Lady Fortune

by Anne Stuart

  She hesitated. “Could you do that?”

  “Indeed. If it’s that important to you, we can send Master Nicholas on his way, and he’ll never trouble you again. I had no idea he had that strong an effect on you, but I will simply tell my lord husband that he must go. If that is what you desire.”

  “He doesn’t have a strong effect on me,” Julianna protested. “He just . . . annoys me. Everyone knows that fools are annoying creatures. If I have to hear his bells one more time, I’ll strangle him with them.”

  “He wasn’t wearing bells today.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” Isabeau’s smile was enigmatic. “You have only to say the word, my dear. If Master Nicholas upsets you, I will have him banished.”

  She was well and truly trapped, and she suspected her innocent-looking mother knew it. If she admitted the depth of Master Nicholas’s power over her peace of mind, it would be a folly of the greatest order. To have him banished would be an act of cowardice, and she’d never know whether she was strong enough to ignore him. There would always be a question in her mind, and she wasn’t sure she could live with unanswered questions.

  “He’s an annoyance,” she said finally. “But so are fleas and bedbugs, and they’re too often a fact of life. As long as I can keep my distance from him, I’ll be fine.”

  “And was he the one who kissed you?” her mother persisted.

  “No!” Julianna said. “No one kissed me.” A simple fact. She had been the one to kiss him.

  Isabeau nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then if you have no objection we’ll keep my lord fool here until Christmastide as originally planned. I expect my husband will be in a truly foul mood for the time being, and Master Nicholas might manage to cajole him out of his bad temper.”

  “He’s more likely to drive him to commit murder,” Julianna muttered.

  “Well, then, with luck it will be the fool who will bear the brunt of Lord Hugh’s displeasure, not anyone else,” Isabeau said.

  “With luck.”

  “And Julianna?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  Isabeau’s expression didn’t alter. “Perhaps you could try ‘yes, Mother’? Or even ‘yes, Maman,’ as you did when you were young?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Isabeau sighed. “You are as stubborn as a mule, and you always were, even as a babe in arms!”

  Julianna did her best to ignore the treacherous softening. “Did you want to tell me something?”

  “Just that I carry no fleas or bedbugs with me, if we’re to share this room.”

  “Then there’s hope for the future,” Julianna said.

  “Is there?” Isabeau’s voice sounded almost wistful, and Julianna’s wounded heart began to heal.

  “Yes, Maman.”

  Chapter Ten

  ON THE NIGHT of his wedding to Isabeau of Peckham, the Earl of Fortham was not in a good mood. The members of his household loved and respected him dearly, but most had the innate good sense to keep a distance from him when he was in one of his very infrequent rages. Unfortunately the newcomers were not well versed in the proper care and handling of an angry Hugh of Fortham.

  They made a strange tableau at the far end of the Great Hall. Hugh sat alone at the broad banquet table, his cup of mead overflowing, his face set in an expression not far removed from the sulks, and he glared at those who dared to approach him. Few were so foolhardy. Young Gilbert stood near him, ready to refill his goblet, ready to do his bidding like an eager young puppy, and Hugh didn’t have the heart to cuff him away when all he wanted to do was be alone with his fury and frustration.

  The jester was another matter, however. Hugh couldn’t grind the interfering priest into a pile of dust—there were laws against such things, laws of both the State and the Church—but there were no such protections for annoying clowns who were fool enough to wander within range.

  He didn’t walk like a man, damn it. He didn’t walk like a woman either, or like any of the mincing, effeminate creatures who occasionally made their appearance among his men-at-arms. As long as they could fight well, he tended to overlook their peculiarities, but as far as he could tell, the king’s fool could neither fight nor ride nor do anything but annoy his betters. The only one who’d be irked at his dispatch would be Henry, but then, Henry was already irked at him for refusing to give up the Blessed Chalice.

  Killing the fool might take some of the edge off his rage, Hugh thought blearily, draining his cup of mead. He reached for the dagger at his waist, leaning back to watch as the jester approached.

