by Sandra Lee
“Aye,” he growled. “And I would not have to ride around in the dead of night were it not for the precautions I must take to ensure against another attack.”
If she had been angry before, she fair seethed now. “You are a fool to take such risks. Think you any matters are more important than your life?”
“What would you suggest?” he returned hotly.
“Should I clothe myself in full armor day and night? Lock myself in my chambers? Mayhap I should surround myself at all times with a contingent of liegemen.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “’Twould be dimwitted, I suppose, to attempt to determine who is conspiring against me, that I might rid the earth of their wretched hides.”
Abruptly her features crumpled and she turned away.
Christ’s bones! She made him feel lower than a worm’s belly. And he had done naught.
He took a deep breath, prepared to command her to wipe the broken look from her face, then clamped his teeth together. Witless get of an idiot. He was supposed to be blind. But God’s blood, her actions were becoming more annoying by the moment.
Careful to speak evenly, he inquired, “What is this sudden concern for my welfare?”
She glanced around, and he froze at the naked despair mirrored in her eyes. He ordered his features to remain blank, to show no hint of shock, while his thoughts scrambled to make sense of her misery. She could not possibly summon such a bleak look on command. ’Twas as if death had claimed her closest kin.
Ignoring his question about her feelings for his welfare, she asked, “Did you not wish to speak with me?”
It sounded as if she were about to cry, so low and husky was her voice.
“’Tis not so important it cannot wait,” he mumbled, unable to ask any questions that might further disturb her.
“Then, by your leave.” She rose and headed for the door.
“A moment,” he called, anxious for her to stay a little longer. “Are you not interested in the events at Atherbrook?”
She did not break stride. “Perhaps some other time.”
“You do not wish to hear how John, the Mad Breton, entertained us?”
She paused at the door and he hurried on, unaccountably desperate to cheer her. “It seems his wife had flown into a rage when he’d danced with a serving wench the night before. She’d thrown his clothing out the window of the second-floor hall and refused to fetch them for him the next day. You can imagine her embarrassment when he took his seat for dinner, wearing not a stitch, remarking on how drafty he found the king’s castle.”
She glanced over her shoulder and gave a smile, but ’twas so brittle he feared her lips might crack.
“Mistress, if you please,” he persisted when she opened the door. “I can see—tell you are distraught by your tone. What is amiss?”
Though her back was to him, he saw her raise a hand and swipe at her face.
“Nothing.” ’Twas almost a gasp.
“There is one matter of pressing importance.”
Several moments passed before she slowly turned around and he saw resignation writ in her red-rimmed eyes. “Yes?” She made no move to come away from the door.
“I intended to ask ere now, but what with your injuries and all, it did not seem the best time.”
Her eyes grew lifeless, as did her tone. “If ’tis pressing, then I am at your service.”
Dread billowed in his gut and he took a deep breath. The time had come.
“Kindly recount for me, if you would, what my children told you concerning . . . their mother.”
She blinked, then surprise flashed across her face. Apprehension followed in its wake. “You would not hurt them for telling tales out of turn?”
For a moment he stared at her. She must think him a monster to ask such. He fought the inexplicable pain her words wrought. Why should it matter what she thought? “I ask, that I may remedy the damage they have suffered.”
GOLDE SWALLOWED HARD. She’d expected Gavarnie to hurl accusations at her, not ask after his children. She quickly relayed all she knew, anxious to be gone.
“As near as I can tell,” she concluded, “Alory fears de Warrenne will spirit you away, and he will never see you again.”
’Twas a dread of loss to which she could relate. Sperville would soon be seeing her to Atherbrook, and she would never see Gavarnie again.
“I have no doubt of your children’s love for you,” she couldn’t help but add. “’Twill work in your favor when you speak with them.”
There. She’d finished. She locked her trembling knees lest she collapse in a weeping heap. Though all she need do was turn and cross the threshold, she could not bring herself to leave. Gavarnie sat in brooding silence, still holding the piece of bread he’d torn from the loaf. Not once had he interrupted her with questions.
