by Sandra Lee
“All women have them,” she snapped defensively, then caught herself. The child could not possibly know. She moderated her tone. “Well, most women have them, except for the very young and very old.”
Nicolette appeared as if she’d just discovered a worm in an apple after taking several bites. “Does it huwt?” Golde paused as her inwit pricked her. Doubtless, the only knowledge the child would ever receive would come from lewd remarks made by serving maids.
She chose her words carefully. “I would not say it hurts. ’Tis more like a dull ache that passes quickly. If it bothers you, there are tonics to help ease the discomfort.” She returned to her chest and rummaged about, withdrawing a rag. “And you wear a bit of cloth, like this, to keep from soiling your garments.”
Nicolette wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. I do not think I wool have these couwse things.”
Golde struggled to keep a grin from her lips. “You will have no choice in the matter. ’Tis what makes you a woman.” Then the devil caught her tongue. “Otherwise, you would be an arrogant, toad-eating man.”
The child gave her an assessing look. “Has Papa—I mean Schiew—been mean to you again?”
Why was the child calling Gavarnie “sir”? Golde padded the inside of her underdrawers with the rag and pulled them on. “Your Papa is meaner than an old goat.”
“He is not my Papa.”
Golde pulled the chainse over head. “Did he say he was not your father?”
“Nay. But everyone knows.” Nicolette gave her a sullen look.
Golde opened her mouth to deny the statement, but changed her thinking. Nicolette was not stupid, and she deserved the truth. Though how best to tell it?
“Silly girl.” Golde drew her tunic over her head, pretending anger. “The man calls you daughter, does he not? If everyone knows that such is not the case, does he not risk appearing foolish? Yet he does not seem to care what others think. Indeed, he must love you beyond measure to claim you as his own.”
Nicolette pursed her lips. “Do you weally think he loves me?”
“Of course he loves you.”
“As much as Alowy and Wonces?”
“Every bit.”
Abruptly Nicolette changed the subject. “Awe you leaving?”
Golde blinked. Though surely she was mistaken, the little girl appeared sad. “Not right away, but soon.”
The child suddenly became inordinately interested in the doll, plucking at the threadbare material that covered it. “Schiew—Papa—wool turn souw again, just like when you left before.”
Eyeing the girl, Golde secured her girdle about her hips. “When I left before?”
Nicolette nodded. “That one time, when you huwt your wibs. Then last week. Evwyone says Papa is smit with you. He is suwly when you awe gone.”
Golde snorted. “Your Papa is always surly.”
Misery claimed the child’s features. “Awe you afwaid Papa wool kill you, too? Is that why you awe leaving?”
Golde stilled, her gaze roaming over matted, honey-colored hair. The dirt-smudged chubby cheeks, the square little chin that trembled.
She quickly sat and wrapped an arm about the child’s shoulders. “Your father did not kill your mother.”
Nicolette’s eyes rounded. “Weally? Who—”
“I do not know who did it, only that it was not your Papa.”
Nicolette’s glowing countenance suddenly reminded her of Lull, whose father was sitting with Gavarnie in the great hall even as she spoke. Rising, she inclined her head. “Listen to your heart, Nicolette. Do you truly believe your Papa could have done such a thing?”
She strode to the door, realizing belatedly that she had no shoes. Plague take Sir Varin and Arnulf. At the very least, they could have tucked her boots in the filthy tapestry.
Just wait until she told Roscelyn of Varin’s underhanded treatment. He would never hear the end of it. Nor would that dolt, Arnulf. With luck, his wife Dunne would take a kitchen mallet to his thick skull.
Opening the door, she hurried into the corridor, anxious to retain some measure of irritation for Gavarnie. Mayhap she had been hasty in judging his actions, but by the rood, he’d not hesitated to pass judgment on her. Not bedded but moments and already men seek you out. His reasoning was suspicious as ever.
Her steps slowed as she descended the stairs. How could he help but be suspiciousÌ her inwit inquired.
Blind, believing himself a murderer. What coincidence that she should have arrived on his doorstep? A witchwife, not a nursemaid.
Then she’d flung his children’s words in his face, and when he’d not believed her, what had she done to convince him? Discussed the matter in a reasonable manner?
