by Tamara Leigh
It was not the first time she had voiced that belief, but as before, Juliana said, “Of course he does.”
“Nay, he does not. I may be almost blind, but I know when I am liked and when I am not.”
Juliana was struck by her certainty, a reminder of years past when she had disdained her older sister’s eagerly embraced notion of long-suffering love. That was before marriage to Bernart, and not for the first time Juliana was haunted by Alaiz’s warning that were she not careful she might be granted such a love. How wise she had been for one so young.
Alaiz sighed and settled her head on Juliana’s shoulder. “I am sorry to be a burden.”
Nor was this the first time she had apologized for that, but it was said with more regret and sorrow than before. Juliana had hoped Alaiz was too immersed in her shadowed world and the fire’s heat to attend to what was spoken between husband and wife before she was sent from the hall, but might she have heard? Her vision neared its end, but her hearing had never been better and her mind remained as sharp as when she had spent hours reading every word set before her. Thus, perhaps she had lingered upon the stairs and heard what followed.
Praying she had not, Juliana said, “You are no burden. You are my greatest blessing.” It was true. Since Alaiz had come to live at Tremoral, she had someone to love who loved her in return without asking anything of her. Though sorrow was still a close companion, and it made Juliana ache to witness her sister’s struggles, she had something good to pass her from one day into the next.
“You always take care of me,” Alaiz whispered.
Juliana squeezed her eyes closed. “Ever I shall.”
He feared he would retch.
As he pressed the back of a hand to his mouth, he hated himself more than Juliana could hate him. But if she gave him a son, it would be worth it. The gossip would be silenced, and Kinthorpe lands would never be ruled by Osbern whose very existence fueled rumors of his brother’s lack of an heir.
Bernart raised his goblet. Finding it empty, he pushed up out of the lord’s chair and limped to the sideboard. Remains of the evening meal were there, along with pitchers of wine, ale, and honeyed milk. He reached for the latter, paused midair, and briefly considered the ale.
As he poured honeyed milk, his hand trembled, and more violently when he choked down its impotence.
He slammed the goblet onto the sideboard, then warily peered down his chest and hips. The whimper spiraling up from his depths flooded him with revulsion.
Though at the cost of painfully strained throat muscles he was able to disguise a voice that had taken on a feminine quality, other effects of emasculation were not as easily hidden.
Much of his body hair was lost or thinned, he carried excess weight he could not shed, suffered from sleeplessness, and had such difficulty holding his urine that the possibility of soiling himself was ever present. Every minute of every day was hell.
His thigh began to ache, a further reminder of the clash with infidel soldiers that not only cost him the ability to enjoy women and father children, but had left him with a wretched limp.
Would a son truly ease his pain? Quiet the voices that taunted him long into the night? It was what he longed for, but the thought of another man touching Juliana, especially the one he intended to father his son, made his belly turn inside out.
Juliana had been his from the moment she wailed her way into the world and made him the envy of men who gazed upon her. If not for the one whose betrayal cost him all, none of this would be necessary.
Bile searing his throat, he swallowed, coughed, swallowed again.
He had to do it. Must do it. Would do it.
Now to lure his prey to Tremoral.
CHAPTER TWO
France, April 1195
Gabriel stared at the field from which he had retreated with the breaking of his lance.
So Kinthorpe wished to meet him at tournament. Why now? It was how many years? Four? Aye, four since Bernart gathered a hundred men to take the city of Acre from the infidels. The memory of it was nearly as clear as the day it had impressed itself on Gabriel.
Following months of siege, slaughter, sickness, and food shortage, Bernart and his followers had presented a pitiful image of Christianity knocked to its knees.
At the age of twenty and four, Gabriel had earned the reputation of a knight of goodly skill and courage, but he was also endowed with enough wits to know the difference between courage and desperation. He had confronted Bernart over an undertaking destined to fail, reminding him and the others that previous attempts by the Christian army to go over the wall had resulted in mass slaughter.
Though Bernart resisted, a score of men had walked away. Determined to convince his friend, Gabriel assured him King Richard and his forces would soon arrive to give them victory. Less and less he believed it himself, but another score of men had withdrawn from the ranks of those soon to die.
Enraged at what he named betrayal, Bernart had accused Gabriel of cowardice and, cursing him, set off for the walled city.
In the darkening of day, the coming of night, Gabriel had stared after the diminished band of soldiers, sworn he would not follow, and told himself his friend had the right to choose his own path. But what a bloody path it had been, just as he had known it would be. And Bernart was not the only one to bear its scars.
Remembrance made Gabriel grind his teeth. He knew he had saved the lives of those dissuaded from following Bernart, but he was burdened by anger and guilt—anger toward his old friend for those who would not be dissuaded, guilt for not trying harder to deter Bernart whom he had known since they were pages at Wulfen Castle. Then there was the thought that had he not persuaded so many to turn from the quest, Bernart might have broken through the city’s defenses. Impossible, but he could not put it from him.
