by Sandra Lee
“Could you not leave notice of your whereabouts?” Sperville complained. “It has taken me half the morn to locate you.”
“Your forgiveness, my liege,” the steward apologized, his voice losing its distant sound. Clearly, the men had entered Gavarnie’s chamber. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
Golde heard the chamber door close and her spirits sank. Unless she wanted Gavarnie to know she was here, along with her boots, she was stranded.
“I received another message at the king’s reception.” Gavarnie spoke in a low tone, then paused.
Another message? Golde wondered.
Of a sudden, Gavarnie asked, “Why does my chamber smell of bull’s wind?”
Golde held her breath.
“’Tis probably pig’s wind,” Sperville sniffed. “Roland must have brought the odor with him when he fetched your clothing.”
“Pig’s wind?” Nigel queried.
“It matters not.” Sperville sounded annoyed. “I, for one, am most interested to know how and when his lordship regained his sight.”
Golde near dropped the boots. Gavarnie could see?
For a moment she felt numb. Then a lump clogged her throat.
He could see! The numbness was quickly replaced by a tingling sensation.
God had wrought a miracle!
“Y-y-you can see?” Nigel spluttered.
Golde hugged the boots to her chest and raised her face to the ceiling. Praise be to God. ’Twas wonderful!
“. . . scarce had a chance to explain before leaving Atherbrook,” Gavarnie was saying. “Nor did I wish to discuss anything in front of the men during the ride home. For all I know, one of them could be party to the plot.”
Golde jerked her head down from where she yet stared heavenward. What plot? And what messages?
Abruptly the stench from her boots invaded her nostrils and she realized where she was holding them. Scowling, she stuck the offensive boots out at arm’s length.
“But . . . you can see?” The steward yet sounded wonderstruck.
“He has already said as much,” Sperville snapped. “Cease interrupting, that our lord may tell us how and when.”
“’Twas the night of the attack.” Now Gavarnie sounded irritated. “’Tis of no consequence. What matters is whether or not I inform the king.”
“Why would you not?” Sperville asked the question, even as Golde thought it.
“’Tis the king who is trying to kill me.”
Golde clutched the boots tighter again, lest they fall from her fingers. The king was trying to kill Gavarnie? Surely, he was mistaken.
“You have lost your wits,” Sperville finally pronounced. “’Twould serve you well to avail yourself of Golde’s magical cures.”
“Golde’s magic,” Gavarnie ground. “She is the king’s agent in the affair.”
Golde suddenly felt as if the floor were spinning beneath her feet. She blinked hard against the dizziness. Had she understood correctly? Did Gavarnie think she was trying to kill him?
“However did you reach such a conclusion?” Sperville’s tone mirrored her own horror.
“Would you deny the attack on my person in the lane?”
“Of course not. But—”
“Consider, my dullwitted man, who lured me to the village that eve.”
“Golde? How could she know you would come after her?”
“She knew,” Gavarnie spat. “The conniving slut.”
Abruptly Golde felt as if a cinch were being drawn about her chest, choking the breath from her. She lowered her arms, uncaring that the boots dangled against her only clean tunic.
A conniving slut. Gavarnie’s words echoed in her head. But of course. What else would a man think of a woman who offered herself to him with such ease? She winced as embarrassment, raw and hot, prickled her flesh.
“The wench let it be known far and wide that she was casting fortunes at Sigi’s that day,” Sir Nigel mused. “It seems too neat for coincidence.”
“It is not possible,” Sperville declared. “’Twas I who approached Golde to come to Skyenvic not the other way around. Indeed, ’twas her great-grandmother’s services I sought.”
“Truth tell?” Gavarnie’s tone was mocking. “And how did you learn of Golde’s great-grandmother?
“Sir Varin—”
“Precisely,” Gavarnie hissed. “I’ll wager Sir Varin contacted you with the news he’d found someone to heal my eyes.”
