by Geri Borcz
"This day's near done," Juliana said. "Time is short. But I'm not betrothed until Malcolm arrives."
Juliana started to follow the maid out.
"Where do you go now, my lady?" asked Agnes.
Juliana halted mid-step and lifted her arms from her sides, palms to the ceiling. "If I spoke with my father, throw myself on his mercy and beg him to reconsider?"
"Wait a bit," the nurse said, "and no doubt you'll hear his summons. He's closeted himself in the solar with your brothers, and is less than happy about leaving the countess's chamber." At the questioning glance thrown her way, Agnes nodded her head for emphasis. "Makes for juicy gossip amongst the castle."
"Is he that smitten?"
Agnes's head bobbed again, and she fidgeted with her tight wimple. "Though, did he not summon you to his presence this night, I'd wait, before I thought to interfere with a stag at the rut. Aye, disturb him and more like he'll cleave your head first and repent later."
At a loss, Juliana switched directions and paced across the chamber. Her breezy wake agitated the tallow candle flame, and a renewed burst of acrid smoke spiraled to the wooden rafters.
"By Heaven," she said. "I must do something, else I go as a lamb to the slaughter. My father and Roger and that damnable Scot, they'll keep their unholy alliance over my rotting corpse!"
"A thought Malcolm has likely savored over the years," Agnes mumbled.
Juliana's eyes widened, before she pierced the nurse with an impatient glare and planted her hands on her hips.
"You're of little comfort, old woman. Roger claims he does this not in reprisal for a foolish prank--Hah--but to secure land. My mind was too addled to think when Roger refused to share his reasons why one gains more from wedding me than the other. But I'm not yet the simpleton my brother assumes."
"By wedding you, Malcolm gains your land--"
"As Iain would, but do you not see? Malcolm is far more useful to his king. I thought my father tolerated that slimy weasel to keep peace along our borders. I never dreamt he considered allying with that dishonorable oaf."
"A man needs many allies to fight enemies," Agnes agreed, fingering the stains on her limp bliaut.
Juliana resumed pacing and thought aloud. "But it requires a formidable ally to fight a formidable enemy. . . that's it. Roger thinks to pit the devil against his right hand."
"You're too hard on yourself, my lady," said Agnes, smoothing the lavender fabric across her knees. "Stubborn you are, aye, and often times mischievous--"
"I meant Adington," Juliana drawled.
"Oh. . .the old toad." Confusion ran rampant across Agnes's plump wrinkles.
Juliana snorted, nettled by the reminder of her stupidity. But her tongue would rot off before she admitted to Agnes that, during their earlier conversation, she didn't know Rhys and the old toad were one and the same. That would prompt questions she'd prefer not to face.
"You were closer to the truth than you realized," she added. "My dowry borders his holdings. How better for Adington to ease the way to my father's consent than through me?"
A fresh rush of humiliation heated her face.
"If he knew my Lord Roger would oppose him, you can not fault the old toad for being a smart man."
Juliana rolled her gaze heavenward. She'd find no sympathy here--the old nurse championed Adington, and she was determined to ride this horse until it died.
"He knew," Juliana said, then murmured, "with blue eyes, curse him."
Agnes clapped her pudgy hands together.
"So you'll take Adington, instead?"
"Not likely."
The nurse deflated, then perked up with concern. "You didn't blind the man with soap, did you?"
Juliana thought of all that she'd touched and admired during his bath. The breath stealing force of his gaze when, upon turning to wash him in earnest, she'd seen the way his eyes devoured her. The raw, male power emanating from him. And her brazen reaction. It wasn't fair for a man to exhibit that much appeal.
"Pity I didn't think of that," she grumbled.
"He didn't impress you?"
"Not one whit," Juliana lied. "And I'll not hear that insufferable lout's name mentioned again, so do not say it." She slapped the heel of her palm to her forehead. "God's teeth, what a dolt."
"Er, the one whose name I dare not say?"