He returned his attention to the melee. On the field, countless knights and foot soldiers engaged in the mock battle of tournament, the purpose being to capture and ransom as many opposing knights as possible, preferably without killing them. During the past two hours, Gabriel had taken three opponents. Providing his good fortune held, he would take as many more before the day was done. By nightfall, his purse would be heavy with the coin of their ransom.
A smile twitched at his mouth. France’s tournaments were lucrative. Given a few more years, the siege-ravaged demesne King Richard had awarded him here on the continent would rival the great baronies on either side of the channel.
Narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare, he searched the battlefield for sight of the knight with whom he had entered into a partnership upon their return from the crusade. Fighting as a team and dividing their winnings between them, they had captured more than eighty opponents in the past nine months without being ransomed themselves. But it appeared that blessing was about to turn.
“God’s tears!” Gabriel thrust his helm onto his head, seized the lance his squire extended, and started for his destrier.
“Your reply, Lord de Vere?” a voice called.
He had forgotten about the messenger who had crossed the narrow sea to deliver Bernart’s challenge and taken the opportunity of Gabriel’s need to rearm himself to deliver it.
Fleetingly, he considered the generous purse Bernart would award the participant who gained the most ransoms at Tremoral—enough to complete restoration of the inner wall of Gabriel’s castle. Tempting, but that was all. “No reply,” he called over his shoulder.
The man hastened forward. “Be it yea or nay, my lord?”
Gabriel put a foot in the stirrup and swung his mail-laden body into the saddle.
The messenger stepped into the destrier’s path. “I am not to return without a reply.”
“Then you shall be a long time in France.” Gabriel snapped the reins and put heels to his destrier.
Once more upon the field, he focused on Sir Erec Wulfrith who struggled to hold against three knights, determined the best approach, and couched his lance beneath his right arm.
As he took up the rhythm of his horse, his concentration was rent by a question. Was it revenge Bernart sought? It was no secret he blamed Gabriel for his failure at Acre, the deaths of those who had followed him, his laming, and abuses suffered during his imprisonment. But if revenge, why now?
Gabriel cursed, jerked his head in his helm. He had more important matters to attend to, namely Erec and his opponents who did not know that soon there would be ransoms to pay. But hardly had he put Bernart from his mind than the air rushing past whispered of the lady he had not allowed himself to think upon for a long time.
Juliana the fair.
Casting back to the year 1189, two years following his father’s disavowal, he saw again her tearful flight into the garden where Gabriel awaited Bernart. Oblivious to all but her pain, the lovely woman-child had not noticed him where he leaned against a wall.
Chest heaving, shoulders shaking, she dropped onto a bench and clapped her hands over her face.
He needed none to tell him the cause of her misery. He knew Bernart well. Too, a half hour earlier he had earned his friend’s derision by refusing to join him in sporting with two kitchen maids who were not averse to play between the sheets.
As Gabriel had stared at his friend’s betrothed, he realized women could be as injured by inconstancy as a man cuckolded. In spite of a dozen warning voices, he had yielded to the desire to approach Juliana. Lowering beside her, he spoke her name, and all that beat in him stopped when she looked up.
Staring into her dark eyes, he felt something he thought never to feel and been forced to acknowledge the girl he ever scorned was on the edge of womanhood, a gem ready for polish. And soon to be his friend’s wife.
“Gabriel,” she had choked, and he was struck by his name upon lips that only ever called him Sir Knight—and with disdain. Then she leaned toward him as if to come into his arms. He did not think he would have pulled her to him, but that choice was taken from him by Bernart shouting her name from somewhere within the donjon.
For a moment longer, he held her gaze which had never considered him so intently, then stood and traversed the path to the donjon. As he neared the entrance, his friend burst into the garden. Tunic dragged on backward, hose rent from the haste with which he had dressed, Bernart rushed past Gabriel and dropped to his knees before Juliana. Amid his pleas for forgiveness, Gabriel slipped away.
After that, everything changed. Surprisingly, Bernart cleaved to the vow of chastity his betrothed demanded, she crossed the threshold into womanhood, and the scorn Gabriel preferred to feel for her became an ache.
Juliana the fair of auburn hair that tempted a man’s hands and brown eyes warm enough to send the chill from the coldest night was a woman he could not have.
Did her eyes still sparkle with mischief and delight? Did her laughter light the air? Or had the years matured her into a treacherous creature who besmirched the marriage bed?
Thoughts moving to Clemencia de Vere whose faithless body had pushed him into the world, he gripped his lance tighter.
Did Juliana tread the same path as his mother? Following three years of marriage, had the sweet glow of wedlock waned such that she forsook her vows and pursued the senseless ideas of love espoused as a girl? Likely. But she was not his problem. She was Bernart’s.
Determining which of the knights had the greatest chance of unseating Erec, Gabriel loosed a battle cry, bent in the saddle, and held until the iron tip of his lance met chain mail.
CHAPTER THREE
Barony of Tremoral
England, May 1195
He had not come.
Beneath the table, Bernart clenched his hands so hard they trembled. Though Gabriel refused to answer the challenge, Bernart had convinced himself his enemy would accept his invitation. Now with the participants gathered in the hall following a day of practice and tomorrow the start of the tournament, he was proven wrong.
