Lady of Steel

by Mary Gillgannon

  He sat on the stool to put on his boots. In all likelihood she was something between devil and angel. But Reynard was right; he dare not risk everything he’d fought so hard for on a woman whose true character he still didn’t know.

  He rose from the stool, trying to think what he should say to her. How to explain his abandonment of her on their wedding night.

  “I…” He gestured to the beautifully carved wooden bed. “I’m unused to such comforts. I fear I won’t sleep even a candle-hour if I stay. I bid you goodnight, lady.” He inclined his head, and not waiting for her reply, strode from the room.

  Chapter Seven

  He sought the battlements, hoping the fresh air would clear his head and help him think. Reaching the top, he gazed out into the darkened valley. How was he to keep his distance from Nicola? He must sleep somewhere, but he didn’t want the whole castle to know he spurned his wife’s bed. Since Nicola was no longer a virgin, there was no bloodied sheet to show on the morrow, and he could not truly prove he’d bedded her. If he spent his nights elsewhere, the rumors would start. He must come up with a plan to avoid Nicola’s bed and yet conceal what he was doing from the entire castle. It seemed an impossible task.

  A voice behind him made him jerk around. “De Cressy? Is that you?”

  Fawkes turned to see the castellan. “FitzSaer.”

  “Yea, milord. What are you doing up here? That is, I didn’t mean imply you should not be here, but that—”

  “I’m thinking.” Fawkes spoke sharply. “Tell me, Sir Adam, how long have you served at Valmar?”

  “Near four years. I hired on with Mortimer after most of his men went off on Crusade with the king.”

  FitzSaer had been there since soon after Fawkes left. It was reasonable he would feel some loyalty to Mortimer. He would have to tread carefully. “And what did you think of Mortimer?”

  The man hesitated. “He had his faults, of course. I never did come to terms with his taste for boys, but that doesn’t mean he deserved what happened to him.”

  “You mean his death at my hands?”

  “Not that. You killed him in fair combat and everyone says he was the one who issued the challenge. I’m speaking of before you arrived, how he came to such a sorry state. I might not have cared much for the man in some ways, but he was my lord. To see him rot away and become a pathetic shell of a knight…” He shook his head. “If I were you, I would be wary of Lady Nicola. She is no natural woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not saying she uses witchcraft, although she does keep company with Glennyth the healer, who’s said to dabble in sorcery. But she did something to Mortimer, fed him poison or something that disordered his wits and made him less than a man. And then there is the matter of the babe. It may be rumor, but the whole thing unfolded so oddly—”

  “Babe, what babe?” The blood in Fawkes’s veins turned to ice water.

  “Three summers ago she gave birth to a babe. Mortimer said it was stillborn, but I have heard otherwise. They say she strangled the babe in its cradle in order to foil Mortimer’s ambitions. She never appeared to mourn it. The child—I heard it was a boy—is buried by the chapel, but there is no stone or effigy to mark its passing.”

  “Take me there,” Fawkes said.

  “Now, my lord?”

  “Yea, now.”

  A short while later Fawkes found himself staring down at a grave in the small cemetery behind the chapel, a little rounded mound of grass unadorned by marker or memento.

  FitzSaer cleared his throat. “What are you thinking, milord? Do you worry if you get Lady Nicola with child, she might kill it? I don’t think she would. I think she got rid of this one because she hated Mortimer so much. It was her chance to rob him of what he wanted most. Losing his heir was part of the reason he lost his wits. That was when he changed, guzzled his wine and sat in a corner of the hall staring at nothing.”

  A dozen wrenching, awful thoughts filled Fawkes mind: Did the babe look like me? He probably had black hair, and all babes had blue eyes. Had he even opened them? Drawn a breath? My babe. And she had killed it. How could she do such a thing? What kind of woman is she?

  “Sorry to roil the waters between you and your new wife,” Fitz Saer interrupted in sympathetic tones. “But I thought it best that you know.”

