by Shari Anton
King Stephen might be famous for his changeable mind, but she hadn’t been willing to take the risk with Darian’s life.
“I did not know. And no witness has yet come forward, has he? Darian, the bishop was so intent on his justice, I feared to allow you to leave the royal chamber with his guards.”
Darian sat back down on the bed and ran his palms over his face. “This is... madness. Impossible. If I told this tale to anyone, they would lock me away... which is why I suppose your mother told you not to tell anyone of what you... see.”
Emma shuddered at the thought of being reviled, locked away. “You believe me?”
“Heaven forefend, I do. I just do not know what to make of it.”
“Nothing at all. We go on as we have, carry on as we are meant to.” She sat next to him on the mattress. “In my vision we became lovers, that is true. But I also think I was meant to interfere so you would live. I believe you have some destiny to fulfill. Perhaps it has something to do with de Salis, or maybe there is something of import you must do in the future. I do not know, nor do I wish to. All I know is that you are alive to face whatever fate has decreed, and that is enough for me.”
He shook his head, his mouth pursed. “So now you expect me to do great deeds in exchange for saving my life? You ask much of me, Emma de Leon.”
“I ask nothing of you, Darian of Bruges. You demand enough of yourself for both of us.”
He thought that over for a while. “So now your vision is fulfilled. You have done what you saw as your duty. What now?”
The vision wasn’t fulfilled. They’d become lovers, but not as she’d foreseen. Darian was upset enough without troubling him further. The vision would come true in time. Withholding a small piece of the truth should not matter overmuch.
“You find de Salis’s murderer to clear your name. We visit Nicole to determine her state of mind. I pray Earl William gives my petition to King Stephen and my request for her release is granted. We obtain our annulment and go on with our lives.”
“So easy as that?”
“What else can we do but go on?”
He turned to look at her fully. So somber. So weary. “This vision of yours. Any notion of how long we are to remain lovers?”
“For however long we wish to, I would imagine.” Then she kissed him to let him know that she wouldn’t mind being his lover for a while longer. And not just to fulfill a vision. Coupling with Darian seemed so natural, so right.
As they eased down on the mattress, she had the distinct feeling Darian was of the same mind.
Darian wanted the night to go on forever, with them tangled in the sheets, his body pressed against Emma’s.
He’d meant to sleep elsewhere and ended up in bed with her. Again. And at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Sated and bone weary, he couldn’t summon the will to move away from the woman sleeping in his arms.
Her revelations had been so astonishing Darian still wasn’t sure he’d absorbed all she told him of her visions—especially her vision of him.
A woman possessed of ancient and distinguished line-age, a Pendragon no less, had put reputation and life at risk to ensure her vision of him came true.
He pushed back several strands of silken hair from her cheek. How beautiful Emma was, inside and out. Of practical nature—most of the time—she was quick to smile and usually easy to talk to.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to a woman as much as he’d talked to Emma. On the ride to London, he’d revealed more of his past to her than any living being besides Earl William.
Emma had trusted him with the truth this time. As fantastical as her explanation sounded, he couldn’t believe she’d contrived the tale.
The visions she suffered bothered her immensely. She claimed the visions weren’t heaven-sent enlightenments but unholy revelations, and he could understand why she might consider them thus. How horrible for her to envision her mother’s death and not know what to do about it. So Emma had witnessed her mother’s death twice—in vision and then reality.
Unbelievable. Except he believed in her visions, just as she’d believed his innocence.
Not that he was an innocent.
What would Emma think of him if told he wasn’t merely a mercenary, but an assassin? If de Salis hadn’t been murdered on the streets of Southwark, the man would have died a few days later of a silent, secret assassination, of which Darian would have been guilty.
He could almost imagine her horror. Certes, she wouldn’t now be pressed skin to skin with him, sleeping peacefully.
He breathed in her enticing scent, deciding Emma didn’t need to know the whole truth. Were they in a permanent marriage, he might feel obligated to inform her of precisely how he served William of Ypres, of what he’d done in the earl’s service.
Except the marriage wasn’t permanent, so he saw no good reason to upset her. Emma believed him to be honest and honorable. The truth fell short of both.
Perhaps, when the time came to apply for the annulment, revealing the repulsive acts he’d committed might prove useful. No right-minded bishop, except perhaps Bishop Henry, would approve of a noblewoman’s marriage to an assassin. The pope certainly wouldn’t.
But that was for the future.
For now, ’twas probably best to do as Emma suggested and go on as they’d planned.
Too bad she disliked her visions so much that she’d stopped having them. What a boon if she could see de Salis’s murderer in a basin of water!
Could she control the visions? Likely not, or she wouldn’t fight them so hard, preferring the head pain to knowing what the future held. Had she ever tried to control the visions or merely learned how to halt them?
He shifted slightly to stare up at the ceiling he couldn’t see for lack of light. The brazier had gone dark and cold, pitching the room into blackness and allowing a chill to prevail.
Darian knew he should get up and light another brazier full of coals, but he’d slept soundly when colder and Emma wasn’t shivering. Besides, getting out of bed meant releasing Emma, and that proved impossible to do.