"Him, too," Juliana shot back. "But, nay, I meant me. I'm no better than an addle-pated twit. Though Adington uses charm rather than force, do not mistake it, he's no better than Malcolm. He, too, seeks his own gain, and woe to those in his path. Men and their tricks; I should carve out their livers and feed them to the ravens."
Her shoulders slumped and her raving subsided. "To his own purpose, Roger would keep the land from him, but Rhys is a king's man, Agnes. No doubt he brings royal pressure, the greedy lout. So I am to wed. Oh, this is all his fault, God rot all men."
"Oh, aye, his fault," Agnes said. She rubbed her fingertip against her jowls in contemplation. "Malcolm or him?"
"Betwixt hell and purgatory," Juliana cried. So caught up in her worried thoughts, she didn't hear the growing rumble that carried in the corridor. She poked her chest. "Neither want me, but I go with the land. What do you say to that sorry state?"
"'Twould seem my Lord Roger has made his choice." Agnes raised her rotund figure from the chair and ambled to the clothes trunk at the foot of the bed. "You know the brute, Malcolm, so were I you, my lady, I'd look to. . ." Her last word died in a sing-song hum of three syllables.
Juliana glowered at the cunning woman--the nurse managed to convey Adington's name without speaking aloud.
"Rhys thought to use me once," she said. "I'll not give him another chance. And by God and all His Saints, I'll not reject one greedy man, only to be saddled to another."
"Even amongst louts," Agnes muttered, "I'd think an English one a better choice than a Scot." She lifted the wooden lid and rummaged through the contents. "What shall you need?"
Juliana's hand flew to her mouth, and she gasped. "I won't worry what to wear for Malcolm."
How did things become so complicated?
After months of weighing the lonely options of widowhood, she'd pondered long and hard on a husband acceptable to her family, but more important, a husband acceptable to her. Iain paid numerous visits and had shown an interest in her. Juliana assumed that as a younger son, he, as her first husband had, would agree with her decision to reside in her father's household. It was a simple plan.
She'd envisioned her life continuing in the same vein with the pattern unaltered by the addition of another man, thus had arisen this morning anticipating her father's arrival. Now, her plans lay shattered at her feet, and she faced an uncertain future. Fear and desperation fueled her courage.
"Malcolm can wonder at my absence," Juliana cried. "And know I refuse him."
Agnes snorted, her head buried in the chest. "'Tis the lot of women. Think you're the first who wished not to part with her land, or the first reluctant bride? If you wish to retain your good health or the use of all your limbs, my lady, use your wits. The betrothal takes place with you or nay." She straightened and held up a gown for perusal.
At the suggestion of physical coercion, Juliana's face felt slack. Neither her father, nor Roger had ever raised a hand or beaten her into submission. Could she predict their actions any longer? Her faith in what she'd come to know wavered. One blow from either of them might maim or even kill her. Dare she risk testing their mettle with defiance? Her mouth grew dry, her palms slick.
Agnes studied the gown and clicked her tongue. "Need more sturdy." She tossed the clothing aside.
A roaring bellow split the air, rattling the furniture like a thunderclap and dragging their attention to the jabbering that echoed through the corridor. Juliana recognized her father's temper and ran to the door.
Oliver's face stared back at her from the other side.
"Marta summoned me," he said, surprised. "But I'd have come anyway. Your father bid m
e tell you to come before him, in the solar, in a quarter hour."
At times Oliver's constant attendance proved a nuisance, but at this moment, he bolstered Juliana's courage. She threw her arms around his neck and received a squeeze in return.
Oliver fidgeted inside the doorway, his hesitant, but lyrical voice floating into the room. A shock to hear, but in the clarity lay the far greater significance--crisp, even tones untouched by the thick slur of spirits.
"Ana? Would you speak with me?"
"I'll listen," she said, forgetting her earlier ire toward him in the wake of her current problem.
"I'm sorry," he said, plowing his fingers through cropped strands above his ear. "Please believe me. I never meant this to happen."
"I, too." She sighed and turned away to slump into the chair. "This time, Oliver, we've put ourselves into the brine."