  Fawkes nodded jerkily. Best that he know his new wife was a murderess. That she had killed their child.

  “To be fair to Lady Nicola, I suppose Mortimer must have done things to make her hate him so much,” the castellan continued. “I heard a tale he sent a man to rape her and get her with child because he could not. I guess something like that would harden a woman, make her capable of killing a babe that was so begotten. But still, to kill a child she’d just given birth to, it boggles the imagination to think any woman capable of that.”

  Fawkes drew a deep breath. If he heard any more, he’d go mad. “Leave me.” He spoke as calmly as he could manage. “I have some thinking to do.”

  ****

  Nicola stared up at the peaked ceiling of the tower room. After their lovemaking, Fawkes should have been sated and eager to sleep. Instead, he’d been restless and uneasy. The act that should have brought them closer had somehow deepened the chasm between them.

  She got out of bed and retrieved her shift, then went to the window and threw open the shutters. She thought of Old Emma’s warning about letting in bad vapors, but leaned into the window embrasure and breathed in deeply anyway. Bad vapors were the least of her worries. She’d been wed less than a day and already this marriage had turned out to be as nerve-wracking and challenging as her first one. Nay, more so. Mortimer might have been a cruel, depraved fiend, but at least he was predictable. Fawkes de Cressy remained a complete puzzle.

  At the feast he’d appeared wary, then fond, then back to wary and distant. They’d come up to her chamber, where he asked strange probing questions, then seized her and made love to her with astounding passion. Now he’d left, and gave her a ridiculous excuse for doing so. Cold and hot. Hot and then cold.

  There must be some reason he didn’t want to share her bed. Did he fear the fire that rose between them, threatening to incinerate them both? She did. The touch of this man had the power to turn her wits to porridge.

  Sighing, she returned to the bed. She doubted she would sleep, but she must try. At least her body felt soothed and satisfied, content for the first time in years. If only her thoughts didn’t spin so wildly. At least for once she wasn’t agonizing about her son. This night she struggled to come to grips with the strange ferocious knight who was Simon’s father.

  ****

  Fawkes climbed the stairs to Nicola’s chamber. He’d endured a long, sleepless night on a pallet in an empty bedchamber. Now his stomach churned with distress and his steps were leaden. But he could wait no longer to confront Nicola. Furious thoughts roiled through his mind: She did not have to give the child life and then kill it. If she didn’t want the babe, she could have gone to a wise woman for a potion to make her lose it before it quickened. Women knew of such things, even if the Church and most men abhorred the practice.

  Of course, if she’d done that, her revenge against Mortimer would not have been so complete, so satisfying. Fawkes fought the urge to retch. Could it really be true, that the woman he’d idolized had murdered his son?

  Reaching the landing, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Nicola bid him enter. She sat on a stool while the elderly maidservant brushed her hair. At least she was dressed, attired in a simple blue gown. If he’d had to confront her while she was clad in her shift, he would not have been able to think of anything besides her glorious body. As it was, the sight of her sleek ebony tresses falling over her shoulders sparked tantalizing memories of her silky hair gliding over his skin.

  Somehow he had to force himself to look beyond Nicola’s beauty and take stock of her character. She always appeared cool and composed, but he knew she was capable of great passion. She�
��d proven that only a few hours before, in bed with him. Did that intensity extend to hate as well as desire? Had her loathing for Mortimer been so profound she was willing to do anything to thwart him?

  The image of the tiny grave by the chapel flashed into his mind. He told himself he could not condemn her yet. He must give her a chance to explain. Allow her to tell him her version of what had happened.

  Fawkes motioned to the servant. “Leave us.” The woman placed the brush on the table that still held the wine ewer and cups from the previous night. Then she waddled past him, her eyes focused straight ahead.

  As soon as she was gone, he turned back to Nicola. “I have some questions to ask you.” He moved nearer, wanting to intimidate her, to make her afraid. “Your castellan told me that some three years ago, you gave birth to a babe.”