Her head rested on his shoulder, an arm flung across his chest, her breasts pressed into his side. Her right leg rested between his legs, their thighs pressed together in an intimate embrace.
Never before had he been constrained by such exquisite bindings, and nothing short of the threat of imminent death would compel him to move.
Chapter Thirteen
Two days later, standing in the inn’s yard, Emma gave her letters to Philip.
“Are you sure you wish to travel all the way to Camelen? ’Tis far out of your way.”
“My lady, I should rather be on the move and visit a part of England I have not seen before than sitting on my . . . than being idle. There is naught as boring than a siege.”
She had to smile. “I had the experience of a siege as a girl, but I was on the inside of the castle, with barely a break in my daily activities. We could not go outside the walls, of course, which did not bother me overmuch.”
“You suffered no attack, then?”
She laughed lightly. “No more than a few fire arrows over the walls. The weather turned cold and the besiegers went home. My father’s enemy never bothered us again.”
“A normal siege. Unfortunately, King Stephen is not likely to give up on Wallingford so easily. I will ensure your sisters receive your messages.”
“My thanks, Philip. I am sure Gwendolyn will seek assurance of my well-being. Pray let her know I do not lack for anything.”
“So I will.” Philip turned to Darian. “I wish we had enjoyed better luck. People are still afraid to talk. It might be best if you went back to Hadone for a time and try again in a fortnight or so.”
“I will consider it. All I ask is you not inform William of my transgression.”
“He will learn of it eventually.”
“I prefer to tell him myself.”
“As you wish. Fare thee
well, my lady. Darian, have a care.”
After tucking her letters into his satchel, Philip mounted his horse and left her, Darian, and Rose in the yard to watch him leave.
“I like Philip,” she commented.
“Good man.”
“You no longer suspect him of stealing your dagger?” “Nay. He truly has tried to help me. Of the other mercenaries”—he shrugged a shoulder—“I wish I knew for certain who acted against me.”
“Are you considering returning to Hadone?”
“I should, I suppose, but I am not yet ready to retreat.” Emma heard both his disappointment and determination. In the past two days, Darian and Philip had learned naught of import and still didn’t know the whereabouts of the informants Darian had been with on the night of de Salis’s murder. Or of their comrade Perrin’s. Emma wasn’t sure whose disappearance bothered Darian the most.
“Will you go back to Southwark?”
“For a time, if only to purchase our supper. I have grown fond of a particular vendor’s meat pies.”
So had she, and if Darian was returning only to purchase supper, she saw no reason why she couldn’t accompany him. Oh, to not have to go back to the room for a while... the thought was too delicious to resist.
“Take me with you.”
His eyebrows immediately rose in surprise, and she recognized his intention to deny her.
“Pray, Darian, if I must sit in that room for another full afternoon, you may return to find me serving ale in the taproom. You are not expecting any danger, are you?”
“Southwark is always a dangerous place.”
“What if we take Rose with us? She might certainly welcome a long walk, and if we use the rope, no one would dare come near me.”
Darian tilted his head. “You will obey any order I give you without question?”
Right now she would agree to almost anything he asked. “Certes.”
He took a long breath before he relented. “I will fetch the rope.”
Darian headed for the inn; Emma bent over slightly toward the wolfhound.
“I know you dislike the rope.” An understatement, to be sure. “But this is the only way Darian will take us with him. If you try to tug it out of my hands, he may not trust us and insist we remain behind.”
She sighed, recognizing the uselessness of trying to reason with a hound to gain the dog’s cooperation. Hounds understood commands, but Emma didn’t know of one to give to end the tugging.
The first time they’d used the rope, Rose had damn near pulled Emma off her feet. Together they’d learned to stroll through the yard without mishap, but Rose always let Emma know she disliked the restraint.
And true to the hound’s feelings, as soon as Darian appeared with rope in hand, Rose began to whine.
“Hush,” he told the hound, and the beast immediately obeyed. “Does she always carry on so?”
Every time. “Some.”
He looped the rope around Rose’s collar. The hound never moved a muscle. Irritated, Emma crossed her arms and stared down at the hound, who’d never accepted the rope from her so easily.
But then, Rose knew her master. While the two of them got along well, Rose knew who she must obey.
Darian handed over the other end of the rope, and all along the walk, no tug came from the other end.
As Emma guessed might happen, people took a wide path around them, some staring hard at the restrained wolfhound, knowing the big beast could easily pull the rope out of a woman’s hands.
Emma gaped at the crowd on the bridge, and peered into the merchant’s stalls. She took a mere glance at the ships in the harbor, cautioning herself to beware the water.
The bustle in the streets lifted her sprits. Through the dominant odor of fish, she caught a whiff of flowers and the aroma of still-crated spices.
They ate meat pies and drank mead.
She watched sailors haul wool onto the ships and carters tug at their oxen to get them moving. A tinker hammered on a kettle’s dent. An old woman hawked her apples. Two men loudly bargained over the price of a cask of wine.
“Have you ever seen the like?” Darian asked.
“I have been to London a few times, but never in such an active place as this. I suppose all the noise seems familiar and ordinary to you.”