Why did he not defend himself? Tell her he’d not killed his wife? ’Twas what she longed to hear. Indeed, she prayed he would tell her it was all a mistake. A vast, ugly lie.
A muscle twitched in his jaw, an indication of his anger. Doubtless, he was busy casting aspersions against himself with no consideration for the many hours he’d spent caring for his children. ’Twas far more than most lords of the realm. Still, he said naught, just sat there, his face growing more swarthy with each passing moment.
“Mi’lord?” she queried softly.
At last he balled the bread in his fist and flung it against the wall. He rose to stride toward her, black death in his eyes.
“I can scarce credit that my children would say all this to you, when they have said nothing to me, or anyone else.”
Golde backed toward the corridor, feeling behind her for the door frame. Plague take her stupidity. She’d grown so accustomed to the charming Gavarnie, she’d forgotten his savage temper.
She spun and ran, scarce clearing three steps before he was upon her. Dragging her back inside the room, he pinned her against the wall beside one of the strange tapestries.
“’Twas you, and none other, who filled my children’s heads with such vicious tales.”
She started to struggle, to kick at his shins, then halted. ’Twas useless to pit her strength against his. ’Twould only fuel his fury.
She stared into his face. Darkened with heated blood, his jet eyes glowed like jewels in the midst of a fiery forge. Eyes that could see, but were blind to reason. Doubtless, he’d killed his wife while in just such a rage.
Drawing rein on the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, she forced an even tone. “Why would I tell your children such vicious tales?”
“Ha! You seek to poison my entire world with your scheming, deceitful tongue.”
She already knew exactly what he thought of her. Had heard it from his own lips yesterday. His words should not have the same cruel power as they had then, but she felt anew as if her soul were being ripped from her chest.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she could not conceal the ragged disillusionment in her voice. “How think you I would gain such information?”
“You are most adept at gaining all you desire,” he spat.
Her temper flared. ’Od rot the mean-hearted mucker. For once in her life, she’d placed another’s needs before her own. And this was her payment? He spoke of her as if she were some baseborn slut.
Her hand shot up to grip his grizzled chin. “Unholy bastard. You rant and rave like a demented demon, then wonder why your children say nothing to you? You brag before an entire village how you murdered their mother, but the deed has filled you to bursting with poison. Every time you open your mouth, it spews forth. Why do you think you lost your sight?”
The enraged look on his face appeared to collapse in upon itself.
She dug her fingers in his hard jaw to be certain she held his attention. “You have had a fortnight and more to ask your children what they told me. Instead, you come to me for answers, then seek to place the blame for their worries everywhere but where it belongs. And that is with yourself.”
>
His gaze solidified to frozen black emptiness. Dropping his hands, he stepped back.
“You are right, of course.” His voice was flat and spent. “My thanks for bringing the truth to my attention. Now, if you will, excuse me. I shall bathe, then set matters to rights with my children.”
At his deadened response, concern absorbed her anger. Had she pushed him to the brink of madness?
“Mi’lord, I did not mean—”
“If you would locate Roland and send him to me, I would be grateful.” He turned his back on her.
She pursed her lips. He’d directed his rage inward. Should she try to ease the self-loathing he obviously felt? She studied his rigid back.
Nay, she had brought his weaknesses to his attention. She turned and slipped from the room. He’d recognized the truth of her words, and someday he would truly be grateful.
Tears blinded her as she headed for the stairs. She’d lost him, irrevocably. Despite the fact he did not trust her, indeed, was convinced she was naught but a conniving slut, there had remained in her heart the small hope that she could convince him otherwise. ’Twould do her no good now.
Aye, he would appreciate her insight. But he would never be able to forgive her for it. He was far too proud.
She descended the steps, wiping her eyes. She must locate Sperville, that they could take immediate leave. The sooner she was gone from Skyenvic, the better she would feel.
