by Anne Stuart
But he wasn’t going to damn her soul along with his.
The bed was huge, room enough for almost half his army. Room enough for both of them without even brushing against each other, and at least he’d have her with him, where he’d wanted her for countless years. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t touch her. It didn’t matter that he was scared to death of frightening her, offending her, disgusting her. All that mattered was that she was here, and his.
He waited as long as he possibly could, until the logs broke apart in a shower of sparks, until the wine had faded from his brain, leaving him feeling tired and old. Steeling himself, as if preparing to ride into the battle, he threw back his shoulders and stalked into the adjoining room.
But there’d never been a battle of such mighty import, and he’d never been so nervous in his life. The fire had died down to embers, illuminating the room with only a faint glow, but he could see his wife quite clearly, asleep in his bed, where she belonged.
She looked like a child in the moonlight, trusting, innocent, sweet, and gentle. Which was exactly what she was, an angel, and all he wanted to do was defile her.
He usually slept naked beneath the thick fur throws, but he could hardly do that this time. For one thing, it would shock her. For another, she’d see all too clearly the effect she had on him, and he was afraid he’d fill her with disgust.
He stripped off his tunic, pulled off his boots and hose, and climbed into bed beside her clad in his long shirt and breeches. She stirred, but didn’t waken, and he lay very still in the bed, afraid to disturb her. She sighed, a soft, sensual sound, like a pleased kitten, and moved closer to him, clearly unaware of what she was doing. He wondered whether he ought to wake her up, whether she’d hate him if she found herself curled up next to him, but he didn’t have the heart to do it. He could suffer, quite nobly, if she decided to wrap her sleeping body around his. He could keep himself from breaking Father Paulus’s decree, he could lie there and grit his teeth and hope she didn’t notice . . .
She bumped up against him, sighed deeply, and snuggled into the soft mattress. He had no idea how a woman who was sound asleep could have gotten clear across the wide bed in such a short space of time, without him even noticing, but here she was, curled up against him, her sweet little rear pressed against his hip, a faint, dream-laden smile on her beautiful, sleeping face.
He didn’t groan, much as he wanted to. She smelled like flowers, like roses and soap and soft, clean linen, and he wanted to bury his face in her thick hair. He didn’t move. He’d never considered his sins to be quite so massive as to deserve this kind of punishment, but he was a tolerant man, of his own and others’ foibles. Maybe he was finally reaping the fruits of his seemingly minor sins.
Doubtless Father Paulus would tell him so. He still had no idea what the Abbot of Saint Hugelina was doing at Fortham Castle. He might assume he was after the Blessed Chalice, as most of Christendom seemed to be, but he had said absolutely nothing about it. There was always the possibility that being a man of the church, the priest was a stranger to covetousness.
But Hugh had never been particularly naïve. King Henry had been trying to get the chalice from the hands of the Forthams since he’d risen to the throne, and he wasn’t the sort who gave up lightly.
Hugh of Fortham didn’t give up either. The Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon was more than a religious relic, capable of miracles. It was his responsibility, his duty, his calling. Protection of the sacred vessel had been passed down from father to son for generations, and Hugh would have died rather than fail his family and the Martyred Saint Hugelina. She’d been a good woman, a countrywoman of sturdy stock. In her holy martyrdom she would want her sacred relic to remain with her people, her family.
No, Hugh wouldn’t give up the Blessed Chalice to anyone, be he king or priest or pope or clown.
That miserably annoying Nicholas Strangefellow was probably nothing more than he purported to be. A jester, a rhyming, capering fool, sent by King Henry to soften up an old enemy. Nevertheless, come morning, it might be wisest to move the chalice from its hiding place. He’d learned early on to trust in God but watch his back.
Isabeau sighed, moving closer still, and the ripe, sweet curve of her bottom through the thin shift made him groan out loud. He could only thank God he didn’t waken her—she’d probably jump from the bed screaming, accusing him of flouting Father Paulus’s strict order. But bless the lass, she was still sound asleep, innocent in her shifting around on the bed.
He shut his eyes, prepared for a very long night indeed.
And wondered if he’d imagined the faint, almost triumphant smile that touched Isabeau’s sleeping face.
Chapter Thirteen
THE LAST THING in the world Julianna wanted to do was leave her warm bed and go traipsing out into the cold night air in search of a holy relic. Particularly since the fool was out and about. He’d already followed her into the Lady Chapel once today, and she had absolutely no desire to meet him again.
Unfortunately, there were too many people who wanted the Blessed Chalice, including the powerful Abbot of Saint Hugelina. As far as Julianna could see, the only advantage she could gain to better her current situation was to have the chalice firmly in hand. She could barter it for a peaceful life, far away from marauding men and feckless fools.
She threw a gown over her shift, realizing with sudden shocked annoyance that her braids had come loose in a shower of thick blond hair. She started plaiting it again, then abandoned the effort when she realized she had nothing to fasten it with. It didn’t matter—it was the very dark of night. No one would see her flitting across the courtyard to the abandoned chapel. And if they did, she could always say she was called to prayer.
