by Sandra Lee
GOLDE FOLLOWED SPERVILLE into the baron’s chamber, then stumbled to a halt. Despite the little girl she carried, despite the urgency of the child’s welfare, she could do naught but stare. Delamaure was completely nude where he stood midroom.
Indeed, he was a large man. The flesh strapped over his rib cage vied with sinewed shoulders and arms for her attention. Not to be outdone, the banded muscles of his belly hailed her gaze, as did his—
A deep-chested, raspy eruption instantly reminded her of her mission. Plague take her ogling eyes. She realized Sperville was halfway across the great chamber, heading toward a tub, the only indoor tub, she’d been told. Confining her gaze to the floor, Golde sped toward it. If the baron’s small daughter did not gain immediate relief from her raging fever, she was like to die. The only alternative was the outdoor bathing barrels.
Golde caught up with the chamberlain just as he reached the bath. Heedless of her long sleeves, she dropped to her knees and immersed the little girl in the cold bath Sperville had prepared.
“Your forgiveness, my liege,” the chamberlain began.
“Speak up, man!” Delamaure bellowed over his daughter’s coughing.
Sperville cleared his throat. “I lied. ’Tis not morn, and I did not draw the bath for you.”
“Get rid of that racket. I can hardly hear you.”
Sweet Mother of God, Golde thought. Could the demanding baron think of none, save himself?
“’Tis your daughter,” she shouted.
STUNNED, GAVARNIE STOOD motionless. Anguish over Nicolette’s impending death bit into his very soul, gnashing and grinding until he was naught but a bloody pulp. Why was it that men knew not what they possessed until it was taken from them?
Had he not prayed day and night for Nicolette’s recovery this week past? Had he not pledged to make amends for his atrocious behavior toward her?
Why must Nicolette suffer, when it was Gavarnie who deserved God’s punishment?
Still, it was his chance to tell her . . .
Tell her what, his inwit demanded?
So sorry, Nicolette, but your mother spread her legs for another man. You are his child, not mine. That is the reason for my cruelty toward you these two years past. I hope you will forgive me.
Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie swore. What sort of man would burden a five-year-old with such on her deathbed? And that only to ease his own guilt. He might as well confess that he’d killed her mother while he was at it. Then mayhap Nicolette would be glad she was not his—
Abruptly his brow furrowed. His daughter? By his command, none referred to Nicolette as such.
Who would dare?
His lip curled. That voice.
The hellhag. Did she think to make him listen while Nicolette drew her last breath?
“Worthless get of a toothless serpent!” he roared at Sperville. “You will rid my chamber of that presumptuous she-goat this instant.”
Nicolette’s ragged coughing wheezed to a low gasp, and he heard water swish.
“I will need drying cloths, Sperville,” the hellhag directed.
Did no one hear him, Gavarnie wondered? “I forbid it!”
Another croupy outburst rent the air, and he edged his way toward the sound. Where was the dimwitted chamberlain? Why did he not respond?
The barking noise trailed away, followed by a weak moan. What was the hellhag doing to Nicolette? Had the child not suffered enough?
His knees bumped something solid and his hands connected with a head. Ha! The hag. He grabbed a fistful of braided hair.
“You will get yourself gone, wench.”
Water splashed and he tightened his grip on the braid as her head bobbed forward.
“Sperville,” she croaked.
Faith, but the woman reeked of sweat. Wrinkling his nose, he snapped, “The chamberlain will not help you.”
Abruptly he froze. She’d grabbed his—
“Sperville,” he ground between clenched teeth. Was the imbecile going to stand about while the woman castrated him?
Then his jaw dropped as another thought struck him. Surely the fool chamberlain had not abandoned his lord to obey the hag’s bidding and fetch a drying cloth.
Nicolette whimpered, the sound burning his ears and churning his belly. The rage that gripped him only added to his misery.
He clutched the thick, damp braid. Gladly would he sell his soul for a few moments of sight. He would hack his tormentor limb from limb. His thoughts conjured a pinched-faced, sour dowd. The warts on her chin would quiver with fear.