“Allow me to finish” Spindleshanks snapped. “Sir Varin and I first visited Golde’s great-grandmother, a more crotchety old crone than I have e’er met. She was most displeased with her great-granddaughter’s ‘thimblerigging,’ as she put it. She agreed to heal your eyes if Í would bring Golde here, that the old woman could teach her a lesson.”
Golde’s breath knotted in her chest. Mimskin?
Mimskin had discussed her dishonest practices with Sperville? And now the magpie was confirming for Gavarnie that she was a fake, just as Gavarnie had thought that night at Sigi’s.
Her embarrassment intensified until she thought the entire wardrobe would glow red.
“. . . proves nothing,” Nigel was saying. “Indeed, Sperville, it sounds to me as if you were tricked into bringing the wench here. Unless you, too, are part of the scheme.”
“How dare you accuse me of such! His lordship can see, can he not? Meanwhile, who turned turned tail and ran the night his lordship was attacked?”
“Turned tail?” The steward’s voice shook. “I risked my neck riding full speed to raise the hue and cry.”
“Cease!” Gavarnie commanded. “Someone is trying to kill me. If it is not Golde, then who?”
“There is de Warrenne,” Sperville huffed. “His greed knows no bounds.”
Gavarnie scoffed. “De Warrenne has not the intelligence to piss with the wind. William would never trust him with such a deed. Nay. ’Tis that worthless Varin de Brionne.”
Golde’s belly felt so overfull, she feared she would be sick. To think Gavarnie had made her feel like a Celtic princess while she recovered from the beating at Maid Sigi’s. The memory drove knives in her heart.
“But Sir Varin has yet to arrive,” Sperville reasoned.
“All the better,” Nigel said. “He could scarce be convicted of a crime he wasn’t present to commit.”
“Think what you are saying,” Sperville implored. “The king has made a covenant with Sir Varin to have you killed? William could easily have rid himself of you upon Isabelle’s death by convicting you of murder.”
“Aye. But at the time, William thought my sight would return. Now he has recognized my blindness as more of a liability than he can support.”
“You do not know that for certain. Indeed, for all we know, it could be the king sending the warnings.”
“Pff. If that were the case, why would not William just tell me?”
“Aye, Sperville,” Nigel sneered. “Your reasoning strays beyond the limits of believability.”
In the pause that followed, Golde hugged herself. It felt as if her insides were being clawed and pecked by a host of black crows. ’Twas an effort to draw breath. Would that she could lie down and die where she now stood.
“Let us put Golde to the whip until she confesses all she knows,” Sperville finally suggested.
“Flog her?” Gavarnie sounded incredulous.
“Why not?” Sperville persisted. “She languishes in your bed while you sleep on the floor like a commoner. And all the while, she plots your demise. Indeed, once she confesses, you should stake her bleeding hide in the Solent that her death will be slow and tormented.”
Golde frowned. She should be frightened unto death, should be cursing Sperville’s evil nature. But somehow she knew. Strange, but she knew the chamberlain meant her no harm. She would wager her life on it. So what did he hope to accomplish with such talk?
“Wha . . . wha . . .” Gavarnie managed to stutter at last. “Are you daft? The wench is stubborn as a mule. Likely
she would ply me with naught but curses to her dying breath.”
“I have yet to see a man refuse to spill his guts under the lash. She is but a woman. Give her unto Fitz Simon. She will talk.”
“The idea has merit,” Sir Nigel seconded.
Golde narrowed her eyes. Unlike the chamberlain, the steward was more than willing to promote her death. She would bet her life on that, as well.
“I cannot allow Fitz Simon to question her,” Gavarnie snapped. “For all I know, my castellan is part of the plot.”
“Very well, mi’lord. You wield the whip and I shall see to the rest,” Sperville offered.
“Nay!” Gavarnie fair shouted.
There was another pause, and she imagined Sperville drawing himself to his full height, an insulted expression on his face. “I do not understand your reluctance to spill a little blood. Forgive me for saying so, but you sound squeamish as a maid.”
“Whore’s gleet. What if the wench is innocent?”