From in front of the chest, Agnes gave an inelegant snort, but neither knew whether she directed it to them or to the clothing that she discarded onto the edge of the bed.
"This morn was a jest to prick your temper," Oliver said, blushing to his roots. "A poor one I realize now." Agnes snorted again, but he ignored her. "I never dreamt Roger would single you out for such a vile punishment."
Juliana studied the slender man, younger by two years, and marveled anew at the difference. Like a golden god with eyes the color of a new leaf in spring, Oliver stood apart from the rough and tumble coarseness typical of the men at Stanmore. His hair shone like liquid sunlight in the candle's glow, a handsome man in a boyish way, but with a grace to his demeanor and a softness of spirit too elusive to fit the mold of wenching, brawling knight upon which Roger insisted.
"The fault is mine," she said, waving a dismissing hand. Then her eyes narrowed on his blue tunic, one she'd sewn him from the same bolt of rich cloth that she'd used for a gown. "Have you naught else to wear but that?" She fought the urge to rip off the offending color and stomp it into the planks.
Oliver stared down his front. "I thought you liked this tunic best." He raised a questioning gaze to her.
"The shade pales," Agnes offered and stepped close to Juliana, and mumbled, "He may be of use," before waddling back to her chore.
Oliver shrugged, stepped into the room and eyed the mess that the maid cleaned. "'Tis little wonder you didn't hear my knock. With the ranting up here, you'd not hear the roof crumble before it hit your head." Unable to sit comfortably, he flopped across the bed, angling his body on his good side. "'Tis almost as bad as what comes from the solar."
"Must everyone know?" Juliana said. "Are they all privy to what befalls me?"
He nodded. "To Roger's ire, the castle's abuzz. I'm sorry it isn't Iain."
"Wits of a dung heap," Agnes muttered with an emphatic nod.
Oliver shrugged. "News travels fast." He leaned up on his elbow, crooked his knee and winced.
"Do you think my father will listen to me?"
"Too difficult to say. You know Earl Baldwin often defers to Roger's counsel."
"And Roger loves me."
"By the Rood, Ana," Oliver exploded, bounding off the bed. "Do you hear yourself? This is Roger's doing. He lost the ability to care for anyone at the same time he lost his handsomeness. Like the twisted flesh in his face, his soul is carved with scars. Hate and opportunity now rule Roger's actions. Do not fool yourself; he's incapable of a softer emotion. Think. Men do not fear your brother, nor consider him a worthy opponent because he allows his emotions to lead."
Though her heart cried out to deny Oliver's words, Juliana heard the truth and knew herself a pawn in a deadly game.
He gave her a quick and curious green stare. "And you've not spent the day watching for him to stick a blade to the hilt in my lord of Adington."
Hearing the tint of sympathy for the land-hungry lout, Juliana glared at her cousin and crossed her arms over her chest. "I was otherwise detained. 'Tis a pity I missed it."
Oliver's cheeks pinkened. "S'truth, you were spared. Though the man's demon look could freeze a witch, I've heard naught against him."
Demon look? Why, she thought Rhys the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Juliana winced.
"Adington's blackness reflects his heart," she countered.
Oliver shook his head and his tone sobered. "Still, more than any other, Roger hates this man, despises him. It's there in his eyes."
"Agnes?" Juliana faced her nurse. "What do you say?"
The old woman closed the flap of a leather bag.
"Speak with your father," she said. "But if naught has changed, and you'll not consider Ading--er--the other one, then Sir Oliver may atone for his earlier mischief by seeing you safely to Bekton Abbey."
With disbelieving eyes, Oliver faced the old nurse who calmly sealed his death warrant. His face paled. Sweat drenched his hands. He pulled at his stifling tunic neck band and shifted his feet with growing unease.
"A convent?" Shock widened Juliana's eyes.
Marta dropped the tray of debris she'd collected, all but dousing the coals in the brazier with the load.
"Aye, you'd make a poor nun," agreed Agnes, shooting a glower to the maid. "But where better to gain time and ponder your situation, my lady? No man will dare breach the church's sanctuary."