He glanced at Juliana. She sat silent beside him, in one hand a goblet, in the other a spoon, but not once had she put the vessel to her lips nor eaten from the trencher between them. The only movement about her the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, she stared across the hall at the stairs she surely wished beneath her feet.
Though it was two months since he had forced her to accept his plan and little more was spoken of it, she knew the time had come. And waited to be led to bed like a lamb to gutting.
What was he to do? Everything was in place, from her time of breeding, to the chamber in which the deed would be done, to the rumor he had imparted that if she did not ripen with child he would rid himself on grounds of consanguinity and take another wife. So should he choose a different man to lie with her? Could he?
As with each time he imagined any enjoying what belonged to him, he was flooded with self-loathing. Regardless of Juliana’s grim countenance and the resentment she exuded, there was no woman more beautiful. And many a man in the hall agreed. They stared at her and quickly looked elsewhere when they found Bernart watching them. But ever their eyes returned to the Lady of Tremoral.
Should he abandon his plan? If he did, might he regain what little good he had of Juliana before demanding a son from her? Would the hatred disappear from her eyes?
Nay, though he would not have the satisfaction of taking a son from the one whose betrayal cost him everything, only a child would silence the speculation. So who?
Sir Kenelm? Too old.
Sir Arnold? A lecher.
Sir Morris? Too handsome.
Sir Charles? Cruel.
He was seriously considering Sir Henry when the hall’s great doors opened.
The eyes of the man who strode inside were as cool as the night air he brought with him, and turned cooler when they settled on Bernart where he sat in the high seat.
He had come.
As his entrance calmed the din to a murmur, disquiet rippled through Bernart. Gabriel de Vere was nearly as remembered—tall, broad, and unkempt from his shoulder-length brown hair down to well-worn boots.
In looks and temperament, he offered little to attract a woman, but as Bernart knew, Gabriel’s presence alone drew admirers like birds to a newly-seeded field. Were he as restrained and particular as once he had been, most women seeking his attention would be disappointed. Most.
Resist the carnal though Gabriel did, too much embracing their knighthood training at Wulfen that included respect for the weaker sex, he had his vulnerabilities. And on occasion, he succumbed. Bernart was counting on the thrill and bloodlust of daily battle and revelry and drink of nightly celebration to present several such occasions.
He glanced at Juliana and saw the disbelief on her face shift toward anger. Though it was no secret Bernart and Gabriel had severed their friendship, only she knew the true depth of her husband’s feelings—and shared his enmity. But how long before she realized the reason for Gabriel’s attendance? How long before her hatred trebled?
He rose from his chair. “Lord de Vere!”
Gabriel, followed by a knight whose exemplary grooming differed considerably from his own, traversed the remainder of the hall and halted before the dais. “Lord Kinthorpe.”
Though twenty and eight, the same as Bernart, his hair was beginning to silver at the temples, and there were lines around his eyes, nose, and mouth that had been finer when he threw open the door to Bernart’s cell in the dungeon at Acre.
Watched by the multitude, Bernart summoned a smile that could not be more false were it cut from the devil’s mouth. “You come to tourney, De Vere?”
“By invitation.”
Bernart heard Juliana’s indrawn breath. Ignoring the bore of her gaze, he said, “You are late.”
“So we are.” No apology.
The knight beside him stepped forward. “Sir Erec Wulfrith, my lord.”
Bernart recognized him. Three years younger than Gabriel and him, he had also trained at Wulfen. But Bernart could not recall if he was the son of Everard or Abel Wulfrith.
“Most unfortunate,” S
ir Erec continued, “our ship was blown off course during the crossing from France. We have ridden hard these past days to attend your tournament.”
Considering their combined renown on the battlefield and the reputation of those of Wulfrith descent, there would be protests against their late entry.
“You are welcome at Tremoral, Sir Erec and Sir Gabriel.” Bernart swept a hand before him. “There is food and drink, entertainment, and”—he returned his regard to the latter—“wenches aplenty.”
That last was crude in the hearing of all, but having made it appear he overly indulged in drink, most would forgive him. And those who did not…
It was worth the loss of their good opinion for what Gabriel’s narrowed lids and convulsing jaw evidenced. Still he strove for moral superiority. Unfortunate. It would make stealing a son from him more difficult.
“You are gracious, my lord.” Sir Erec bowed and turned away.
Gabriel regarded Bernart a moment longer, then looked to Juliana.
Would the one impervious to her beauty acknowledge her? From the day Bernart had introduced them, their mutual dislike had been palpable. Gabriel had named Juliana’s notions of love and chivalry foolish, and she had declared him ill-mannered and dishonorable. When Bernart tried to convince her otherwise, she had pointed out Gabriel’s own father had set him aside. Bernart could not argue that, his friend having never explained the reason for the loss of title and lands that were to have been his.
“Lady Juliana,” Gabriel said with a dip of his chin.
“Lord De Vere.” Her tone was frigid enough to cause a man to shrink into his mantle.
As it should be, Bernart told himself. She would do what was required of her and hate every moment—no possibility of her feeling anything for the one who fathered Bernart’s son.
Gabriel pivoted and strode after Sir Erec.
