Wings of the Storm

by Susan Sizemore

  His sweeping gesture took in the whole room. "Where else? I have Sir Stephan's permission to occupy these quarters when I'm at Passfair. He hasn't revoked his permission," he pointed out in his cream-and-chocolate drawl. "Or I could offer to exchange places with Hugh if you like."

  "That's not funny."

  "Fine." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "You'll find me an amiable companion, as long as I'm not disturbed. Do you think your woman will be back tonight?"

  "No," she responded, considering a moment after the word left her mouth that maybe she should have lied to him. She didn't want to be alone with him. Most of the time she didn't think he was interested in touching her at all. And then he'd look at her with a hunger that made her blood turn to molten lava. His actions totally confused her. She didn't know what to make of him. Right now he was showing no indication of approaching. He was being reasonable, if high-handed. She supposed she should try to be reasonable in return.

  "I shouldn't share my quarters with a man," she went on sternly. "People will talk. I have my reputation to consider."

  "Tonight no one will notice," he countered. He tugged the servant's pallet in front of the door.

  So much for her half-formed plan to escape undetected from the castle in the middle of the night. He unfastened his sword belt, laying it near to hand beside the pallet. Then, smiling teasingly at Jane, he pulled off the scarlet surcoat. The tight-fitting black undercoat emphasized his wide shoulders and narrow waist. Beneath the knee-length undercoat his legs were encased in soft leather boots that molded tightly to his muscular calves. He began to peel the undercoat off next.

  Before he could go any further she said hastily, "Good night," and disappeared behind the alcove curtain. Lying on her back, sensitized to his every movement, she tried to keep her nervous breathing as silent as possible. She tensed when his footsteps approached her doorway, only to gasp with shock when the candle flames were snuffed out. She heard the rumble of his chuckle as he moved away again.

  "Sleep soundly, Lady Jehane," he called from across the length of the room. "I promise not to try to kiss you good night." She didn't bother to answer.

  Soon she could hear the soft sounds of his breathing as he slept, .and she thought with frustration, Men! Did he want to or didn't he? One minute he ignored her, then he acted as if he wanted to seduce her, then he ignored her again. Was the man who kissed her in the corridor the same one who was sleeping so soundly in front of her door? Her body was on fire and her nerves were just about shot and she was furious at him for being asleep when she was ready to go out of her mind.

  Was he expecting her to crawl slavishly into his bed and seduce him? Did he want her, or had it been a momentary aberration? Did she want to crawl slavishly into his bed and seduce him? Yes, she admitted to herself. And no. She knew she wouldn't give in to the urge, even though it was close to overpowering her resolve for a few moments. Her senses felt singed, ready to burst into flame, but the chaste widow Jehane FitzRose was not going to compromise herself with a Welsh mercenary. No matter how much she wanted to.

  Did she want to? Really? An image other than Daffyd's rose up out of the darkness to haunt her with a sudden stab of fear. She could see the outlaw clearly, smell him, feel him. The memory wasn't as painful as it had been even a day ago. It didn't make her want to scream with terror and revulsion, but it served to dampen the longing she'd been feeling. Maybe, she reconsidered, I'm not ready to make love yet, even if I think I want to.

  So she lay in her lonely bed and turned her restless thoughts away from Daffyd ap Bleddyn.

  Never mind him, she told herself as her anxious thoughts returned to her more serious problem. What was she going to do about John?

  Obviously she had to get out of the castle before he arrived. But how? She could run off into the woods or try to flee by what passed for roads. Then what? Stephan would just come searching for her. Her disappearance would cause more fuss than her presence.

  She could tell Jonathan she would go with him. Would he want to stay for the king's visit or avoid him as well? He was a priest, but not one involved in the religious quarrel. Perhaps she could persuade him that for the sake of her soul she needed to get herself to a nunnery, fast.

  Her restless thoughts flitted to the image of Daffyd's beautifully muscled body as he stood only in his undercoat. She couldn't help remembering the time he had stood before her only in his skin. Her mind's eye wandered over every perfect inch of him. The memories tempted her to go to him now. The memories of Pwyll's rough hands and leering face kept her right where she was.