She punctuated her words by placing the small bag she'd packed for Juliana atop the table, next to the uneaten food.
"Do not be hasty," said Oliver, palms up. "Wait to speak to your father, Ana."
Juliana recovered and pushed an errant tendril of hair behind her ear. Then, she locked her gaze with Oliver.
"And if he stands fast with Roger?" she said. "What then? You know Malcolm, think he'll deal kindly with me?"
Silence.
"Nor do I," she sighed.
She shook her head and moved back to stare out of the window. Malcolm, she dare not wed because she feared his cruelty; and Rhys, she dare not consider because she feared betraying Roger. He'd kill Rhys.
Worse than her brother's bloodlust, Juliana feared for her heart--Rhys wanted her land, not her. She shriveled inside at the thought of being pushed aside by him, while he bestowed his favor upon another woman, the woman whose name he'd said with such affection.
"Agnes has the right of it," Juliana said with her back to the room. "If all else is lost, I can reason with my father from behind Bekton's peaceful walls."
"Do you know what you ask?" snapped Oliver, raking his fingers through his hair. "Cousin or nay, for crossing him, Roger will take delight in drawing out my death to show me every agony. Mother of God. The man favors blinding and castrating. He'll flail the skin off my body, use me for target practice, and with any luck to my favor, use a dull blade to slit my throat. 'Tis a less than pleasant thought, cousin!"
Juliana swiveled to him, a fierce determination shining in her eyes. "Little in life comes to us without risk."
"But this is no game!"
"I realize 'tis our lives at stake. But should I fail to persuade my father, I need aid to leave here undetected, dear cousin. You know the twins are too cowed by Roger to be of use to me. You and I, Oliver, we've always stood together. I'll not fault you if you wished to refuse this once, but I must seize this chance."
His face took on an uncharacteristic hardness at her soft inquiry and beseeching eyes.
"Oliver?"
He studied the floor, watchful eyes upon him. After a moment, he raised his gaze to her, a serious glint in his green eyes. In the candle's soft glow, he seemed to shake off his laxness and assume a straighter stance.
"We may come to regret this," he said. Then stronger, "Aye, a pox on Roger and all Scots. If you have need, I'll see you reach a safe haven."
~~~~
CHAPTER 5
Rhys hadn't tarried long in the stables before Serle brought him a summons to Baldwin's presence. Suspicious, but nonetheless ready for the confrontation, Rhys and the other two knights followed the squire into the keep, where the lad directed them above stairs.
He crossed the thre
shold and stepped into Stanmore's solar, meeting a hard silver stare across the far end of the chamber. Bracketed torches threw a revealing light upon whitewashed walls, where colorful tapestries hung. They surrounded the assembled group, but lent no cheer to the rugged faces that watched him enter.
Alain and Costin followed behind and, once clear of the door, angled themselves to either side of him--a defensive posture to guard his back and still keep a clear view of the room's occupants.
A move not unnoticed by Baldwin. Rhys noted that from the bushy brows that arched and lowered, before silver eyes again narrowed upon him. The old earl sat in a high-backed chair, braced in front of the warmth of the blazing hearth. Rhys returned his stare and advanced into the room.
To the right, Raimund stood at the end of a table with his arms crossed at his chest. Next to him, Rowland edged back against the wood, half leaning, half sitting, with his hands resting near his hips. Their expressions mirrored each other, a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
On the left, Roger stood with feet braced apart and one arm at his side. The other arm bent to his waist, with his thumb and forefinger clasping his belt, while his palm rested on the hilt of his sword. His gray eyes glistened with hate.
The earl's gaze darted back and forth to his eldest son, a silent communication that raised the hairs on Rhys's neck.
Absurd though it seemed, he sensed that not all the ill-will, so evident in the room, was aimed toward him.
A sneeze and a sniffle, from the bony priest who stood behind Baldwin's chair, cut through the strained silence. Rhys stopped a few steps in front of the old earl and nodded to him, a bare movement of his dark head. Instead of offering a cordial greeting and a few words of good wishes on his recent marriage, Rhys cut to the heart of the matter.