His grisly musings were interrupted when the dowd’s fingers tightened about his coillons.
By the rood, he would break the bitch’s wrist, he vowed, seizing her forearm.
“Only a fool would burn his fields to keep the crows away,” the woman grated over Nicolette’s mewling. She applied more pressure.
Gavarnie sucked air. Though he yet felt more discomfort than pain from her brazen hold, the muscle that bunched ’neath her skin bespoke strength and determination. Despite the large span of his hand, he was just able to close his fingers ’round her forearm. The wench must be the size of an ogress.
An image of a hairy, snag-toothed woman-beast captured his thoughts until he realized the flesh beneath his hand was sleekly smooth. A hairless, snag-toothed woman-beast, then. But the thick braid he clutched destroyed that vision as well.
Confused, and more than concerned with his position, he released her hair and arm, then loosed his pent-up breath when her hand left him. Moving backward, he stumbled over the uneven floorboards in his haste to remove himself from her range.
“Mi’lord!” Sperville called from the wardrobe across the room, his tone fretful. “Allow me to assist you.”
With each word the chamberlain’s voice drew nearer until Gavarnie felt a steadying hand on his elbow.
“I would sooner place my body ’tween the jaws of Fenris.” He jerked his arm from Sperville’s grasp. “Death from that monstrous wolf s bite is preferable to the misery you have visited on me this day.”
Stretching his hands before him, Gavarnie groped toward the wardrobe, intent on dressing himself. Sperville had done naught to aid him thus far, and he’d be boiled in oil before he’d ask the churl for help again.
“Mi’lord, I beg you,” the chamberlain persisted, and grabbed his arm.
Balling his hand to a fist, Gavarnie swung at the spot from whence the pleading issued. He would knock every tooth from the idiot’s head. But the chamberlain managed to avoid the blow, and as Gavarnie staggered forward, arms wheeling for balance, Sperville caught him. “Release me, fool.”
“As you wish, my liege.” The chamberlain loosed his hold.
Gavarnie straightened, then scowled. Though he’d regained his footing, he’d lost his direction. Which way to the wardrobe? Plague take his wife, Isabelle. Had she not taunted him with her infidelity, she would yet live. There would be no hag in his chamber, and he would not be forced to hear . . .
He titled his head and listened.
“. . . sweeting. All is well now,” the woman-beast soothed. “Be still that your fever may cool a bit more.”
“Don’t wanna be still. I don’t wike baths.”
The hellhag had stuck poor little Nicolette in the tub to rid her of fever? Of all the dullwitted—
He clamped his teeth together. ’Twas none of his affair. He would not allow himself to grow attached to the child at this point, not when she was about to die. ’Twould only bring him more misery.
“I am c-c-cold,” Nicolette spluttered.
He refused to acknowledge the stirring in his heart at the child’s chattered complaint. At least she’d quit that horrid coughing.
“What is a little cold to a girl as brave and strong as you?” the ogress queried softly. “I would swear the fairy queen, Titania, guards your soul.”
Her deep, velvet voice whispered in his ears like waves slipping ashore from the Solent on a warm, star-clad night, inviting him to t
ake his ease.
He shook himself. Concentrating on the matter at hand, he turned. Judging from the dowd’s voice, the tub was now behind him. The wardrobe should be ahead of him.
He shuffled forward, arms outstretched, until he stumbled into the bed. God be damned. He must appear the most incompetent of lackwits.
Inhaling deeply, he felt his way ’round the foot of the mattress, then paused. Frowning, he tried to recall the room’s dimensions. Only three months had passed since he’d last seen his private chambers, but it seemed an eternity. The thickly curtained bed stood in the center of the room, its smooth, polished posts near reaching the ceiling.
Unbidden, his wife’s glazed blue eyes surfaced in his thoughts, along with the memory of her dried, crimson-black blood where it had splashed over the sheets. ’Twas the last thing he’d seen before—
He lurched forward.
The wardrobe—its doorway should be a little to his right. He adjusted his approach accordingly, and within moments his hand struck the wall that separated the storage room from the bedchamber. He halted, and the dowd’s voice again captured his attention as she wove a tale of fairy lore for Nicolette.
