by Sandra Lee
Golde’s gaze shifted to Gavarnie’s dark, distant-looking eyes. What had caused him to lose his sight?
Though the world was full of people blinded by ill humors, the lord could not be included among them. Vision slipped slowly from victims of such maladies, and their eyes dripped thickly and grew callused with a milk- colored film. Delamaure’s eyes were clear as the star- glistened heavens on a moonless night.
Her brow furrowed. A blow to the head, then?
Mayhap he had foolishly gazed upon a glomung sun. Though ’twas well known that doing so caused blindness, there were e’re vain glorious coxcombs who challenged the sun’s power during its ecliptic daytime darkening.
But her bones told her Sir Gavarnie was not such a man.
“Well?” the baron prodded. “What say you?”
The boys were eyeing her with speculation. Doubtless, both were fomenting nefarious plots with which to entertain themselves at her expense. She shook her head until she realized the baron could not see her. “I have agreed to stay until Nicolette—”
“Pardon, your grace,” a voice sounded from the doorway. Golde turned to find the fair-complexioned steward standing there. “De Warrenne has arrived.”
A pox on Sir Nigel for interrupting before she could decline Delamaure’s offer. Golde returned her attention to the baron, but at the look on his face, words deserted her. Where before his jovial spirits had rendered him most approachable, his features now appeared etched in pitted flint. One would have to be bold indeed to gainsay him at present.
She glanced at the children. Alory yet squirmed in his father’s arm, though Ronces’ visage had grown stony. Slipping from the baron’s grasp, the brat moved to capture his brother. He whispered something in Alory’s ear, and a troubled expression claimed the younger bug’s sweet features. Both climbed from the great bed and moved to stand beside Roland, Alory clutching Ronces’ hand.
’Twas as if the devil himself had just been announced, Golde thought. Who was this de Warrenne, that he could breed such ill will?
“Welcome de Warrenne on my behalf,” the baron grumbled. “Serve him my finest wine and see he is fed. I shall attend him shortly.”
Sir Nigel bowed and disappeared from the doorway. For a moment Sir Gavarnie sat motionless, and Golde was certain ’twas despair that tinged his hate-darkened features. Then a muscle twitched in his jaw and he rose from the bed. Immediately Roland began fumbling with the laces of his tunic.
“Sir Sperville!” the baron thundered.
The chamberlain’s tone was yet disgruntled when he appeared from the wardrobe. “Mi’lord?”
Gavarnie sneered. “That whoreson, de Warrenne, has arrived.”
Spindleshanks’ petulant demeanor vanished and an icy mien settled over his thin features. “I can scarce credit the man’s effrontery. That he would dare impose himself on your hospitality so long before the tourney begins.”
The lord held up a hand. “He is shire reeve here and needs time to collect taxes before the king arrives. However, I would that you . . .”
No wonder this de Warrenne aroused such hostility, Golde thought as Delamaure issued orders. King William was indeed clever, having empowered the old English office of shire reeve to care for all royal affairs in the shires. ’Twas a most effective check in controlling his e’re rebellious barons, for one lord oft held the position of reeve in a shire that contained the estates of several other barons. In that way, they were kept busy fighting one another, instead of the king.
So caught up was she with her thinking, ’twas a moment before she realized Gavarnie’s gaze was scanning the room in her direction. Roland still struggled with the knotted tunic laces, the tip of his tongue pressed to his upper lip.
“Mistress, uh . . .” the baron began.
“Golde,” Spindleshanks supplied.
“Mistress Golde. If you would be good enough to see to the boys for a time.”
’Twas not a question. ’Twas a dismissal.
Golde shook her head. “Mi’lord, I cannot—”
Gavarnie spoke before she could finish. “Admittedly, I have presented you with naught but my black temper. I am e’re bedeviled with matters of state. However, I am much impressed with your treatment of my children. ’Tis a comfort to know they will never gut a person’s buttocks, nor will they ever oppose their opponents.”
Though his face held no trace of a smile, Golde’s lips twitched at his humor.