Nay. She’d done her best to seduce him, at least to his way of thinking. Meanwhile, he’d received missives warning of betrayal, had been attacked returning from New Market.
Her thoughts tumbled forward to his recent treatment of her in the tub. My only wish is to give you aid, much as you wished to restore my sight.
She winced. How smug she must have sounded those first few days at Skyenvic. How trite her advice to a man struggling to conquer his affliction. Had she not learned firsthand how it felt to be at another’s mercy? Indeed, she’d grown so enraged at her incapacitated state, she’d brought a vision upon herself.
Coming through the screens passage, she paused. Where was he? With the exception of a few servants, the great hall was empty.
She picked her way to the entrance, cursing the prickly, dry rushes that stabbed the soles of her feet. Upon reaching the doors’ threshold, she gazed out over the bailey. The day was overcast, and though servants scurried over the yard and men-at-arms manned the wallwalk, she saw no sign of Gavarnie.
Strange. She had grown accustomed to the many guests billeted at Skyenvic, but now the place fair seemed deserted. She strode forward. Halfway across the bailey, she stopped a youthful liegeman.
“Have you seen Sir Gavarnie?”
He nodded and pointed at the gates to the keep. “Left just moments ago with another lord.”
Golde bobbed her head and continued on. Reaching the open gates, she scanned the expanse of ground that rolled away from the castle. Only a few tents remained, straggling relics among the beaten earth where so many had camped. Her gaze followed the road that led to New Market. There, in the distance, she spied two riders heading in the direction of the village.
Which was well and good. She needed some time to herself, away from the castle and the gossiping castlefolk. She strode down the path, welcoming the heavy sea air. Not bedded but moments . . .
She concentrated on her ire. If the cur thought he would return to find her lying in his bed, he’d best think again. How dare he gorge himself on her charms, then desert her? Did the arrogant bastard think himself so great a lover that she would remain enchanted to her dying breath?
Her steps slowed as she watched two gulls glide overhead, underbellies white against the gray sky. Ah, but he was more than she’d ever dreamed. She shivered at the memory of his touch. His eyes filled with black heat. The way he’d driven himself into her.
Not that she would ever comment on it to him. She rolled her eyes. And she certainly would never, ever, fill his ears with the sounds of aching pleasure he’d wrought in her. ’Twould be like congratulating the fox for raiding the henhouse.
Her pace increased. She should have named a price for her maidenhead. Should have made it exorbitant. She glared at the tree line ahead of her, gray-green before the brackish sky.
But nay. Carried away by the dream that the simpleton might care for her, she’d given him her most precious possession.
She grimaced. Truth tell, her virginity was her second-most precious possession. When had Gavarnie acquired the first, her very soul?
She hugged herself while she walked. He’d spoken no words of love, only lust. And he’d led her on with his mention of marriage. Playing on her secret hopes.
Her lip curled. ’Twas naught but a game to
him. Now that he’d had her, he would cast her aside.
She reached the edge of the forest, grateful for the shelter it provided, for she suddenly felt frozen. Arid empty. She moved off the road, deeper into the protection of the trees, where no one could see her. Where no one could witness her anguish. She felt certain that even in death, her soul would hunger for Gavarnie.
He is smit with you. She recalled Nicolette’s words. If only such were true. She slumped down against a tree, too drained to go farther. Closing her eyes, she envisioned Gavarnie’s face, his lips. Hot and demanding. His swarthy flesh, hard and unyielding. The slow, hammerlike thud of his heart, solid and sure. There were no truces, only complete, delicious surrender. . . .
GOLDE MUST HAVE DOZED, for next she knew, the quiet hiss of voices disturbed her. Opening her eyes, she judged it to be midafternoon, though ’twas difficult to tell by the overcast sky. A whiff of lavender, sickly sweet, wafted through the trees.
She bolted to sit. Where had she smelled it before?
The fine hair at her nape rose. ’Twas the odor in her vision. Instantly she rose on her haunches and eased forward, that she could better hear.
“. . . are a fool.” Sir Nigel’s voice carried low and angry.