  It wouldn't be lying to Jonathan to tell him she had to get away from worldly temptation, she acknowledged, although she didn't know if it was her soul, or

  history, or her sanity that was more at stake. But she had to get away from here, and soon. Jonathan's offer was the most sensible, the least suspicious route. She would talk to him first thing in the morning, she resolved.

  She turned on her side and tried to sleep. She thought having a plan would ease her mind enough to let her get some needed rest. Instead she found her ears were tuned to every little sound coming from the storeroom. Her emotions were in a continued churned-up turmoil over the man sleeping by her door.

  She was aching with need. All her arguments couldn't make it go away.

  She hated admitting it to herself. It made her feel weak, and she didn't dare be weak. Not with Sir Daffyd, not with anybody. She'd already become too involved with the lives of these people. It would be the worst kind of folly to take a lover, to deviate one inch from the only safe course of action. She had to think of the future, not satisfying her own hopeless desires. One kiss could not make her change her mind.

  She rolled and tossed and turned on the narrow straw mattress for hours. Sleep didn't find her until nearly dawn.

  21

  She was awakened by the sensual drag of a hot, moist tongue across the base of her throat. Strands of long hair tickled her cheek. Jane rolled her head languidly, making a soft, pleased sound, and opened her eyes. The eyes looking soulfully into hers were brown, long-lashed, and grinned at her above a long-nosed white muzzle. The dog was lying at her side, its head thrust toward her face.

  "Nikki!" she scolded loudly. "Get off me!" The dog, ignoring her totally, rested its head on Jane's shoulder, with a loud, snorting sigh that seemed to say it was happy to wait here with its mistress forever, but that it would really rather be fed now, please. Jane's hand came up automatically to pet the animal.

  Jane's first reaction of chagrined annoyance faded quickly to faintly embarrassed amusement. What, she wondered, had she been dreaming to mistake the mutt here for, well, for, never mind. She shook her head back and forth on the pillow. She was very glad

  there hadn't been anyone else to witness her waking.

  "I wonder if Sleeping Beauty really happened this way." she inquired of the dog, whose silky, floppy ears perked up at her words.

  Sunlight streamed into the room from the narrow window high up near the ceiling. It warmed her cheeks; gold light bathed her eyelids. The mattress was comfortable, Nikki was a warm, friendly weight at her side. She drifted back into a languorous doze, only to be woken the next time by Vince, standing by the bedside, barking in her ear.

  She sat up straight with a startled, "What!" She looked around frantically, "Oh, my God! What's the time!"

  Why the devil hadn't Bertram or that useless serving woman woken her up! she railed angrily as she threw on clothes. Didn't they know the king was coming tomorrow? She had to talk to the cook. To Bertram. DeCorte. They would have to send to Canterbury for more flour. More everything. What was she doing staying in bed until the middle of the day!

  Then household details were eclipsed as she remembered something even more important. "I have to talk to Jonathan!"

  The dogs scrambled to get out of her way as she marched purposefully out of the sleeping alcove. She nearly tripped over Daffyd ap Bleddyn's saddlebags as she made for the door. Sh
e kicked them out of her way, then paused. What was he still doing here? Shouldn't he have ridden back to Reculver by now?

  She ignored her annoyance at Daffyd's continued presence. She had more important things to think about. As she came out into the hallway. Sir Stephan came clattering down the upper stairs. The slender young man was in full chain-mail shirt and coif. The iron rings practically danced from the speed of his loping stride. He came to a dead stop in front of her.

  "Jehane. Good. I heard the news not an hour ago. That idiot Wolf didn't want to disturb me! I can bed my wife anytime," he went on pragmatically. "It's not every day I've got a king under my roof!" He patted her shoulder. "The demesne's in fine condition, thanks to you. All will be well. At least I won't have to send messages to all the other nobles to attend the king at Passfair. They're all still here, nursing their sore heads. I've got to see to the guards!"