  Something changed in her face. Her pupils turned to deep black pools surrounded by silver rims.

  “FitzSaer said the babe died. Clearly that is true, for I see no sign of it.” He gave an exaggerated look around the room, as if she might have a cradle hidden under the bed or behind the clothing pole.

  Still, she did not speak, and he realized he would have to ask the question directly if he wished her to respond. “How did…the babe die?”

  He almost said “my son.” But he didn’t know for certain that the child was his. It was another question he must ask her.

  For a second she looked stricken. Then the cool mask slid back into place. “The babe was born dead. The cord was wrapped around his neck. The midwife said he strangled in the womb.”

  He refused to soften his gaze. Somehow he had to break through her formidable reserve. “If I bring the midwife here and ask her how the babe died, will she tell me the same?”

  Something flickered behind her opalescent eyes. He detected wariness, perhaps even a hint of fear. But when she spoke, her voice was calm and clear. “Of course. Go to the village and ask her.”

  “And the child,” he pressed. “Was it mine, or some other man’s?”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “It was yours. I felt it quicken ere Mortimer returned from London.”

  “What did it…he look like?”

  She rose from the stool, clearly agitated now. “The babe was good-sized. I carried him a full nine months. If not for the cord, he would have thrived.”

  “What color was his hair?” He could tell she didn’t like these questions. Her unease made him fear the worst.

  “His hair was dark. What else would you expect of a child begat of the two of us?”

  “What did you name him?”

  Again, that hesitation, as if she were deciding how to an­swer. “Simon. I named him Simon.”

  Simon. Not the name he would have chosen, but then he’d had little choice in any of this.

  “Was he blessed by a priest before he was buried?”

  “Of course.”

  In this, at least, he hoped she told the truth. But she still looked like a bird poised for flight.

  “There are rumors you killed the child.” He could barely say the words. “Is it true?”

  She turned away. He could sense her mind working as she struggled over her answer. The breath seemed to leave his body. Why does she not deny it immediately?

  She looked back at him, her stance defiant. “I saw an opportunity to torment Mortimer and I took it. I pointed at the dead child in the cradle and taunted him. I told him he would never have an heir of my body. I don’t know what he made of my words, how he twisted them. He was a cruel man. Although I was yet weak and bleeding from my travail, he beat me brutally. I nearly died that day, as well as the babe.”

  Her response increased his loathing of Mortimer, yet did not satisfy him. She had not denied she killed the child. And all along, she seemed to be choosing her words with care.

  He felt as if he would burst with frustration. There was no point in questioning this woman. He would not get the truth from her, at least not like this. Stalking to the door, he left her.

  ****

  Nicola winced at Fawkes’s footfalls echoing down the stairs. She wanted to rush after him and tell him clearly that she had not killed the child. But if she said more, she feared she would slip and reveal the truth. That the babe she’d given birth to hadn’t died but was living at Mordeaux Castle. Then she would have to somehow make Fawkes believe Simon was his son. But why should he believe her tale? It sounded half-mad even to her.

  Her thoughts traveled back to those nerve-wracking days. Only a fortnight before the babe was due, Glennyth had arrived in the middle of the night carrying a bundle. Nicola still remembered the horror she’d felt when the wise woman peeled away the blanket to reveal a tiny blue infant, the birth cord encircling its neck. Stillborn, Glennyth said. The mother had died a few hours later.

  But what was a tragedy for one village family was the greatest good luck for them. The babe’s father had been too sick with grief to take note of what Glennyth did with his dead son. Now, all they needed was for Nicola’s babe to arrive. Then they could spirit it away and bury the dead infant in its place.

  Nicola paced to the window, grimacing at the remembered pain. ’Twas no easy matter to make a babe be born before it was ready. When Glennyth gave her the potion, she’d warned if the contractions were too intense, Nicola could die. But the midwife offered no alternative. They could not wait until the babe decided to come on its own.

