by Anne Stuart
“We’ll be fine, Bogo,” Isabeau murmured. “Father Paulus will be hearing confession in the large chapel, will he not? I know it well—I’ve spent many hours in private meditation within its gentle walls.”
“Meditating on your sins?” Julianna muttered. Hating herself for her pettiness, unable to keep her unruly tongue still.
Isabeau turned her serene smile on her daughter. “Unlike you, my dear, I am far from blameless.” She rose, setting her needlework on the wooden chair behind her. “Shall we go? The sooner we confess our sins, the sooner we’ll be shriven. And of course, it should only take a moment for you.”
Julianna bit her lip. Isabeau’s gentle voice made her feel like a spoiled child, crying for the moon. But then, she hadn’t wanted the moon. She’d only wanted her mother.
“Indeed,” she said.
She followed her mother’s slight figure down the shadowy stone halls of Fortham Castle, wishing she could move with her mother’s effortless grace. She tried to concentrate on other things, on the fortress-like surroundings, seemingly devoid of a woman’s touch, the chill of autumn settling down around the stones, the quiet sound of her mother’s footsteps as she made her way down the circular stairs. The trip to the spacious chapel seemed to take forever, and Julianna was yawning by the time they reached their destination.
The abbot was awaiting them, an impatient expression on his round, colorless face, a petulant twist to his thin mouth. He was a small, soft man, seemingly harmless. But she’d seen what harm those small, soft hands could do, and she didn’t make the mistake of underestimating him.
“Daughters of Eve!” he greeted them in a loud voice. “Prostrate yourselves and hear your penance.”
“Father Paulus . . .” Lady Isabeau protested gently. “We haven’t made our confession yet.”
“Don’t dare to instruct me, my lady! The Lord has spoken to me, sent me to this wicked place, and I will brook no defiance. If you wish forgiveness for your many sins, you will prostrate yourself now, in full view of all who come here.”
To Julianna’s horror, her mother dropped to her knees, then stretched herself out on the hard stone floor of the chapel in an attitude of devout penance. Father Paulus fixed his beady eyes on Julianna. “On the ground, lady, or I’ll have servants force you there.”
Julianna had her doubts that he could exert that much influence, but she decided not to take a chance. She lay facedown on the stone floor, near her mother, breathing in the chill of the stone beneath her face.
“You know your own wickedness!” Father Paulus intoned above them. “Your unworthiness, your lustfulness, your wicked sins of heart and soul and mind.”
Julianna wasn’t about to confess to lustfulness, particularly since the very notion gave her chills far more profound than those caused by the icy chapel. There was a brazier in the corner, she’d noticed, but it was unlit. Clearly Father Paulus preferred mortification of the flesh. She kept stubbornly silent, ignoring the frigid temperature of the large chapel.
“Daughters of Satan,” he proclaimed loudly, and his voice echoed off the harsh stone wall, “you have been brought forth to tempt men, to lead them from the paths of righteousness, to torment them and destroy them. Know that I am immune to your evil wiles, and I will protect those around me. I will show them the true way, and I will turn you both from the path of idolatry and lust that you have sought.”
Julianna made a small, involuntary sound of protest, but Isabeau was still and silent.
“The world is an evil place, and women are the cause of that evil, an instrument of the devil sent to destroy the flower of goodness in man. The only hope for salvation is chastity, humility, and silence.”
Chastity was no problem, but humility was harder come by, and silence just about impossible to attain. “My mother marries tomorrow, Father Paulus,” Julianna said, lifting her head. “How can she take a vow of chastity? Is it not the church’s ruling that marriage be for the procreation of children?”
“Silence!” Father Paulus thundered. “The begetting of children is a task you and your mother have failed most dismally, rendering you worthless in the eyes of the church. Do not dare to speak to me of church doctrine and add the sin of heresy to your crimes. The punishment for heresy is burning, and I will not shirk my duty.”
Julianna discovered silence was quite a lovely thing. She didn’t doubt for one moment Father Paulus’s determination. Anyone who would inflict that kind of damage on Master Nicholas’s strong back wouldn’t hesitate to burn a heretic.
For a brief moment she was distracted by the memory of that back. Not the bloody welts, nor the faint whiteness of previous scars, but the shape of him, the strength of him, lying in the bed, watching her. It was oddly disturbing, and she shook her head slightly, to clear the vision.
“Don’t shake your head at me, you wicked, sinful creature!” Father Paulus thundered in mighty tones. “Your wanton mother knows her place in this world, even if you could have benefited from good and regular beatings. It is a great tragedy that you were sent off to practice your wiles on an innocent husband, instead of staying beneath your father’s guiding hand.”
Julianna bit her tongue. It was so cold on the floor that she was beginning to shiver, and she suspected that before long she’d confess to anything—heresy, witchcraft, or lust—to get off the ground and close to a fire. She wasn’t made for martyrdom, she thought wryly. The Blessed Saint Hugelina the Dragon would find her sadly wanting.