  He was off down the hall stairs without a backward glance. Jane stared after him, openmouthed, for several moments. By the time she recovered from his breathless vote of confidence—not sharing it, just recovered from it—Alais was at the bottom of the bower stairs, beckoning to her.

  "My lady must see you," Alais said in tones of urgent distress. "The poor lamb's so dreadfully distraught."

  Jane lifted her eyes pleadingly to heaven. All she saw were the low beams of the ceiling, still sooty from last night's torches. She figured she was on her own. "Coming," she said, lifting her skirts and starting up the bower stair.

  She had seen Sibelle distraught. The young woman occupying the window seat, twisting her wedding rings nervously, was perturbed, but a far cry from the hysterical maniac Jane had been afraid she would find. She gave Alais a sour look before going to Sibelle's side.

  "All will be well," she soothed, taking the girl's hands in her own. "It will only be for a few days. Think of the entertainment. Think of the honor our lord John does us."

  The girl's tiny, bow-shaped mouth thinned in an unexpectedly hard line. Her blue eyes snapped. "You don't understand, Jehane. King John's my kinsman, with no affection between his line and father's. The Angevin blood in our veins comes through bastardy. But we are kinsmen. I know nothing about King John. He must have been very young, or not even born yet, when Granny Rosamunde was at court. She never mentioned him. Father didn't take part in those quarrels a few years ago with Arthur of Brittany. He stayed neutral and tended his English lands. I know he worried afterward that not siding with anyone made him suspicious to everyone." She looked Jane worriedly in the eye. "Will the king be an enemy or friend to my lord because of our marriage?" she asked. "Is he spiteful? Or does he judge each man on his own merits? Have I brought trouble to my husband?"

  Oh, dear, Jane thought. She sat down beside Sibelle and continued to hold her hands comfortingly. She didn't answer immediately. She couldn't. She had to make a decision. The Angevin empire and the early Plantagenets were her special field of study. She knew more than she wanted to about the mean-spirited, spiteful, cowardly, lecherous, and treacherous king who was on his way to this out-of-the-way demesne. But she couldn't bring herself to explain anything about John to Sibelle, not even that he had a preference for young, lushly endowed women. She couldn't give Sibelle any advice because for all she knew the next few days might prove terribly important to the history of England. Just because she'd never come across a reference to Sir Stephan DuVrai or his lady Sibelle didn't mean they didn't play some pivotal role in some unchronicled power game. Not every day of a king's life was chronicled, after all.

  "I hope everything will be all right," she said at last. "I know nothing of John, either. I was born in another land." She took her hands from Sibelle's. "I have so much to do. Excuse me, my lady."

  She felt like a complete and total rat all the way through the hall and onto the hall steps. She took her mood out on the first deserving creature she saw as she walked out into the bright but cool day.

  "Ap Bleddyn," she growled loudly at the man just putting his foot on the first step, "what are you still doing here?"

  He gazed up at her, his mouth opened in stunned shock. Then he peered closer, squinting curiously, as if not quite sure who was speaking to him.

  "Why aren't you in Reculver, or chasing brigands?" she demanded. "Instead of leaving your belongings all over my room?"

  He bounded up the two steps. "Lady Jehane, you startled me."

  "Tripping over your saddlebags was a startling experience for me as well."

  "To answer your question," he went on, sweeping his arm to take in the whole of Passfair, "I brought my men here yesterday. And here we stay as extra guards for the king's household until he chooses to leave the dangerous environs of Blean. Our lord John," he added, "is a very careful man."

  "Mmm," she mumbled. "So you'll be sharing my quarters for the duration?"

  He gave her his most rakish smirk. "Does my presence disturb you so very much, sweet Jehane?" He lifted his fingers as if to touch her cheek, then seemed to think better of it. His hand dropped to his side.

  She ignored the flirtation, if indeed that was what it was. "Will the king stay long?" She was mentally counting livestock and other supplies.

  "As long as the game holds any sport for him," was Daffyd's ambiguous answer.

  At least they'd have deer for the table. "Looks like those hounds will finally be earning their keep," she commented, glancing toward the kennel and dog runs she'd had rebuilt to hold the royal hounds Stephan was responsible for. She had two boys keeping the kennel now, making sure they were well tended.