“The walls of their little palace are made of spiders’ legs, and the roof of bats’ wings dipped in moonlight.” ’Twas devil’s magic that the hag sounded so alluring. Her voice swirled through his senses like a lazy cat’s purr. Lulled by her tone, he absently slid his hands along the coarse wooden partition, moving to his right.
“’Tis the other direction.” Sperville’s words pulled him from the woman-beast’s spell.
Unaccountably annoyed by the interruption, he groused, “If ’tis your wish to assist me, then place your scrawny neck between my hands that I may have the pleasure of strangling you.”
“Yes, my liege.”
Plague take Sperville and his droll retort. Gavarnie’s jaw clamped together and he reversed direction until he located the opening to the wardrobe. Edging forward, he breathed the tallowy scent of the beeswax used to polish his storage chests. Again he paused.
“. . . her gossamer wings of silver—”
“I don’t care about bat wegs and spidew wings,” Nicolette interupted, saving Gavarnie from falling victim to the ogress’s seductive voice a third time. “I hate baths.” Gavarnie focused on recalling which chests held his clothing. Whore’s gleet. How was he to remember what was where? He never dressed himself. His squire, Roland, performed that task.
But nay, Sperville had ordered the boy on some errand. Bending, Gavarnie swept his hands before him and lumbered on. Something would be done about the chamberlain’s disrespectful insouciance, he vowed. The gall, that the mutton-head had ordered his squire about. His hand struck a chest, and fumbling with the latch, he threw open the lid. Instantly the coppery scent of polished silver filled his nostrils.
A shiver crawled over his neck. ’Twas much the same odor as Isabelle’s blood. For a moment he could not force himself to reach out and close the lid, afraid of what he might touch.
Cold, viscid flesh.
Fool’s get, he chided himself. The chest contained no more than silver plate. The murder charges against him had been dismissed on the basis of Isabelle’s adultery. He was guilty of naught, despite that whoreson de War- renne’s insistence on a trial. Straightening, he swiped at the lid and heard it clap shut.
Still, his hands trembled as he sidled to his left, opening each chest he came upon. Moments later he found his clothes. Grabbing the first pair of braies and tunic he laid hands on, he fumbled about, dressing himself. At one point he was forced to sit, bare-assed, on the floor. But once finished with the task, he pulled on some boots and shuffled to the opening that led from the anteroom to the bedchamber.
“If you would be still.” The ogress’s tone held a forced sweetness.
“I am dwy awweady,” Nicolette rasped stubbornly, then coughed.
Take that, ogress! Gavarnie silently cheered. From whence had Nicolette acquired such mettle? Were the child not facing the throes of death, he would—
Nay. He would not allow his thoughts to run in that direction. If Nicolette lived, there would be time enough to make up for his mean treatment of her. Meanwhile, he had no intention of standing about and listening to her die, and he did not care if it was God’s punishment. He had suffered enough for Isabelle’s death.
Checking his bearings, he ran his hands along the framed doorway, then drew himself to his full height.
Ha! He had done it. He had dressed himself with no assistance. A smirk curled his lips. Nothing stood between him and the far bedchamber door, and he headed toward it. For the first time since he’d lost his sight, he would leave the room under his own power.
Then he would find his way to the great hall, by God, where he would command Nigel to see to the removal of the interlopers in his chamber. At least the steward had never failed to carry out his orders.
He’d taken no more than a dozen steps when a bundle was suddenly thrust against his chest.
“Your daughter, mi’lord,” the ogress snapped.
He stiffened and felt a corresponding tension in Nicolette’s small body where he clutched her. By the Blessed Virgin. He would not have the child die in his arms.
“A pox on you, hag. You will take this bit of stuff this instant.”
“My liege,” the chamberlain interrupted.
“Hold your tongue, Sperville,” he commanded, then continued to address the woman-beast in an icy tone. “Now that you’ve insisted upon involving yourself with the child’s welfare, you will care for her until—”
“Mi’lord!” Sperville blurted. “She is gone.”