“And ’tis a miracle that Nicolette—” He paused and raised an imperious black brow when Roland gave a vicious yank at the cords of his tunic.
“Your forgiveness, mi’lord,” the squire begged, his face reddening.
Gavarnie nodded, and his gaze returned to Golde. “I would speak with you at length on your healing abilities at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, I would be in your debt if you would agree to take charge of Ronces and— Roland, do you seek to strangle me?”
“I cannot get the knots undone, sir.” The squire’s frustration was evident in his tone.
“Fetch a knife and have done with it, boy. De Warrenne is apt to steal the entire castle from under my feet before I am dressed.”
Golde glanced at Spindleshanks. He bobbed nods at her and made ushering motions with his hands. Closing her eyes, she conjured an image of the baron’s dark features, his alluring lips. Her thoughts skittered from the memory of his naked body as she’d seen him last night.
She took a deep breath, then gave her attention to the boys. Ronces eyed her with a graveness beyond his years. Alory lowered his head and avoided her gaze.
“Come along.” Golde held her hands out, inviting the children to take hold.
Pulling Alory along, Ronces strode forward and walked past her, ignoring her kind gesture. The brat.
Golde swept from the room and caught him at the head of the stairs as he prepared to descend. “Where do you go?”
“Wherever I choose,” Ronces sneered.
“Yea!” Alory seconded, grinning.
Golde raised a brow. “Then I suggest you choose the direction that will carry you to your sister’s chamber.”
“I am no babe to take orders from a nursemaid.”
“And if you will recall, I am no nursemaid with whom you wish to cross swords.”
Ronces stared at her with fullsome loathing. “Very well, hag. I will humor you this once because it suits me. But in future—”
His teeth snapped shut and he lost his hold on Alory as Golde grasped his shoulder and pushed him against the wall. “Call me hag again, boy,” she affected her most evil voice, “and you will have no future.”
Ronces gaped, his wide eyes unblinking. Golde decided he appeared much the way a fish looked upon discovering the bait it had fed upon was in fact a trap. ’Twas difficult to maintain an imposing facade when she desired nothing more than to giggle.
She released him and he sidled away, keeping his back to the wall until he was well beyond her reach. Then he grabbed Alory’s hand and bolted for Nicolette’s room.
Once they were out of sight, Golde grinned. The imp would think twice before challenging her authority again. She’d started forward when a wheezing sound distracted her. Laughter? Turning, she glimpsed Spindleshanks’ thinning pate just before the baron’s chamber door closed.
SEVEN
WHY MUST WE STAY in this sticky, smelly room?” Ronces demanded.
Golde halted her pacing at the foot of Nicolette’s bed and glared at the brat. Despite the midday hour, what little light the one narrow window provided scarce penetrated the gloom of the cramped room. Still, she could see sweat droplets, tiny crystalline balls, dangling from the tips of Ronces’ short-cropped hair.
Pointing at him where he sat on the floor near the door, she shook a finger. “If you wake your sister again—”
“She is not our sister!” Ronces shrieked, his body rigid, his hands fisted in his lap.
“No, Ronces,” Alory pleaded, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut.
Nicolette stirred, and scowling, Golde moved quickly to settle her. Smoothing the ringlets around the girl’s forehead, she studied the child’s face. Truth tell, Nicolette did not at all resemble Alory or Ronces. Her hair was not black, but light brown, streaked blond in places. Despite the pale wash of her skin, ’twas obvious her complexion would tend more to pinkness than toward the boys’ dark coloring. And the bones in her body were delicate and small-set as opposed to the brothers’ sturdy, thickset frames.
Golde frowned as Nicolette quieted. ’Twould explain much if the girl were the baron’s get of some serving wench.
She turned to inquire of Ronces what he’d meant when he’d said Nicolette wasn’t their sister. But the question never got beyond her teeth.
The brat had drawn his knees to his chest and rested his head on them, his knuckles white where he clutched his ankles. Alory had scooted to a corner with his back to the room. His shoulders were shaking.
Nay. Surely the bug was not crying.
A sniffle answered her question and an uncomfortable feeling settled over her. Children were distressing at best. Crying children were enough to send her screaming for the nearest cliff from which to jump. What did one do with them?
