful he could not realize each passing moment was a victory for her.

  Exhausted by tension and lack of nourishment, she struggled to stay awake. At last the effort proved too much and her head slumped, the silken fall of her red-gold hair falling forward to frame delicately strained features. Uneasy sleep claimed her, long enough for the last light to fade and night to settle over the city.

  The sound of footsteps on the landing brought her abruptly awake. For a moment she had no idea where she was and glanced around in bewilderment. Then memory flooded back and she stiffened. The steps came nearer, pausing just outside the door.

  Though her body ached from its uncomfortable posture and her legs trembled so much that she feared they could not hold her, she rose determinedly. When the door swung open, she was standing facing it.

  John looked her over leisurely. He had come alone. Extravagantly dressed in rich blue velvet embroidered with gold thread, his lank black hair held in place by a jeweled circlet, he might have looked every inch the king to some. But Verony was not so easily fooled. She saw the calculating cruelty of his small eyes, the sullen set of his mouth and the overriding image of a man who found malicious pleasure in hurting others. Drawn up to her full height, she met his gaze coldly.

  "I have heard so much of royal hospitality, my lord. Yet I find these accommodations singularly lacking."

  Whatever John had expected her to say, it was not this. His eyes narrowed further in a puzzled frown. Taking a step closer, he muttered: "You are hardly here as a guest, madame."

  Verony shrugged, managing a convincing semblance of unconcern. "However I came to be here, my lord, it was at your . . . urging." Steeling herself, she moved toward him. "You seemed eager enough for my attention, yet you have left me alone for hours." Glancing up through thick lashes, she pouted: "I have felt quite neglected."

  John shook himself, as though not quite able to believe what he was hearing. The idea that a woma
n coerced into his presence by a grisly reminder of her husband's mortality would complain about being ignored was so at odds with his expectations that long moments passed before he could respond.

  When he did so at last, Verony had to endure the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he drew her to him. His thick mouth parted in a leering grin. "My apologies, madame. I had no idea you so . . . avidly awaited me." His fingers tightened on her, digging cruelly into delicate skin as he added: "Our last meeting left me with the impression you were anything but willing."

  Verony drew a deep breath. Every part of her screamed in revulsion at his touch, but she bore it stalwartly. To win time, she had to convince John he had more to gain than a resentful, uncooperative bedmate.

  Lowering her eyes in what looked very much like remorse, she whispered: "I am so deeply ashamed of that, my lord. You have every right to think me stupid and unworthy of you. Yet if only you could understand ..."

  Her voice trailed off provocatively, leaving John with no choice but to demand: "Understand what?"

  "What it has been like to be married to a d'Arcy. How empty and frightening my life has become."

  May God forgive me, Verony prayed silently even as she told herself any lie was excusable if it helped secure Curran's safety.

  Swallowing the bitter taste of bile, she raised her head. The full impact of luminous indigo eyes struck the king without warning. He swayed slightly, senses whirling. "I—I thought you were happily married?"

  The bitter laugh that broke from Verony sprang from the torment of having to endure his nearness, but it sounded as though she was renouncing his impression of her marriage.

  "Surely you know how vain all the d'Arcys are? Not for a moment would they allow anyone to think union with one of them was less than blissful. They are so arrogant ... so proud ... it was worth my life to say anything of my suffering."

  John wanted to believe her. He was excited by the idea that Curran treated his wife cruelly and that in her misery she might turn to him as the better man. Such was his own vanity that he could easily envision a public spectacle in which Verony denounced her husband and threw herself on the mercy of the king. What greater balm to his own injured pride and frustration could there be?