  No, he didn’t walk like a fancy man either. He moved like a cat, sly and graceful. Hugh’s head was pounding ominously, and he wasn’t even half as drunk as he intended to become. The fool was wearing tiny silver bells, and their gentle noise was enough to make Hugh growl low in his chest.

  He fixed his steely gaze upon the fool. “You, there.”

  The man stopped, tilting his head sideways to stare at his new master with a total lack of respect. He was dressed absurdly, in a host of bright colors, and instead of approaching Hugh in a decent manner, he spun around, whirling in the air like a damned top, leaping and landing directly in front of Hugh with an expectant expression on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice only slightly dulled by the mead. It was making little dent on his temper, but Gilbert had already refilled his goblet, and he reached for it.

  “You summoned me, oh most munificent and glorious lord of the realm,” the fool said, bowing so low that his elegant nose almost touched the rushes that were strewn across the floor.

  “I don’t mean that. I mean what brought you to my home?”

  “A simple task for a simple fool, my lord. King Henry sent me to provide amusement during the first few months of your marriage.”

  “What made him think I’d need amusing, eh? Did he put that damned priest up to this—this unholy plan?”

  The fool didn’t blink. “I believe he thought I’d entertain your household while you were otherwise occupied.”

  “Well, I’m not,” he snapped. “Otherwise occupied, that is. Blasted priest.”

  “Indeed,” Nicholas said smoothly, but Hugh thought he could see a faint light of amusement in his strange eyes.

  “My lord,” Gilbert said urgently. “You should watch what you say. The Abbot of Saint Hugelina is very powerful, with ties to the Inquisition. You wouldn’t want him to accuse you of heresy for cursing a servant of God.”

  “We’re all servants of God, aren’t we, young Gilbert?” Nicholas said lightly. “Does that mean we can’t curse each other?”

  Hugh turned to stare at the boy, then back to the mocking jester. “You two know each other?”

  “We do indeed, my lord,” Gilbert said in a voice that revealed none of his feelings. “I was at court for several days on my way down here to join you. Master Nicholas was quite the center of attention while I was there. You should let him entertain you, my lord. He can caper with the best of them, and his mind is both strange and witty. He might amuse you.”

  Hugh glared at Nicholas. “I’m not in the mood to be amused. You don’t fight, you don’t ride, you don’t walk like a normal man, and you don’t talk like a normal man. Do you drink?”

  The fool glided forward. Hugh had already heard rumors that the women of his household found the new inhabitant very interesting indeed, so apparently he wasn’t like that small portion of his men who preferred their own kind. Indeed, if he kept his mouth shut and were wearing normal clothes, he might appear to be like any other man. Well set up, with a deceptively lean frame that couldn’t quite disguise his strength. Hugh recognized strength and agility in an opponent, no matter how well hidden, and Master Nicholas could prove a worthy adversary if it ever came to that.

 
“I drink,” Nicholas said in his deep, musical voice.

  “Give him a mug, Gilbert,” Hugh said carelessly. “And take one yourself. And then you can both tell me what I can do.”

  “‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’” Nicholas quoted softly, taking his goblet and holding it aloft in a mocking salute to Gilbert. The boy’s face was blank and unreadable.

  “You’d best not let anyone hear you utter such words,” Hugh said in a steely voice, leaning forward. “There’s a limit to what your lord and master will stand, that much I’m sure of. He’ll have your saucy head knocked off before you can say Thomas a Becket. Unless I kill you first.”

  “Why would you want to kill me, sire?” Nicholas said, stretching out on the dais in front of the table, loose-limbed and entirely at ease as he sipped at the strong, rich mead. “I’m here to do your bidding. If you wish to kill me, I’ll gladly comply, but I promise I could provide much better entertainment than simply dying for you.”