She strode forward to tap Alory’s shoulder. “You must not cry,” she gently insisted.
He whimpered and did not turn around.
She reached down to clutch his upper arm and tried to draw him to his feet. But he locked his muscles and would not budge.
Straightening, she crossed her arms and admonished, “’Twill sour your belly.”
A sniffle and a whimper.
“’Twill make your head ache,” she added.
Silence at last. And it had not been difficult at all. she had not realized she possessed any gift for dealing with children. Relieved, she addressed the bug in her most sage tone. “There, now. Things are not so grim when looked at through clear, dry eyes.”
A full-chested sob erupted, the discordant sound roiling through Golde like a tempest. Without thought, she swooped down and scooped the boy into her arms. “Hush, sweeting,” she soothed, cradling his tense form. “All will be well.”
Rather than calming him, her words seemed to make him cry harder, but she knew not what else to say. So much for her ability with children.
She looked to Ronces, hoping for assistance, only to find him peering at her from beneath lowered lashes. Tears tracked through the dirt on his face to wet his gray braies where he rested his chin on them.
What to do? Alory felt heavy as a boulder and she knew she could not long hold him. And it appeared Ronces’ dam might burst any moment and drown them all.
She lumbered to the wall, and using it to support her back, lowered herself to the floor beside Ronces. Adjusting Alory in her lap, she wrapped an arm about Ronces’ shoulders. Though he resisted at first, he finally allowed her to pull his trembling body close. Then he, too, dissolved in a weeping fit.
Golde felt like crying herself. Fine nursemaid she was. In less than an hour, she’d managed to transform two happy little monsters into wailing wrecks of despair. And the fault lay with their dimwitted father. He was to blame for charging her with their care. She had as much as told the baron she was incapable of keeping children. Had she any doubts, this proved her a dismal failure.
Absently she stroked the crown of each boy’s head. Poor dearlings. She could smell the salt of their tears. The scent of their dewy, youth-laden breath reminded her of a puppy’s, clean and unspoiled by the ripeness of age. Granted, Sir Gavarnie was blind, but could he not feel the anguish of his own children?
At last both boys snuffled, their bodies slack from their exertions. In the quiet that followed, Golde ventured, “Many children are born out of wedlock. Know you my meaning?”
Alory shook his head, but at Ronces’ nod she continued. “’Tis no fault of yours if Nicolette is not your full blood. Nor is it hers. You still share the same father.”
Ronces doggedly shook his head against her shoulder, obviously unconvinced Nicolette was not to blame.
Recalling the insults she’d suffered as a child, Golde chose her words carefully. “I am certain there are those who make sport of Nicolette.”
Both boys nodded.
“When I was a girl, people teased me. Most did so because they were afraid of my unwholesome appearance. But the cruelest were those who were jealous, for I possessed something they lacked; a loving father who was not shy about extolling my virtues to any who would listen.”
She’d intended to explain how their father loved them in the same manner, but was interrupted when Alory looked up, his puffy eyes filled with longing. “Did your mamma love you, too?”
Golde did her best to smile. “My mother died—”
Careful, she admonished herself. This was no time to speak of sad things. “I cannot remember my mother, though my father yet speaks of her with much devotion.”
“Papa does not speak thus of our mother,” Ronces grumbled.
“Ever’one says Papa kil’t Mamma,” Nicolette rasped.
Golde looked to see the girl sitting at the foot of the bed, dangling her legs over the edge.
“Cut her up in little pieces,” the girl added, shivering.
“He did not!” Alory screeched, trying to scramble from Golde’s lap. He grunted when she tightened her grip.
“I will hear no more of this foolish talk, Nicolette,” Golde scolded. “You seek to do naught but upset . . .”
Her voice trailed away as the import of the girl’s words struck her.
A chill curdled her flesh.
The dead woman in her vision. She was Gavarnie’s wife?
“It was that bad man, de Warrenne!” Alory cried.
The bug’s strident voice seemed to echo, and Golde trembled. Please, God, she prayed. She had no wish to see any more visions this day, or ever.