“You have just spent half the day convincing me of her duplicity. What matter if she is innocent? Are you willing to take such a chance with your life? ’Tis not as if she is royalty. None will ever know what became of her.”
“Sperville’s point is well made, mi’lord,” Nigel agreed.
Golde heard Gavarnie’s fist slam against the bedpost. “I will hear no more of this. Let us get to the business at hand. There are but two options for me. I can tell the king I have regained my sight, or . . .”
“Or what?” Nigel asked.
“Do not say it.” Sperville’s tone was disgusted, as if he knew what Gavarnie was about to say.
Gavarnie’s voice grew harsh. “Would you have me serve a master who has plotted my death? After all I have done for him?”
Sperville blew an exasperated breath. “The Danes have not the leader or the means at present to take England from William. You have said so yourself on many occasions.”
“Better to die like a man than lie docile with an adder.”
A keen sense of urgency roiled through Golde’s veins at Gavarnie’s words. Did he imply he would foment rebellion with the Danes rather than serve a king who’d tried to kill him?
She shuddered at the thought. Gavarnie could not hope to pit himself against William’s might.
“Whatever you decide”—Sperville’s tone was one of defeat—“I will remain your man.”
“As will I,” Nigel declared. “Doubtless, every man here will follow you, once they learn you have regained your sight. I confess, I was beginning to worry there might be those liegemen whose loyalty would waver.”
“You have heard whisperings of discontent?” Gavarnie asked.
“Nay. But I feared de Warrenne’s reasoning might poison the entire castle. Of course, now that you can see—”
“You will tell no one at present,” Gavarnie ordered. “Not until I have made my decision concerning the Danes. Meanwhile, I would have an accounting of my men and their armor.”
“Of course, your lordship.” Nigel sounded excited. “By your leave.”
Once the steward’s footsteps had receded and the door closed behind him, Sperville made a final appeal. “You are wrong, mi’lord. William has no designs on your life. Nor does Golde.”
“You will cease this whining,” Gavarnie snarled. “I would have an accounting of my coin, lest I have need of it.”
The heavy fall of Gavarnie’s footsteps followed the exchange.
“Where are you going, mi’lord?” Sperville asked, his tone disillusioned.
“I go to find Hesper. Golde practices trickery with my children, and the old woman knows the reason.”
Even after the chamber door slammed behind Gavarnie, Golde remained rooted to the spot. If she dared move, she would surely crumble into countless broken pieces.
She must return home. Yet the only place she knew to catch a ship was in New Market. And she dare not go there. The villagers would long remember her as a thief.
Caught up in despair, it did not occur to her that Gavarnie’s coin was kept locked in the wardrobe where she hid. At Sperville’s unexpected appearance, she started. The chamberlain jumped back, and they both gasped in the same instance.
Sperville recovered first. “Mistress! What do you here?” He wrinkled his nose. “And what is that smell?”
Shaken, Golde seated herself on a chest before she collapsed. “I came to fetch these.” She held out the boots in a lame gesture, as if that would explain all.
The chamberlain moved swiftly to sit beside her. Easing the boots from her fingers, he hurled them beyond the wardrobe into the bedchamber.
“Do not fret.” He patted the back of her hand. “Gavarnie is no fool. He will soon find the error in his thinking.”
Golde shook her head and stared at the floor. “Is it possible the king truly intends to kill him?”
“Pff! ”Twas de Warrenne who lured his thoughts in that direction. And it is de Warrenne who is trying to kill him. I’d wager my life on it.”
Golde glanced up. “Mayhap the Baron of Adurford has good reason to murder Gavarnie.”
Abruptly the chamberlain withdrew his hand, and his tone grew cold. “You have every right to be angry, mistress. But de Warrenne’s only reason for killing Gavarnie would be that he could gain control of Skyenvic.”
“Come, Sperville. I have supped with Gavarnie enough to know. There is much hostility between him and de Warrenne’s wife. Indeed, were you not present the eve Gundrada grew jealous over the attention Gavarnie paid me? When she peevishly demanded if there were a match in the making?”