  Hugh snorted. Somewhere in this huge, drafty place, the Abbot of Saint Hugelina was doubtless congratulating himself on making everyone miserable. Somewhere his new wife was lying in a bed without him, probably glad she didn’t have to put up with such a great, lumbering ox of a man. He was a simple soldier at heart, not adept at the ways of women, though the women he’d taken to his bed had seemed well enough pleased. But Isabeau was a small, delicate creature, unused to a hulking brute and a tongue-tied one at that. She was probably on her knees thanking God that she didn’t have to tup him.

  Young Gilbert had taken a seat on the steps leading up the dais, at a small distance from the fool. The cup of mead in his hand was small and untouched as he eyed the colorful creature who lay sprawled at his new master’s feet. Something was going on between the two of them, Hugh thought, momentarily distracted from his own woes. Bad blood, when it seemed as if his young fosterling charmed everyone he met.

  He dismissed the thought, no longer interested in anything but his own frustration. “When is that monster of interference going to leave?” he demanded of no one in particular.

  “The priest retires

  When cause he will

  The pain that ends

  The heart, that chills.”

  Hugh resisted the impulse to throw his goblet at him, for the simple reason that it still held a goodly amount of mead, and he wasn’t in the mood to waste it when he was still distressingly sober. “I hate rhymes,” he said. “Especially obscure ones. Say what you mean.”

  “He’ll laugh at grief

  And smile at woe

  He’ll ruin all

  Before he’ll go.”

  Hugh drained the mead and hurled the goblet at Nicholas’s head. He ducked, of course, surprisingly agile, and his wide grin was particularly saucy.

  “Too much mead can dull the brain and slow the aim, my lord,” he said. “The priest is your enemy, and the enemy of living a good life. He won’t leave until he’s made everyone miserable, and then it might be too late. But accidents do happen occasionally, do they not? Perhaps the stern abbot might take a tumble from one of the towers. It’s growing colder, there might be ice some night, and doubtless the stone is slippery,” he said cheerfully, turning to look at Gilbert.

  Hugh was appalled. “How dare you suggest coldblooded murder of a holy father, and in front of such an innocent as Gilbert! Pay no attention, lad. There are evil men about, but you needn’t be tarnished by such cruel talk.”

  “No,” said Nicholas, an enigmatic smile on his face. “He’ll probably stay as innocent and guileless as he is now throughout his entire life.”

  “If he’s lucky,” Hugh said, casting an uneasy glance at Gilbert’s pale face.

  The boy turned and smiled at him with his own particular sweetness. “I don’t wish to be a complete innocent all my life, my lord,” he said. “I’d as lief marry when my time comes.”

  “It’s not marriage that strips a man’s innocence,” Hugh said heavily. “It’s those damned meddlesome priests. Where’s my wife?”

  “Presumably in bed, sire,” Nicholas said. It seemed to Hugh as if he were sounding more and more like a normal man and not some capering monkey, but he wasn’t in the mood to waste thought on a jester.

  “Whose bed, damn it?”

  “Presumably the one she’s slept in since she arrived,” Gilbert murmured, but Nicholas had already risen with one annoyingly graceful move.

  “She’s sharing a bed with her daughter, in the southeast tower,” he said. “They both retired several hours ago.”

  Hugh glared at him, feeling the mead a bit more strongly now. “And why should you be paying such damned close attention to where my lady wife is sleeping, and how long she’s been there? Do you fancy her? I’ll cut your balls off if you even dare to speak to her.”

  The insolent creature simply chuckled at the threat. “I have no interest in Lady Isabeau except to serve her as my master’s wife. It’s her daughter who entices me.”

  “Lady Julianna is a lady, and you’re nothing but a fool and a servant.”

  Nicholas smiled faintly. “What better thing for a fool to waste his time with than foolish fancies? I worship the Lady Julianna from afar, content merely to bask in the reflection of her beauty.”

  “See that it stays that way. If I’m not to tup, then neither are you.” Lord Hugh rose with exaggerated dignity, looming over the banqueting table. Some of the servants at the far end of the room stirred uneasily, clearly wondering if they dared approach their lord and master.

  “I’m going after my wife,” Hugh announced. “And woe betide anyone who interferes.”