“I see you tremble. I don’t doubt you tremble for fear of your very soul. But it is not too late. Lady Isabeau, you will keep your marriage chaste until I decree the time is right for holy conception. Under no other circumstances are you to tempt your husband or succumb to his base urges, for peril of your very soul. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Father Paulus.” Lady Isabeau’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
“And you, Lady Julianna,” he continued, his voice growing harsher. “You will dress in drab clothes and hide your hair, you will keep a silent tongue and do only good works, you will raise your eyes to no man, and you will spend five hours on your knees every day. We will drive the wickedness from your body, or we will burn it.”
She would have agreed to almost anything at that point. “Yes, Father Paulus,” she muttered.
“Almighty Father . . . ,” the abbot continued, speaking as one would speak to a slightly deaf, unreliable old dependent, “these wicked, wanton creatures have heard your will . . .”
He went on at great length, and Julianna closed her eyes, blotting out the sound of his nasal voice. The abbot was clearly a misguided fool, but a dangerous one. If he looked into her calm face and saw wantonness, then he would see it in the face of the Holy Mother as well. There was no lust in her heart, nor, she suspected, in her mother’s heart either.
But it would be wisest to keep silent and let him drone on, convinced that he had saved her from a life of lovemaking. Little did he know she had already determined never to have to undergo such torture again.
For some reason the vision of Nicholas’s back came to her once more. The bed he was given was wide, seemingly more comfortable than the one she would probably share with her mother this night, if Father Paulus would ever let her stand up again. It was a good thing—with his wounded back Nicholas would need all the comfort he could find.
Bogo would see to it, doubtless. Perhaps he’d find a soft, plump serving maid to further his comfort. From her limited experience, it seemed to Julianna that men, all men, were desirous of women no matter what their condition, be they whole or wounded, fool or wise man.
She shook her head again, to drive the notion away once more. She wouldn’t think of Nicholas again. With luck, she wouldn’t even see him again. Father Paulus seemed to believe she would be best living in retreat, speaking to no one and seeing no one. That would suit her splendid
ly.
It seemed like hours before the priest finally finished his interminable haranguing with a disobedient God. When it seemed the abbot was finally satisfied that the Almighty had gotten his instructions, he rose, his bones creaking.
“Go and sin no more,” he said abruptly. And it took a moment for Julianna to realize that he’d finally left them, alone in the chapel.
She scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stiff and aching body. Lady Isabeau was moving more slowly, and after a moment’s hesitation Julianna moved to her side, holding out a hand to help her.
For a moment Isabeau didn’t move, looking up at her daughter with a quizzical expression in her brown eyes, so like the very ones Julianna saw in her own reflection. And then she put her small, soft hand in Julianna’s, letting her draw her to her feet.
“I don’t think my husband is going to be happy with the abbot,” she said in a quiet voice.
For some reason a part of Julianna’s anger had vanished. Perhaps it was simply the act of sharing the last few unpleasant minutes that had lessened some of her resentment. “Then he’ll get rid of him, and we’ll all be a great deal more comfortable,” Julianna said.
“I’m afraid not. The abbot of Saint Hugelina was sent by the king, and one can’t disobey the king’s edicts without expecting retribution. He’s here to stay. As is the king’s fool.”
And Julianna wasn’t certain which one made her more uneasy.
Three hours later she lay beside her sleeping mother, watching the shadows flicker over the tapestried walls of the room they shared. There had been little conversation between them on the long walk back from the chapel, and once in the room the serving women had been there to undress them and brush their hair, chattering cheerfully of the upcoming wedding and what a fine, manly man Hugh of Fortham was, how he’d beget many strong sons.
Isabeau had sat very still beneath their ministrations, saying nothing, and when she’d climbed into the bed in her long shift, her golden hair braided in one thick plait, she’d looked like a little girl, younger than her own daughter. By the time Julianna climbed into the high bed, Isabeau was breathing the deep sighs of sleep, and the two chattering servants had lain down on pallets outside the door.
Julianna lay in bed, sleepless, listening to her mother breathe, listening to the snores of the servants nearby, listening to the sound of the wind beyond the shuttered window as it beat against the rocky foundations of the castle.
She told herself she missed the gentle hills of Moncrieff, missed the household she had ruled so well. But in truth, she only missed Agnes and her children. Moncrieff had always belonged to her husband, and while the people had loved her, they had known she wasn’t truly one of them.
She didn’t belong here either, and her family home was long gone. She had three paths open to her. She could stay in her mother’s household as a dependent, growing old and useless. She could be wed to another man, though a match seemed unlikely, given her inability to bear children. Or she could beg her mother or Lord Hugh to pay her entry to a convent, where she’d learn to be silent and dutiful and no man would ever touch her again.
Or she could run away. Bundle up her meager belongings, the few jewels that she owned, and take off into the autumn night. She could join the gypsies, or even better, leave with the traveling mummers who came for Christmas revels, and no one would ever find her.
It was a strangely beguiling thought. To dress in costumes and masks and bells and wander the countryside . . .
In sudden horror she thought of just who fit that description far too well. Nicholas Strangefellow would have been just such an itinerant entertainer until he’d caught the eye of a king and found himself a comfortable living.