The chamberlain stared at her as if she were a two-headed toad. “Gavarnie and Gundrada? Surely you jest.”
Golde felt her face warm. Had she drawn the wrong conclusion? “Why else would Gavarnie feel so bitter toward the woman?”
Sperville’s features puckered until it appeared they might be sucked inside his head. “I tell you, Gavarnie would sooner bed an eel.”
“She is comely,” Golde snapped, “both in face and figure. She is of the nobility. She is witty, and other lords and ladies seem to enjoy her presence.”
“Aye. She is witty. Witty like the Serpent of Eden. Her nobility springs not from Norman loins, but from Saxon. And her beauty can, and has been, bought. Gavarnie has never felt anything other than loathing for the woman. But while he respects her cunning, he feels naught but contempt for her husband, an arrogant sentiment that is about to get him killed.”
Golde winced and help up a hand. She could stand no more. “You must do something.”
“Indeed, I intend to.”
Golde eyed the chamberlain’s crafty features. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking what his lordship needs is a swift and hard kick. And I’m thinking you should be the person to dispense it.”
Golde shook her head. “I cannot remain at Skyenvic. Not now.”
“Exactly.” The chamberlain smiled.
BY THE TIME Gavarnie located Hesper at the laundry, he was seething, and the heat of the afternoon sun did little to cool him. Without Sperville or Roland, who was busy cleaning his armor, he’d been forced enlist Eustace as his guide.
’Twas galling to continue to be led about when he could see. Nor did he want the guard listening while he questioned Hesper. ’Twas none of the liegeman’s affair.
“Hesper can help me back. You need your rest.” He dismissed Eustace, who bowed and took himself off.
At his words, the old woman rose from where she bent over a tub. “Mi’lord, ’tis good—”
“I would know what deceit you and your mistress are about,” he snarled.
Hesper glanced about. “Are ye speakin’ to me?”
Gavarnie planted his hands on his hips. “Do you see anyone else about?”
The serving maid rubbed her hands nervously on her frayed apron. “What did ye say?”
“Do you think I did not hear your words in the bath house? You will tell me what goes on between Golde and my
children.”
Hesper’s gaze again darted about. “Golde and yer children?”
Gavarnie’s body trembled, so great was his rage. “Test my temper, and I will have you locked in stocks.”
Fear clouded the old woman’s eyes and her head began to shake. “Mi’lord, I don’t know what yer askin’ about!”
Gavarnie’s hands fisted on his hips. It took no little effort to not reach out and shake the serving maid until her secrets tumbled from her mouth.
“When you first entered the stall next to mine, you said it would not have been so difficult had my children ...”
Hesper leaned forward, her gaze fastened on his mouth, her brows raised expectantly. “Had yer children what?”
Gavarnie felt like tearing his hair from his head.
“That is what I am asking you! Your mistress interrupted before you could finish speaking.”
Abruptly Golde’s angry voice rang behind him. “Had your children not poured honey all over my garments and my person, the tunic would not have been so difficult to remove.”
He spun to face her where she’d drawn to a halt, Sperville at her side.
“Why do you not go find some hapless dog to kick, and leave poor Hesper alone?” she queried sourly.
His mouth worked, but the only word he could produce was, “Honey?”
“Aye. The children agreed to help me with the pig in exchange for my silence, that I would not tell you of their mischief. Meanwhile, Hesper has worked her fingers to the bone, scrubbing your sheets and my tunic.”
He glanced back to the serving maid, who was wringing her apron. “Me apologies, yer lordship.”
“’Tis no fault of yours,” Gavarnie muttered, fighting the sudden urge to slink away. “’Tis mistress who decided to keep the information from me, despite the fact that I have a right to know what goes on with my children.”
“Truth tell.” Golde’s tone reflected contempt, as Gavarnie’s had earlier when he used the same expression. “I suppose it matters not that the children resolved their problems on their own. Nor does it matter that they worked at a low task to pay for their deeds. Nay. You are duty-bound to demean them, because anything that cannot be beaten to submission is beyond you.”