  “You’ll go against the holy father’s orders?” Gilbert questioned, seemingly shocked.

  “No. I’ll lie beside her, not between her legs,” he growled.

  “A chaste wedding night,” Nicholas said. “Is my lord certain that’s the best course? Will you be able to resist temptation?”

  “I can resist anything I damn please,” Hugh said. “Now where the hell is my lady wife?”

  HER MOTHER, Julianna soon discovered, was not a sound sleeper. A light rain had begun to fall, and the sound of it beating against the stone walls of the castle should have soothed Isabeau into the deepest of slumbers, particularly since the previous night had been disrupted by the Abbot of Saint Hugelina. It was all Julianna could do to lie perfectly still beside her, keeping her breathing deep and slow, while Isabeau tossed and turned.

  Obviously she didn’t take after her mother in that particular regard—the steady beat of the rain was lulling Julianna into a beckoning slumber that was proving almost impossible to resist. She’d drift, her mother would thrash, and Julianna would be jerked awake, determined to stay that way, only to drift once more.

  She’d given up fighting as exhaustion began to take firm possession of her body and soul. The Blessed Chalice could wait for another day, and if someone pilfered it in the meantime, it was hardly her fault. As the night advanced, she was no longer quite sure why she’d decided to take it in the first place. She’d had some vague plan to trade it to Father Paulus in return for his help, but as she drifted deeper and deeper into sleep she thought that for a godly man, Father Paulus didn’t seem terribly trustworthy. He might take the relic from her and offer her no gratitude, no reward at all, even though the only reward she craved was the peace and serenity of a convent.

  The fool had probably climbed up on the stool that had tripped her and taken the relic from its dusty hiding place. So be it. She would live with the consequences. What she needed now, more than a priceless relic with which to barter her future, was a decent night’s sleep.

  She’d just begun to drift, peaceful at last, when she heard a loud noise, then footsteps echoing, a voice raised, a flurry of activity that effectively wiped out any hope of sleep.

  Sh
e sat upright in bed. “Oh, bother,” she muttered. “What is it now?”

  Her mother was at last still and unmoving, but her quiet voice attested to the fact that she was wide awake. “I suspect it’s my new husband.”

  Julianna had no notion whether she was imagining the tone of pleased satisfaction in her mother’s voice, and she wasn’t about to waste time questioning her mother’s wisdom. The voices grew louder, and she could indeed recognize Lord Hugh’s deep bellow. A moment later the heavy door was flung open. Julianna dove beneath the covers, but Isabeau sat up, calm and serene as always.

  “My lord?” she questioned in her even voice.

  “You’re my wife,” Lord Hugh declared in a tone bordering on the belligerent.

  “Yes, my lord,” Isabeau said.

  “You’ll sleep in my bed then.”

  Julianna shivered beneath the covers, but Isabeau seemed undaunted. “The priest has declared we live chastely, my lord.”

  “We’ll live chastely, damn his eyes. But we’ll be chaste in my bed.”

  Isabeau hesitated, and Julianna tried desperately to think of a way to save her, but in her panic she could come up with nothing at all, not even a convenient illness that would necessitate her mother staying by her side.

  “Yes, my lord,” Isabeau said, far too cheerfully, and climbed down from the bed, her linen shift trailing behind her in the cool night air.

  A moment later she was gone, the door closing behind her, and Julianna was alone, huddled in the big bed. The room was huge and dark, lit only by the fitful flames of a dying fire, and she wanted to weep, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Ten years ago her mother had been unable to stop the cruel fate that had befallen Julianna, sent to the bed of a mean, ugly old man when she was just a child. Had Julianna just allowed the same thing to happen to her fragile mother?

  Except that Isabeau had seemed remarkably calm about it. And in truth, Hugh wasn’t particularly old, and no one could call him ugly. Julianna drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them, shivering in the chilly air. If she had any kind of courage at all, she should climb out of bed and go after them. She pushed the covers down, ready to move, when an all-too-familiar voice drawled from close at hand.