  "Perhaps not," Daffyd replied, following her gaze.

  She gave him a puzzled look. "The king will be bringing his own hounds, I suppose?"

  He nodded solemnly, running a thumb along his jaw. "The quarry he's come to hunt isn't deer, Jehane, but men."

  She stared at the Welshman, profoundly disturbed. "What? What men?"

  "Sikes and his outlaws. Who else? He's heard about our local problem and thinks to give his bored warriors some sport."

  She swallowed bile. "A manhunt?"

  "He's bringing Louvrecaire and his routiers."

  "I've heard of Louvrecaire," she said grimly.

  "A hellhound to chase a few starving outlaws." His tone was as grim as hers, edged with bitter anger as well.

  "I must talk to Jonathan," she said suddenly, speaking the thought aloud.

  Daffyd's expression turned from revulsion to mere annoyance. "Whatever for. Lady Jehane? Seeking the most ardent and well favored of your many suitors, perhaps?"

  "Suitors?" She gave him a pained look. "I don't want suitors. Besides, Jonathan's a priest."

  He rested his hand on his sword, his whole manner casually unimpressed with 'the news. "I've known many a man whose father was a good priest," he said.

  He had a point. "Jonathan isn't like that," she said, defending her friend. "Have you seen him?"

  "He's in Passfair village, I think."

  "Thank you." She hurried toward the gate. To her annoyance. Sir Daffyd ambled after her.

  Before they reached the main gate two guards came running up, one in Sir Daffyd's colors, the other a Passfair man. "Riders approaching!" both men shouted excitedly.

  Sir Stephan rode into view from the paddock. He stood in his saddle to get a better view of the road. "Riders," he confirmed. "DeCorte, gather an escort!" he called to the guard sergeant as he came running down from the platform circling the keep's outer wall.

  "Yes, Sir Stephan."

  Jane could just make out the large cloud of dust coming up from the road off on the horizon. Riders. Lots of riders.

  She swung accusingly on Sir Daffyd. "I thought you said tomorrow."

  "You coming. Wolf?" Stephan called. Sir Daffyd shrugged. "I was wrong." He loped away, toward the stables.

  Jane sat down on a bench near the inner gate.

  There was no getting away before the king's arrival.

  She considered crying.

  22

  It wasn't that
bad, Jane repeated to herself from the farthest shadowed comer of the hall, where she sat with three of the serving women at her side. The girls kept throwing nervous glances at the lecherous group of a dozen or more rentiers gathered nearer the hearth. The women were with her because their lowly station didn't allow them the relative safety of the bower. Nor could they run, like the village girls, to the haven in the woods Switha prepared for such occasions.

  Besides the half dozen nobles and their thirty or more retainers, and all the servants it took to keep a royal establishment functioning, the king had brought the group of mercenaries now being quartered in the hall. The king and his court were enjoying the May air in the comfort of luxuriously appointed pavilions. The local nobles had been granted one large tent for their own use. This mark of royal favor helped clear the hall for the scum who'd settled in as if they owned the place.

  It wasn't that bad, Jane silently asserted again, sparing a reassuring look for a girl with a large, purple bruise in the shape of a mailed hand covering one side of her face. The cause of the bruise had been the girl's unwillingness to be bent over a table and raped. One of Sir Daffyd's men had put a stop to the assault, but not before getting a knife cut across his arm for his efforts. So far, Jane couldn't see any difference between these notorious outcast mercenaries and the men they'd been brought here to hunt.

  The women had come to her asking for help. Reasoning that there was safety in numbers, and hoping that her rank gave added protection, she'd kept the women by her side as much as possible for the last two evenings.

  The men were lewd, filthy, and vicious, but she preferred their presence on the far side of the room to any sight of King John. So far she'd been lucky. He'd been at Passfair for three days and she'd yet to catch sight of him. She knew she was lucky to be a small fish in a small pond. Her duties were unimportant, her rank only that of a knight's widow. The chances were good there would be no interaction between herself and the king of England. Her fear of doing something to change the future was beginning to abate.