Another wicked lie, she thought, shoving her feet into the thin leather slippers and fetching her cloak. She’d already inveigled the holy saint into her falsehoods—would she bring God in as well? And if she were to confess her sins, as she should, what kind of power would that give the abbot?
She didn’t want to think about it, to think about anything but the sudden, instinctive need to retrieve the sacred relic.
The halls were deserted as she made her way down the winding stairs to the base of the tower. She imagined the ramparts were guarded—even in peaceful times you couldn’t be too careful, and Hugh of Fortham was a wise leader. Would they sound an alert if they saw her moving swiftly across the deserted courtyard? Or would they assume, rightly, that it was just some wanton female intent on wickedness?
Not the kind of wickedness they’d be expecting of course, but wicked nonetheless. Selfish, perhaps unholy of her, to remove a sacred relic from its resting place.
But that resting place was forgotten, dust covered, ill lit As far as she could tell no one at Fortham Castle even remembered its existence, or it would be accorded more sanctity and honor. Indeed, there was a good chance no one would even notice it was gone.
The grass was cold and wet with dew, soaking through her slippers. The bright moon was setting over the hills beyond the castle wall, and it was easy enough to move in the shadows, keeping close to the walls, so that no curious guard would notice anyone was about.
The door to the chapel stood ajar, just as she had left it, and she took a deep breath and sprinted across the open courtyard, half expecting to hear a shout of warning, or the baying of hounds.
Nothing. She dove inside the entrance, tripping on some rubble and stubbing her toe inside the soft slippers, and it was only with a tremendous force of will that she kept herself from cursing. This was a holy place, after all, even if it had been abandoned. It was only people who’d abandoned it, not the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon.
It had been dark that afternoon, lit only by the sunlight through the dusty stained-glass windows. It was pitch black now, and as Julianna felt her way inside, sh
e thought she could hear the faint scuffle of rodent feet on the stone floor. She could only hope they were mice and nothing larger.
She banged her knee against the stone dais that supported the altar, slammed her elbow against a wall, bit her lip to keep from crying out in anger and pain. Biting her lips was a mistake—it made her think of Nicholas, and that brought forth a host of emotions that were so unsettling that she simply sat down on the edge of the dais and shivered.
Her need to leave Fortham Castle had grown to desperation and she had the fool’s mouth to thank for it. His kisses had shaken the very foundation of everything she’d ever believed, and for the first time she had an inkling of what made women behave so idiotically when it came to men. Kisses like that were a drug, a danger, like the poppy essences that brought sweet dreams and then took them away again.
She shivered, pulling her cloak around her more tightly. The chapel was inky dark—in the moments she’d sat there her eyes had had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the dimness, and she still couldn’t even see shapes. But the stone beneath her was so cold, it bit into her bones, and she rose, squaring her shoulders. She had decided on a course of action, and now there was nothing for her to do but follow through with it.
She began feeling her way toward the altar in the darkness. She kicked against something wooden and remembered the overturned bench she had used earlier. She tried to set it upright, but a leg must have broken during her earlier tumble, and it simply fell over again.
The altar was adjacent to the wall—close enough for her to climb up on it to reach the niche. Such sacrilege was almost too much to contemplate, but she could think of no other way to reach the chalice. If the chapel had been abandoned for what seemed like decades, surely its sanctity could be considered dubious. And what was the greater crime, to abandon a sacred relic or to climb up on an altar to rescue it?
It was the coldest part of the night, and Julianna was freezing, and the longer she stood there worrying about it, the colder she would grow. The sooner she made up her mind, the sooner she could crawl back in bed.
She kicked off her slippers, muffling a little squeal of dismay as she felt the icy chill beneath her bare feet. Putting both hands flat on the altar, she climbed up, bracing herself against the wall until she stood atop it, feeling wicked and conspicuous in the pitch-dark chapel.
She angled her body till her hands touched the wall, and she had begun feeling her way toward the chalice when Nicholas’s warning came back to her. What had he said—something about the relic holding a curse for those unworthy? That the jewels turned to poison?
Ridiculous! Holy relics were a divine blessing from God—He’d hardly use them to murder even His most wayward followers, which she certainly was not. Besides, if the cup turned deadly, then it would end any worries Julianna might have about the future. They would find her poisoned body on the floor of the abandoned chapel, the chalice clasped in her cold hands, and Nicholas would never kiss her again and disturb her very existence. It was worth trying.
Her fingers found the edge of the niche. “Holy Saint Hugelina,” she muttered under her breath, “if you want to kill me, do it swiftly. Otherwise, help me make wise choices.” She reached for the chalice, blindly.
The first thing she felt was small, soft, and furry. And most definitely alive. She shrieked, managing to muffle the sound at the last moment, and almost fell off the altar onto the hard stone floor.
She balanced herself at the last moment, pausing to regain her dubious calm. It wasn’t a rat—she could reassure herself of that much. Rats had shorter hair, they squeaked, and it likely would have scuttled down her arm . . .
She took another deep breath, fighting the stray shudder. If only she had a candle. Anything to help her peer into the niche and discover what manner of creature had taken up residence.