Disbelief snatched Gavarnie’s voice. None dared walk away when he was speaking. Several moments passed before he managed to sputter, “Whe—wha—what mean you she is gone?”
“She has taken leave.”
Nicolette coughed fitfully. From near-forgotten habit, Gavarnie jounced her as he had when she was a babe, the same as he had jounced his sons, Ronces and Alory. “Fetch the hag back,” he demanded.
“I do not think she will return, sir.”
“’Tis not your duty to think. You will do as I bid or I will flay you hideless.”
“Yes, my liege, but what if she refuses to come?” Sperville’s misgivings were evident in his tone.
“Whore’s gleet, man. Bind her hands and feet, truss her like the Saxon pig she is. I care not how you go about it. But you will get her here. Now.”
Nicolette wheezed, and her tiny fingers clutched his shoulder. “Papa! She woo make you nose tuwn bwack and faw off.”
Gavarnie stilled. Despite his cruelty, despite the fact she was near death, Nicolette was still concerned for his welfare. Guilt rushed to clog his throat until he could scarce speak, though he was determined to ease her fears this once.
“No one can make my nose turn black and fall off,” he managed to choke.
But the child misread his tone, which sounded gruff even to his ears. Her fingers left his shoulder and her body again grew rigid.
He scowled. What had he expected? That Nicolette would magically comprehend his change in heart toward her? That the thought of her death made him realize how deeply he cared for her?
A pox on the cursed ogress. She’d accomplished in one day what he’d never dreamed possible. She’d made him more miserable than he already was.
The chamberlain’s voice broke into his reverie. “Mayhap ’twould be best—”
“Why are you not fetching the hag?” he demanded. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then affected his most reasonable tone. “Truth tell, Sperville. Do you simply wish for death, or is it your mission to render me witless with rage? I can assure you the latter will not come to pass. But if you will fetch my blade and direct my hand, I will cheerfully see to the former.”
Nicolette coughed raggedly, and again he jounced her.
“I was going to suggest I take Nicolette back to her chamber,” Sperville huffed, “and then fe
tch the hag.” Relief washed over Gavarnie. Escape was at hand. “Now, there is an intelligent thought.” Holding his arms out, he waited to be relieved of his burden.
Several moments passed with no response. “Well? What are you about now?”
No reply.
“Shiew Spewville—” Nicolette choked.
When the child said no more, he prodded, “Sir Sperville?”
“Gone,” Nicolette wheezed, then convulsed in a coughing spasm.
Rage boiled his blood anew. He jerked Nicolette to his chest and bounced her. He would murder the chamberlain. Yea, and he would do it by his own hand. He would have the spineless worm bound and staked to the whipping post in the bailey and carve his mean flesh to ribbons, then gut him while he yet drew breath.
“Sightless I may be,” he bellowed, “but I will have the pleasure of hearing your agony when I cut your heart from your spindly chest.”
“Pwease, Shiew Bawon,” Nicolette whimpered. “You awe shaking up my bewwy.”
Gavarnie froze. “You are going to be sick?”
He felt her nod against his chest and swallowed hard. What was he thinking with his bluster and blather? Nicolette could die any moment. The thought turned his limbs to mush until he feared he might collapse. Turning, he shuffled toward the bed where he could sit and hold her.
“ ’Tis not Shiew Spewville’s fawt,” the child whispered as he maneuvered along. “That witch took his wits.”
Was she frightened? Could she feel his terror at her impending death? “Witches are naught but the imaginings of simpletons,” he whispered back, though whether he said so to soothe Nicolette or himself, he wasn’t certain.
“She is a witch,” the child insisted. “Her hair is bwack and so is one of her eyes. The other eye is gween.”
Nicolette drew a shuddering breath. “She is skinny and taw as Shiew Spewville. And you could faw in a fit fwom her just looking at you.”
“Shh,” he coaxed gently. Faith, but it hurt to listen to Nicolette’s strangled voice.
He inhaled her little-girl smell, the scent reminding him of the joy he’d experienced at her birth. God bwess Papa. The words of her overheard prayer tore at his heart with the sharpness of a well-honed blade.