TWENTY
GAVARNIE RESTED a booted heel on the lower slat of the pig pen. “Why did you say nothing until now?” he asked the swineherd.
“The witch-woman told me if I said aught, me seed would dry up and me shaft would wither ’til I had nothin’ to piss with.”
Nigel coughed, and Gavarnie hooked his thumbs in his sword belt while studying the ground. Humorous as Golde’s threats were, he could find no pleasure in them. Not now.
Three days had passed since she’d disappeared, and never had he felt such misery. ’Twas worse than the first day of her absence, when he’d feared she’d gone to back to New Market.
He returned his attention to the swineherd. “She gave you the coin to keep, regardless of the sow’s condition?”
“Aye. But like I said, I can’t be keepin’ it. Not after what she done. Who would o’ thought?”
The swineherd’s gaze traveled to the sow where she lay on her side, suckling her litter. “A dozen and seven,” he breathed reverently. “I’ll wager there arn’t another sow in the land wot’s had so many.”
Who would have thought, indeed. Gavarnie eyed the swineherd. For a peasant to surrender coin without being asked was a miracle unto itself.
“What is it you would have me do with this?” He gestured with the two silver pieces the man had pressed on him.
“Ye must give it back to the witch-woman, lest me good fortune turns bad. Would have done it meself, but she am’t been around.”
“Why would she give it to you in the first place?” Nigel demanded impatiently.
Abruptly the swineherd’s eyes shifted. “I—I—because I wouldn’t let her in the pen to tend the pig.”
The steward raised a brow. “What is this slop you attempt to feed us? The woman just happens to find the sow with a great splinter in her hind, then pays you to allow her to tend it? Come, my grimy friend. Let us have the truth.”
Ronces’ thin voice interrupted before the swineherd could reply. “’Twas no splinter. It was an arrow, shot from my bow.”
Gavarnie spun to face his son where he stood flanked by Alory and Nicolette. The three regarded him with a mix of looks. Alory appeared fearful, though determined. Nicolette’s small, square jaw jutted defiantly. Ronces’ features displayed the resignation of a sick old man who knew he was about to die.
“You shot the pig?” Gavarnie asked.
“It was an accident,” Alory offered.
Nicolette added, “We dared him to shoot the awwow, but not the pig.”
Gavarnie scowled. “You are not allowed to use your bow unless . . .”
It struck him then. Golde had not forced the children to help her with the pig, as she’d claimed. ’Twas the other way around.
A sinking feeling pooled in his belly. “How did you convince Golde to aid you after pouring honey all over her?”
“We put dung in her boots, too,” Alory said, lowering his head.
“Nicolette got her to help,” Ronces intoned.
“She is a good witch, and she is gone ’cause of us.” Misery claimed Nicolette’s features.
Gavarnie felt his face flush, though whether it was from anger or chagrin, he wasn’t certain. Without question, his children should be punished for their misdeeds. Yet he could scarce justify doing so. Their actions paled in comparison to his.
What a pompous thickwit he’d been. Accusing Golde of trickery with his children when she’d sought only to help.
“Is it true, Papa?” Alory pulled him from his thoughts.
Gavarnie sighed bitterly. “Is what true?”
“Can you see?”
Anger tore through Gavarnie, and he planted his fists on his hips. Despite his careful plans for keeping his sight secret, someone had informed his children.
Sperville, no doubt. Not only had the presumptuous chamberlain helped Golde reach Atherbrook, he’d told his children he could see. To think he’d only assigned the meddlesome dolt to cleaning the wardrobe these two days past. He should have made him muck the sheep pens.
“Where did you hear such?” he asked at last.
“’Tis being whispered all over the castle,” Ronces answered. “Is it true? Can you see?”
Gavarnie gritted his teeth. “Aye.”
“I tole you,” Nicolette snapped. “The witch healed his sight.”