It couldn’t be a snake—they were cold and slimy, weren’t they? Not a miniature dragon either—they had scales like snakes. Too soft for a rat, too small for a rabbit, and how in the world would a rabbit make its way into a niche like that?
And then it made a noise. A blessed, soft, mewling noise. It was a cat.
“You terrified me,” Julianna said severely, reaching back for the niche. “Wicked cat . . .” She reached out and caught the soft creature, pulling it out from the niche.
It was no more than a tiny kitten, purring noisily in the darkness at the touch of human flesh. It began licking Julianna’s hand with its rough tongue, and she paused a moment to cuddle it against her cheek.
Then she set it down on the altar. “Go find your mother, kitty,” she whispered. “She’s probably wondering where you are.”
She reached again for the niche, only to feel the kitten begin to climb up the length of her cloak, its tiny claws clinging to the thick wool. Julianna was already balanced quite precariously, and she had no choice. She thrust her hand inside the niche, grasped the chalice, and pulled back, almost overbalancing.
She froze, standing barefoot on the altar, as the kitten reached her arms and began to purr once more, butting its tiny head against the chalice. She waited, with a kind of distant curiosity, but no bolt of lightning struck her, no poison scoured her veins. It was a goblet—a sacred one, to be sure, but with no wicked powers.
Either that, or Julianna was pure of heart, and considering that she was standing barefoot on an altar, that seemed unlikely.
Clutching the kitten in one arm and the sacred relic in the other, she scrambled down off the altar, breathing a sigh of relief. Saint Hugelina had decided to be merciful. She doubted she’d be able to say the same thing of the holy abbot.
She set the kitten down on the floor. “Go find your family, sweeting,” she murmured. “You’re too young to leave your mother.”
But the kitten seemed to have made up its mind. It began scaling Julianna’s thick cloak once more, determined on regaining its comfortable perch against her breast.
She gave up. She began hunting around in the pitch-black chapel for her abandoned slippers, but with the chalice in one arm and the kitten in the other, she could only rely on her feet to search the dark floor. She found them at last, shoving her icy feet into them with a sigh of relief.
Tucking the chalice under her cloak, she cradled the kitten in her arm and stepped out into the courtyard.
For a moment the dim moonlight was almost dazzling in its brightness. She hadn’t realized how dark the chapel had been, rather like the depths of hell. No sooner had the blasphemous thought come into her mind than she shook herself. She was bound for those very depths if she didn’t watch her troublesome mind. She’d learned to restrain her wayward tongue, but her inventive imagination seemed beyond control, and she was always thinking of things that might get her burned at the stake if someone like the Abbot of Saint Hugelina were able to read minds.
Fortunately the abbot was a mere mortal, unequipped with such gifts, and she told herself she had nothing to worry about. She kept to shadows, skirting the edge of the keep walls, until she made it safely back under cover at the base of the tower. She was about to start up the winding stairs when she heard heavy footsteps and the muffled sound of voices, and she realized that there might be something to worry about after all.
She ducked into the corner under the final curve of the stairs, praying that she’d be hidden in the shadows. If only she’d thought to cover her bright hair. The chalice hidden beneath her cloak seemed almost hot to the touch, warming her despite the chill, and the kitten was blessedly quiet, its only sound the soft purring of pleasure as it snuggled against her breast.
To her horror she recognized the voices as they drew closer. The Abbot of Saint Hugelina was having trouble sleeping as well, and he’d dragged faithful Brother Barth along with him. He was busy haranguing him about the wickedness of the earl’s household, but at least he didn’t seem particularly interested in the sacred c
halice.
“I want the serving women to cover their hair, bind their breasts, and wear longer skirts,” Father Paulus was saying sternly. “I won’t have wantonness in this household, not while I’m in charge.”
If Brother Barth had doubts about who was, in fact, in charge of Fortham Castle, he wisely chose not to voice them. “The women wear short skirts to keep them from dragging in the mud, I believe,” he offered tentatively. “And I gather that the binding of breasts can be both uncomfortable and unhealthy for the future babes . . .”
There was no missing the abbot’s hiss of shocked disapproval, and the kitten in her arms let out a tiny, sympathetic hiss. Fortunately Father Paulus was too intent on his outrage to notice.
He halted in the doorway of the tower, and the moonlight cast eerie shadows around him, almost reaching into Julianna’s tiny hiding place. “Disgusting, Brother Barth. Do not speak to me of such things. I will burn the sin from this place, the sin from their souls, and I will start with the wanton and her mother. She keeps her head meekly lowered, but I see the lust in her eyes.”
“Who?” Brother Barth questioned, clearly confused.
“Lady Julianna. I had hoped to find purity within her, but my faith has been misplaced. Like all women, she is capable of the worst sort of evil. If I had my way, she’d spend the rest of her days locked in a convent, away from the sight of men.”
Oh, please, God, thought Julianna devoutly, suddenly in charity with the sour abbot.
“The Lady Julianna strikes me as a good, devout girl,” Brother Barth was unwise enough to argue. “Whom do you see her lusting after?”
Julianna was curious about that as well, but Father Paulus was not about to answer. “The convent,” he said grimly, “or the stake.”