But she was too tired to fight the notion. It was already growing light beyond the shutters, and she closed her eyes, drifting into the faintly alarming dream. No one would ever know—she could weave the most bizarre fantasies and soothe herself into a long-denied sleep.
They would travel on foot, of course, since he was afraid of horses. The children would walk with them, except for the little ones. She’d carry one in her arms; he’d have the next oldest on his back. And they’d sing, quite loudly, in the still, empty forests, and dance for their supper, and when winter came they would find a spot at some rich lord’s castle, perhaps in Spain or Normandy, and speak in rhymes and songs and never want for anything.
And he would kiss her, quite sweetly. She wasn’t going to think about what else he would do in order to get those children, because in truth she knew there would be no children for her. While she was eschewing reality she could dismiss it with a vengeance, and lie in his arms and smile.
It was a silly dream, madness, of course. But it soothed her like a mother’s lullaby, and just as the household was stirring she finally slept.
And dreamed of kissing a fool.
Chapter Seven
THE MORNING OF the wedding dawned clear and frosty, and Julianna awoke, still exhausted from her fitful sleep, to find she was alone in the bed, alone in the room. The shutters were still closed, but she could see a gloomy daylight beyond the ill-fitting wooden planks. A castle should have tight-fitting shutters to keep out the wind and the light, she thought, not moving, her housewifely urges coming to the fore.
But she had no house, she was no wife, and if she wanted an air-tight room she could stuff rags in the cracks, or wait for her mother to notice. In the past Isabeau had been a wise and diligent doyenne, but ten years had passed, and Julianna’s memory might be faulty. As well as her current perceptions, she thought with an unwanted trace of fairness.
For ten years she had blamed her mother for not protecting her, for not caring enough to save her from a horrible marriage. For the first time Julianna was beginning to consider the possibility that perhaps it wasn’t lack of concern, but the simple inability to stop her stubborn father once he had his mind made up.
It was something to consider, whether she wanted to or not. Isabeau of Peckham might not be the heartless, abandoning mother Julianna had believed her to be. At the very least, Julianna owed her courtesy. And perhaps even a trace of friendliness on her wedding day.
She climbed down off the bed and moved across the floor to the shuttered window, pushing it open to reveal an overcast day. The courtyard lay below her, bustling with activity. She could see Isabeau’s new husband, storming past everyone in seemingly no good humor. Isabeau was nowhere in sight, but perhaps she was offering up prayers for her upcoming marriage. She must be thanking heaven that the abbot had forbidden her access to the marriage bed. If Julianna could only be sure of just such a prohibition, she might view the thought of another marriage with more equanimity.
Not that it made sense. Marriage was for property and procreation, and as far as Julianna knew there was no other way to conceive children. She should be safe enough—she had no property and no ability to procreate. In truth, she was nothing but a liability.
Not that Isabeau had had property—upon her husband’s death, the king had promptly taken possession of it, but in return he’d provided a decent dowry for Isabeau. Julianna lived in fear that he’d decide to do the same for her.
She dressed herself before one of her mother’s servants could reappear, plaiting her thick hair tightly and covering it with an enveloping veil, and thanked heaven her clothes were all plain and demure. She wanted nothing to call attention to the bride’s widowed daughter. At least Father Paulus would have no cause to complain, though she had no idea how she would manage to spend five hours a day on her knees, repenting of sins she couldn’t imagine.
She was far-sighted—a disadvantage with needlework but a decided gift in spotting who was down in the courtyard, unaware that she was watching. She could see Bogo, Nicholas’s servant, sneaking around the side of the courtyard, and she could see Lord Hugh’s men training, even on such a festive day.
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And her gaze sharpened as she looked down on the tall, unexpectedly graceful form of Nicholas the Fool, dressed in brightly colored, mismatched clothes, moving through the crowds for all the world as if his back weren’t a raw mass of welts. She could almost think she heard the tiny bells on one sleeve, but she knew there was no way such a sound could travel so far upward over the clashing noise of swordplay and the shouts of the knights.
She watched him from her tower perch, unseen, as he moved among the men. And then he stopped, turned, and looked up, directly at her tower window, as if he knew she was watching him.
Of course he could have no idea what he was looking for, she reassured herself as she shrank back into the embrasure. The tower was a maze of windows, and few people were as gifted as she was with good eyesight. Even if he saw a figure at a window, he wouldn’t know it was she, and he could never be sure exactly what someone was looking at in the crowded courtyard. She had nothing to be worried about.
She leaned forward again, peering out the window, her thick braids brushing the stone outcropping. He was still staring upward, directly at her window, it seemed. As she reappeared, a broad, wicked smile crossed his face, and he blew her a kiss.
Julianna stumbled backward, tripping over her voluminous shift. So he might know a woman was watching him.
He certainly wouldn’t have been able to tell it was Julianna. And if by any chance he could, she would simply say she wanted to make sure he was healing properly after her ministrations, and . . .
She sank down beside the fire, putting her cool hands on her flaming face. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Was the man a magician as well as a clown? They said that some fools had special powers, to heal, among other things. Was Master Nicholas acquainted with the black arts? Surely there must be some explanation for her unusual response to him?