Ronces eyed him with disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell us? Do you not trust us?” He sounded betrayed.
“Of course I trust you. ’Tis just . . .”
His words trailed away as he realized the swineherd was listening. Whore’s gleet. If the entire castle did not know of his sight already, they would now.
He turned to Nigel. “Fetch Sperville and meet me in my chambers.”
He started forward to gather the children, but Alory scrambled from his reach.
“Is it also true what everyone says about Mamma? Did you kill her?”
Gavarnie halted in his tracks. Words deserted him. He could do naught but watch as a terrible battle between hope and loathing played across Alory’s chubby features. Tell me, Papa. Tell me you did not do it. His youngest son’s upturned face implored him.
Nigel moved quickly to capture the boy. “All of you, come with me,” the steward ordered.
Nicolette held her ground. “Is it twue that you awe not my fathew? Is that why you killed Mamma?”
“Come on, Nicolette.” Ronces grabbed her arm and dragged her backward.
“The night you tole us what the witch said,” Nicolette taunted, “when I was sitting on your lap. I was the one who lied. Ever’thing the witch tole you was twue.”
With that, she turned and followed Nigel toward the great hall, casting accusing looks over her shoulder.
And still, Gavarnie could not move. He’d known for some time that Golde had spoken the truth, and ’twas not that which mattered to him now. Nay. ’Twas the fact that Nicolette was deliberately trying to hurt him that clawed at his soul.
To what purpose did he live? Isabelle dead by his hand. His children’s thinking torn and bloodied as surely as if he’d taken a blade to their heads.
And Golde. Only three days gone, yet it seemed an eternity.
He’d not yet had a chance to speak with the children about Isabelle. He’d spent the first day of Golde’s disappearance searching for her, fearing that if she’d gone to New Market, the villagers would kill her. Indeed, when he’d been unable to locate her, he’d grown frantic.
’Twas then that Sperville had confessed his misdeeds. “She was in the wardrobe during our conversation. She was determine
d to leave, and I thought it best to see her to Atherbrook, where she would be safe.”
Gavarnie kicked a clod of dirt and attempted to recreate the rage he’d experienced at the chamberlain’s admission. Anything to save himself from thinking. But all he could recall were Sperville’s other words.
She is in love with you. Imagine how she felt upon hearing your talk of her. ‘A conniving slut. An agent of the king.’
The chamberlain had then gone on to tell him everything he knew of Golde. She is Celt, not Saxon, and the last in a long line of great mystics. Rather than develop her real abilities, Golde practices all manner of deception, which disturbs her great-grandmother to no end. While money was her reason far coming here, ’twas not any coin she would receive from William. Rather, her intent was to trick you into paying her.
Before Gavarnie could demand why the chamberlain would bring such a woman into Skyenvic, Sperville had continued. The old woman wished to teach Golde a lesson and promised to heal your sight, provided I brought Golde here. It seemed a good bargain.
Aye, Gavarnie mused, stubbing his boot toe in the dirt. He should be angry. Angry enough to kill the chamberlain. Not only did Golde know his thoughts concerning her and the king, she was also aware of his idea to align himself with the Danes.
Yet she’d apparently told no one. Had she done so, he would currently be standing before the king’s executioner.
Instead of rage, a forlorn and desolate loneliness clutched at his heart. He stilled, and gazed out over the bailey.
Would life be worth living if he were to discover beyond doubt that the king was against him? ’Twas scarce worth living at present, and would be less so in the future without Golde.
He scowled. Worst of all, he supposed he would now have to admit he’d been wrong and apologize to Spindleshanks.
TWENTY-ONE
THE CLANG OF of a hundred royal guests and their servants reverberated with ferocity from the interior of Atherbrook’s gray stone walls. And the lords and ladies camped at Skyenvic had yet to arrive. Positioned between Sir Varin and his giant underlord, Arnulf, Golde stared at the oysters piled high on her trencher.