  It had seemed as if a beast was inside her belly, devouring her from the inside, and she’d been certain she would perish. So certain she’d made Glennyth promise that if she died, the midwife would still carry out their plan. She meant to cheat Mortimer of his hoped-for heir, even if it was from her deathbed.

  Nicola closed her eyes as she thought about the moment when her travail was over and she heard the babe cry. The way Simon had nestled on her breast with such heart-rending sweetness. She’d almost lost courage then, as she realized what she would be giving up. But then she thought about Mortimer and his terrible temper. And the possibility that he would change his mind and lash out at the son who was not his.

  That fear had kept her determination strong and allowed her to go through with the plan. And everything had gone perfectly. Sweet little Simon had made not a peep after his first birth throes. She’d tearfully kissed his tiny face. Glennyth had put him in her herb basket, covered him and carried him out of the castle.

  Then came the aftermath with Mortimer. She would never forget how his already florid face had turned a violent red when he saw the still, pathetic form in the cradle. Despite his obvious fury, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from taunting him, warning him that he would never have what he wished of her.

  She remembered the hatred in his eyes and how terrified she had been he meant to kill her. Perhaps he would have if she hadn’t swooned from the pain. When she regained awareness, he was gone. That was when she wept with despair. Aye, she had triumphed. Aye, her son was safe. But some other woman would have the joy of raising him, not her. Her swollen breasts would never suckle him. She would not see his first step, nor hear the first word he spoke. Simon. Her darling Simon. And to save his life, she had no choice but to give him up.

  Tears blurring her eyes, Nicola closed the shutters. For the past three years her life had been fraught with difficult choices, secrets that threatened to break her. Now Fawkes had come, bringing with him more turmoil. If only she could trust him. But how could she trust a man who seemed so angry and suspicious? From the moment he’d arrived, she’d sensed he was on edge. He should have been delighted to take control of Valmar without doing battle. Instead, he’d appeared dissatisfied, restless and wary.

  And there were the tales they told of him, the ruthless knight who’d killed a hundred men. How could she trust Simon’s life to such a cold, hardened man? A man who seemed so eager to believe the worst of her? Who clearly thought her capable of killing her own baby?

  She shuddered, then went to the door and called down for Old Emma.

&nbs
p; The maidservant puffed up the stairs. “What did milord want?” she asked, after catching her breath.

  Nicola returned to her place on the stool. “He asked about the child I bore three years ago. He asked if I’d killed it.”

  “Jesu save us!” Old Emma screeched. “He didn’t?”

  “Aye, he did.” Nicola exhaled an anguished breath. “We knew there would be rumors. I always feared someone would discover Simon was alive. But I truly didn’t consider how the other babe’s death would be perceived. Apparently there those at Valmar who think the worst of me, and they have seized upon this means to poison the new lord’s mind.”

  “You denied it, of course. Didn’t you?”

  “I was so shocked and distressed, I didn’t know what to say at first. Then all I could think of was that I must make certain he didn’t find out that Simon was alive. I told him the babe was born dead. But nay, I don’t think I ever actually said I didn’t kill it.”

  “By the saints, why not? What didn’t you deny doing such a terrible thing?”

  Nicola took an agonized breath and closed her eyes. Old Emma often said she was her own worst enemy. Once again, she’d proven the maidservant right. “I was so shocked. So angry. To think that there are people at Valmar who think me a heartless murderer. Mortimer was the monster, not I! I can’t help resenting Fawkes for listening to such terrible gossip. Ever since he arrived, he’s behaved strangely. He acts as if I am his enemy and deals with me as he would an adversary. He doesn’t trust me and always seems on his guard when he’s around me.”

  Old Emma snorted. “That must have made the bedding interesting.”

  “Interesting. Aye, it was that.”

  “By which you mean awkward? Unpleasant? What?”