“When were you here last?”
“Several years ago, when Henry was still king. My father thought it time to find me a husband.” She smiled at the memory. “You must understand my father thought it would be a matter of showing me about, having some man fall deeply in love with me and asking for my hand. Nothing came of it, so we went home.”
He scoffed. “Not precisely how noble marriages are arranged.”
“Nay, but that is how my father came to marry my mother. Imagine a Norman baron catching a glimpse of a Welsh princess and pursuing her until she agreed to marry him.”
“Sounds like a tale out of a fable.”
“I swear it is true.”
“I did not say I disbelieve you, but you must admit the tale sounds suspicious. Certes, your father must have had other reasons. . . .” He stared hard down the street, his eyes narrowing. “Stay here. I see someone I need to talk to. Rose, guard.”
Within a trice he disappeared into the crowd ahead. Her hand tightened on Rose’s rope.
“Come. Let us get out of everyone’s way.”
Emma moved only a few feet to relax against a building, sure Darian would easily find her when he returned. Rose sat dutifully at her feet, obeying Darian’s command.
Briefly, her curiosity took flight, mulling over whom Darian might be talking to, but knowing he would likely tell her later, she soon lost interest. Also sure Darian wouldn’t leave her alone on the docks for long, with her mind at ease, she pondered his reaction to the tale of her parents.
She could hardly blame him for doubting. Most noble marriages were arranged affairs. Sometimes the bride and groom didn’t meet until they stood facing each other on the church steps. Wealth and power were larger concerns than whether or not the two people liked each other, and she knew of many such marriages.
Her parents had gone about it differently. Their devotion to each other had been deep and unmistakable, obvious enough for a child to see.
She’d never dared hope for such a marriage for herself. Father’s single attempt to gain one for her had failed miserably. Afterward, he’d arranged a betrothal, but the lad had died of a fever within weeks of the final arrangements.
It struck her as almost humorous that now she was married, in almost as unusual a circumstance as her parents. Except she’d gained neither love nor security.
She might laugh if the entire affair were not so sad. Emma glanced down the street. No sign of Darian yet. Her gaze wandered from sailor to street urchin, from crated spices to huge sacks of grain, from the tip of a mast to the tern making slow, sweeping circles.
She watched the tern, flying free and unencumbered, peering downward at the river in search of its next meal. Closer he flew until giving up the hunt and landing on a nearby post.
Emma stared at the bird, and behind it, the wide, sparkling expanse of the river Thames.
Darian could hardly believe his luck. He and Philip had scoured Southwark and turned up no sign of Hubert, Gib, or Perrin. Yet on a simple, though disconcerting stroll down the street, he’d found Hubert.
Even in the shadows of a dark alley, Darian could see the informant had endured a rough few days. The sleeve on his tunic was torn and he didn’t wear his usual cap. A fading bruise marred his check and his knuckles were scabbed.
“Where the devil have you been?”
Hubert wiped his nose on his torn sleeve. “Been a guest of the bishop’s, and not by choice, I will have ye know.”
Then Hubert had spent a few days in the Clink. Philip had inquired of the prison’s guards and apparently had been lied to.
“And Gib, too?”
“Gib is dead. Hit his head on a bloomin’ rock when they were
shovin’ us around.” He pointed an accusing finger. “This be all yer fault, Darian. If not for ye, they might have left us alone. Ain’t safe to be seen with ye, so I will be on my way now.”
Darian grabbed hold of Hubert’s good sleeve and held tight.
“Why my fault?”
“Did ye see what they did to that knight? Now Gib is dead! Let me go!”
A chill gripped Darian’s spine. “Who killed the knight?”
Hubert violently shook his head. “I tell ye and they will slit my throat for sure.”
“If you do not tell me, you will not leave this alley! Who killed the knight?”
“I did not see ’em do the deed!”
“But you know. Hubert, give over!”
Hubert’s fists clenched, opened, then clenched again. Undaunted, Darian stood his ground until the wildness in the informant’s eyes dimmed.
“All I know for certain is the bishop’s soldiers caught hold of Gib and me and hauled us over to Winchester Palace. Gib tried to get away and one big guard shoved him and he hit his head and . . . Lord Jesus God, the blood came agushin’ out so fast.”
“Were they looking for me when they took you?” “What do ye think! O’ course, they were!”
“The knight. His name is Edward de Salis. What do you know about him?”
“He liked the whores. The whores do not like him.” Darian had found the brothel de Salis patronized the night before his murder. One of the whores had admitted the knight had been there, but said nothing about the man’s sexual tastes. Given the man’s other atrocities, Darian didn’t doubt de Salis capable of abusing a harlot.
“How did you escape?”
Hubert jerked his arm; Darian let go of the sleeve. “They let me go this morn. I came back to gather up me things and hie up to York. Got me a sister there. Ye might want to get yer arse out o’ London, too.”
Hubert turned to leave.
“How do you know the bishop’s guards killed de Salis?” The informant stopped and turned around, his face twisted in disgust. “They were laughin’ over how he squealed like a pig when stuck.”