“If your husband discovers us together—”
“He so chafed to reach Atherbrook,” came a dulcet, feminine response, “that I sent him ahead while I saw to our belongings. None will know we have met. And after what you told me of Gavarnie’s plans to join with the Danes, this cannot wait.”
Golde clutched the front of her tunic, concentrating on slowing her racing heart. The voice. The lavender. ’Twas Lady de Warrenne!
“And what of your liegemen?” the steward demanded. “Surely your husband did not leave you unattended.”
“A half-dozen servants to pack, and two men-at-arms whom I made certain are sotted. Take your ease, Nigel. You begin to sound more womanish than I.”
“Womanish? You?” Sir Nigel snorted. “Come, mi’lady. There is nothing feminine in your nature. I saw how you butchered Lady Isabelle. Few men possess the stomach for such.”
Golde covered her mouth. Lady de Warrenne! She felt as if a bare-fanged snake were coiled at her feet, ready to strike. An urge to run seized her. But she dare not. She must remain and learn all she could.
“Have a care with your tongue, steward.” The timbre of Gundrada’s voice cooled with disdain. “You shall rule Skyenvic only by my will. Indeed, ’tis only my sweet pleas that have prevented Walther’s killing you.”
The slap of a hand against flesh cracked the air, and Golde started.
“To whom do you think you speak?” Nigel demanded. “I am no serving boy to be ordered about. You shall rule Skyenvic only through me. And be forewarned. There are sealed documents, along with a goodly benefaction, in a remote church in Normandy. They shall be read upon my death. Can you guess what they say?”
Golde imagined the fiery imprint of Nigel’s palm on the woman’s cold, white cheek. ’Twas a moment before Gundrada managed in a quiet, shaken tone, “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”
Though the steward doubtless thought the woman’s voice trembled with fear, Golde recognized the rage it held. Sir Nigel had just made a bitter enemy.
Nigel’s tone dripped caustically. “Those mysterious warnings to Gavarnie. Mayhap ’twas you who sent them. ’Twould be the perfect device for ridding yourself of me without giving yourself away. Meanwhile, you could cozen another to do your bidding—one more easily beguiled with your charms than I.”
Branches creaked and leaves rustled in the short silence that followed. An odor rose from the forest floor, decayed as rotting flesh. Golde squeezed her eyes shut.
Gavarnie had not killed his wife. She clung to the thought. She must tell him, tell his children, tell anyone who would listen. Not only did she have proof of his innocence, she knew who’d actually murdered his wife.
Gundrada spoke at last, venting a small portion of her anger. “’Twas that imbecile, Walther, who sent the messages. I cannot make him see that in ruining you, he ruins himself.” She paused, then her tone grew sly. “But his grand schemes have provided me with the means to make Skyenvic ours. Look.”
Sir Nigel laughed bitterly. “What are these? More warnings to Gavarnie of impending danger?”
“Read them. They are writings of treason explaining how William can be overthrown.”
Another pause followed, and Golde massaged her thighs. Her muscles burned with tension and her bare toes felt frozen. She tilted her head back to ease the ache in her shoulders. Patches of leaden sky showed through the canopy overhead. ’Twould rain ere long.
She lowered her head. ’Twas easy now to understand her strange feelings toward Gundrada. And Nigel. His actions made chilling sense. His smirk when Gavarnie had appeared in ill-matched rags after dressing himself for the first time, how the steward had conveniently left Gavarnie during the attack on the road to raise the hue and cry, his agreement with Gavarnie in the bedchamber that she was the king’s agent.
Nigel chortled, recapturing her attention. “Your audacity knows no bounds. The king will not be fooled by forgeries.”
“Rest assured,” Gundrada intoned, “they are genuine and easily proven such. When combined with your testimony of Gavarnie’s thoughts on the Danes ...”
Nigel’s voice grew hushed, avid with interest. “Where did you come by these?”
“They were written to Walther, who is fool enough to believe the king can be beaten. All you need do is place them in Gavarnie’s chambers where they can be found by William’s agents.”
Golde narrowed her eyes. The cunning bitch. ’Twas the perfect plan.