“De Warrenne killed Mamma,” Alory shrilled. “He’s going to take Papa from us, too. That’s why he’s here!”
Ronces pulled from her grasp so quickly, Golde had no time to catch him. Though he made no move to attack his sister, his tone when he addressed Nicolette was venomous. “A curse on you. Papa is not your father.”
“Liar!” Nicolette rose on her knees atop the bed. “Papa would of tole me if that was twue.”
“Why do you think he makes you call him ‘sir’?” Ronces sneered.
Nicolette planted her small hands on her hips. “That is the way wadies talk.”
“Then why is he so mean to you?” Ronces persisted.
A coughing fit seized Nicolette and she clutched her stomach. “He is not mean to me,” she choked, her face red.
“Enough!” Golde spat.
’Twas as if the entire world were suddenly spinning widdershins, leaving her dizzy and sick. She eased Alory from her lap and forced herself to rise.
Grabbing Ronces by the scruff of his neck, she hissed, “You will sit beside your brother and shut your mouth.” She shoved him down and turned her attention to Nicolette.
“Papa is not mean to me,” the child gasped. “’Tis only ’cause I am not a boy that Papa tweats me diff’went. Hesper says so.”
Golde moved to the bed and gently pushed on Nicolette’s shoulders. “You need to lie down and rest.”
Despite her small size and diminished health, Nicolette managed to resist Golde’s efforts to force her down. “Papa will see. I am better than Wonces or Alowy.”
GAVARNIE SAT at the head of the table in the great hall. To his right sat his guests, Walther de Warrenne and his wife, Lady Gundrada.
The shouted challenges, boasts, and raucous jests of men-at-arms that filled the hall did not disturb Gavarnie in the least. Indeed, ’twas a welcome excuse to ignore the indefatigable chatter of Lady Gundrada.
Besides, he could think of naught but Golde. An inte
resting name, he mused, rubbing the polished surface of a dragon’s head that ornamented the arm of his chair. Of course, he’d placed little faith in Sperville’s—Spindleshanks’, he reminded himself—glowing remarks on her striking looks.
He must admit, though, that the chamberlain had not done the wench justice in describing her as a sapling. Judging from the feel of her when he’d fallen atop her earlier, she more resembled the smooth sounding-wood of a finely crafted harp, curved to fit between the legs while resting against the chest and shoulder.
His groin had felt seared where it pressed her firm, rounded bottom. And when she’d scrambled from beneath him, he’d felt robbed. Had he his way, he would have lingered a while longer. Mayhap he would have brushed her breasts—accidentally—while finding purchase to maneuver himself from her.
And what would the wench feel like unclothed? He imagined his hands roaming over naked flesh. Her hips, her belly, her nipples . . .
He caught himself before he winced, then shifted forward in the great chair. A pox on his lecherous thoughts. Never had he experienced the sense of touch so keenly as he had while lying atop Golde. He ran his hand over the linen-covered table, searching for his chalice while making certain the cloth’s edge hung low enough to conceal his arousal.
“Roger de Breteuil has performed as lord at Chepstow beyond anyone’s expectations,” Lady Gundrada gushed, and he concentrated hard on her words. “Do you not agree, husband?”
At de Warrenne’s grunt, she tittered, the cloying odor of the lavender she wore thick as syrup in the air. “’Tis a shame Fitz Osborne did not live to see his son’s success. He would be pleasantly surprised.”
Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie thought. Was it not enough that he must entertain the Baron of Adurford? Nay, he must listen to the man’s wife prattle on about the obsequious Roger de Breteuil. Though truth tell, between Lord and Lady de Warrenne, Gundrada was more clever by far.
She’d chosen well in taking the Baron of Adurford to husband, he reflected, doing his best to avoid the thoughts of Golde such musings suddenly evoked. De Warrenne was a bull of a man with a reputation for cruelty, so ’twas surprising how easily Gundrada manipulated him. But then, not only did her youth and beauty stand her in good stead, she was most adroit at inflating de Warrenne’s opinion of himself—among other things, to be sure.