Abruptly suspicion laced Nigel’s tone. “Why do you not use them against your husband, if, as you claim, you despise him? He is a greater threat at present, and we would be well rid of him.”
“Are you so afraid, that you would throw away all we have worked for? Think! We need Walther to claim Skyenvic. The king will not give my hand and Adurford unto you if my husband is convicted of conspiracy. I will become royal chattel. Adurford will go to some favored baron. You will never rule Skyenvic.”
Her tone grew placating. “Patience, Nigel. All is within our grasp.”
“Words I have heard before,” the steward returned flatly. “First Isabelle’s death, then the attack on the road from New Market. Your schemes fail with such regularity that I begin to wonder if you are not cursed. Meanwhile, Gavarnie regains his sight, making it more difficult to manipulate him.”
Gundrada sniffed. “Gavarnie’s sight will do him no good when the king receives all of this evidence. If ’tis your wish to withdraw, say it. I cannot do this without you.
Golde clamped her teeth together. The impulse to race to the castle was raw. Cease, she commanded her twitching muscles. She could take no chance on being discovered. Gavarnie would know soon enough.
“And if I agree?” Nigel queried.
“Gavarnie will be hung, along with the other conspirators. Walther will appear the cleverest and most loyal of men for reporting the matter, and the king will reward him with Skyenvic.”
Gundrada sighed gustily. “Then poor Walther will suffer a terrible wasting sickness. Once I am in control of his affairs, I will appoint you to guard Skyenvic on my behalf—with the king’s permission, of course. When Walther dies, ’twill only be natural that you and I marry.”
In the quiet that followed, the muffled sound of crunching underbrush could be heard. Golde cocked her head, then tensed.
“Shh,” Gundrada hissed in the same instant.
’Twas difficult to determine exactly from whence the noise issued, but Golde thought it to come from behind her. And it was fast drawing nearer. Gundrada’s men-at-arms?
What was she to do? The sound was coming straight at her. Please, God. She rose to her feet. Do not let me be discovered. If only she knew which way to run.
Abruptly two cur hounds burst from around a tree. Thei
r noses were to the ground and their tails wagged fiercely—until one of them looked up. Startled, it jumped backward a pace, drawing its companion’s attention. Both dogs stilled.
Golde pressed a finger to her lips in a silent gesture for quiet. In that moment, it seemed the entire forest held its breath.
Then both hounds set to baying.
TWENTY-SIX
FOR A MOMENT Golde froze, unable to believe her misfortune. Then she glanced about. There stood Sir Nigel and Lady Gundrada, no more than a quarter furlong distant. Their faces, too, reflected disbelief.
Abruptly Gundrada screeched. “After her, fool!”
Golde spun and ran. Lifting her skirts over her knees, she sprinted over fallen logs and dodged tree trunks. Her heart rode in her throat, near strangling her. She must not be caught. ’Twould mean the end for her, and Gavarnie.
She zagged left, then forward, then left again. If she set an intricate pattern, it would be more difficult for Nigel and Gundrada to follow.
She glanced frantically over her shoulder. Though no one was in sight, she felt little comfort. She was making enough noise to raise the dead.
Gasping for air, she concentrated more on stealth and less on speed. What had become of the wretched hounds? Plague take their flea-ridden hides. Could Sir Nigel use them to track her?
The thought again set fire to her heels and she crashed ahead, uncaring of the noise she made. She chanced another glance over her shoulder, and had barely looked forward again when, suddenly, white-fanged pain bit into her head. It was accompanied by a deafening thump.
She staggered backward, grasping her forehead. Who had struck her? She widened her eyes as her vision blurred. Was it Gundrada or Nigel? She could see little, only hazy grays, browns, and greens.
“A curse on you, and your seed,” she rasped as her legs buckled ’neath an onslaught of dizziness.
She swayed on her knees, waiting for the blow that would claim her life. Strangely, she felt naught but roiling anger. “You shall never enjoy your tenure at Skyenvic. I will haunt you to your dying breath.”
Panting, she did her best to remain upright, but within moments even that grew impossible. Her lungs felt seared and blackness encroached upon her vision. Collapsing on her belly, she pressed her cheek into the damp, decayed leaves that layered the forest floor.
