Lady Fortune

by Anne Stuart

  Julianna’s brief moment of gratitude vanished. A thousand nights in bed with her husband was preferable to the torture of being burned alive. It didn’t happen often—there were alternatives for the punishment of heretics—but when it did, the horror lingered over the countryside for years.

  “I think you misjudge the child,” Brother Barth said hesitantly.

  “We shall see. If she behaves meekly, keeps to herself, and follows my godly example, then there might be hope for her. What are you staring at?”

  “Er . . . nothing, Father Paulus.” Brother Barth’s voice was suddenly nervous. “Let us continue on with our business. You said you wished to discover the abandoned chapel? You’re certain you wouldn’t prefer to wait until morning?”

  “It is sinners who wait until morning,” Father Paulus said sternly. “The righteous need no sleep.”

  An unexpected yawn swept over Julianna before she could still it, a mere murmur of sound escaping into the chilly air. This sinner needs sleep, she thought.

  “What was that?” Father Paulus demanded.

  “Nothing, Father Paulus. Just the wind.”

  For a moment no one moved. And then the kitten squirmed against her breast, purring once more. “Let us go to the chapel and make our prayers to the Blessed Martyr,” Brother Barth said hastily.

  For a long, desperate moment, Father Paulus didn’t move, and Julianna could just imagine those pale, glowing eyes piercing the darkness that shrouded her. And then he turned, striding into the courtyard. “Come along, Brother Barth. We’ve tarried long enough.”

  “Yes, Father Paulus,” he said meekly, scurrying after him. He paused for a brief moment in the doorway, staring out into the night. “Go to bed, Lady Julianna,” he muttered from the side of his mouth, barely audible. “And don’t let Father Paulus catch you with that cat. He has them drowned as imps of Satan.”

  He was gone before Julianna could do more than catch her breath. The kitten let out a protesting cry as she hugged her more closely, and the chalice seemed to radiate warmth beneath her cloak. Without further hesitation, she raced up the deserted stairs, down the long, narrow hallways, until she was back once more in her room.

  She dropped the kitten on the rumpled covers, threw off her cloak, and sat down on the bed, the chalice cradled in her hands. The cat chose that moment to crawl into her lap, and she stroked the tiny thing absently as she stared at the blessed relic.

  It didn’t look that spectacular. To be sure, it was gold, but Julianna had seen golden goblets before, had even drunk from them. It was encrusted with jewels as well, including a very fat sapphire, but there was something muted, dull about it. She set it down to stare at it, while the kitten curled up in her lap, purring loudly. As a holy relic, capable of miracles and murder, it was singularly unimpressive.

  She’d have to find a hiding place for it, one where nosy serving women and her mother wouldn’t find it. Just until she decided what she wanted to do with it. She’d been wise not to wait—she’d gotten out of the chapel mere moments ahead of the priest. Surely Saint Hugelina wanted her to have the chalice. Who else could have sent her there in such a timely manner? And kept her safe from discovery?

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to decide what to do with it. In the meantime, she was cold and weary, too tired to even think anymore. The fire had burned down to mere embers, and the room wasn’t doing much to alleviate the chill that had come from bare feet against cold stone. She crawled under the thick covers, taking the chalice with her. It was blessedly warm to the touch, and she wrapped her arms around it, holding it tight against her body.

  The kitten pounced on her, dancing across the mounds her body made beneath the fur throw until it ended up by her neck, where it proceeded to curl up and nibble her ear. The purring sound was as soothing as the small weight and the warmth of the chalice.

  “Good night, Saint Hugelina,” she murmured.

  And the kitten replied with a satisfied mew.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THINGS HAD GONE from bad to worse, Nicholas thought idly, propping his long legs up on the table. It was strewn with overturned goblets, abandoned trenchers, a few half-gnawed chicken bones littered gracefully among the refuse. The ewer of wine was almost empty, and in the great hall that surrounded him, the noise of snoring men and snorting dogs rose peacefully in the early morning air.

  He should never have kissed her, of course, but then, he liked playing with fire. He should never have followed the earl to Julianna’s room, and then lingered once Hugh had taken off with his wife. He should have fetched the sacred relic the moment he’d seen it, hidden high up in the darkness in the Lady Chapel, and if he hadn’t been so busy sniffing after Julianna of Moncrieff, that was exactly what he would have done.

  Of course, to be completely fair, he wouldn’t have stumbled upon its presence quite so quickly if he hadn’t been stalking his shy lady. He raised his goblet of wine in an imaginary salute to that sweet mistress, and then downed it. He’d always been a relatively philosophical soul—he’d had little choice in his rough-and-tumble life, and he could only assume that things were working out in their own strange, inimitable order. It simply would have been convenient if the saints had made him privy to that order.

  By the time he made his way back to the Lady Chapel, the august Abbot of Saint Hugelina was storming from its abandoned portal, clearly in a towering rage. The hapless Brother Barth was trailing behind him, making soft sounds of distress, but when Nicholas caught a brief glimpse of his expression in the moonlight, it seemed as if the good monk were not nearly as distressed as his gentle words suggested. Nicholas drew back into the shadows, waiting, pondering.

  Clearly, the abbot and his minion hadn’t found the chalice. Assuming they’d even been looking for it—it was always possible that Father Paulus was simply furious about the neglected state of a chapel.

  By the time he felt it safe enough to cross the courtyard, the moon had set and the sky was beginning to grow light in the east, rendering the situation a bit more precarious. He couldn’t afford to wait, however. Bogo was still annoyingly absent, and Brother Barth was closeted with the abbot and unavailable for questions. It was up to him.

  In the dimness of the chapel he could see the empty niche quite clearly, and he swore, softly, under his breath, then crossed himself in swift apology to Saint Hugelina. He’d been too late, of course, but so had the clerics. Which meant someone else had come after the chalice. Someone else had made off with it.

  It couldn’t have been Gilbert. He’d been by Hugh’s side all evening, and while Gilbert was a trickster and a liar, Nicholas had a gift for seeing through subterfuge. It came from being talented in those dark areas himself—he knew a liar when he saw one, and Gilbert de Blaith truly had no idea where the Blessed Chalice resided.

  And now, neither did Nicholas.

  He drained his goblet of wine, then set it back unsteadily on the table, wondering why he wasn’t more distressed at the recent turn of events. If he’d moved more swiftly, it would have been a simple enough matter. He would have left by now, the chalice hidden carefully among his motley things, and he and Bogo would disappear into the woods, ready to find their way back to a grateful King Henry.

  And he never would have seen Julianna of Moncrieff again.

  Or perhaps he would have. Sooner or later Henry would see her married off once more, probably to some minor knight in need of the king’s favor. She was a distant kinswoman, and Henry didn’t take such responsibilities lightly. He might stumble across her, some fifteen years hence, and she’d be thin and sour with half-a-dozen bratty children . . .

  No, she wouldn’t have children, would she? She was barren, or so the world said, since she’d spent a goodly number of years in wedlock with one of the world’s greatest whoremasters, a man whose bastards littered the countryside around Moncrieff. />
  And the king›s jester wouldn’t be anywhere around in fifteen years either. By then he’d be long gone, out of reach of King and Crown, and he’d never know what happened to Lady Julianna. Whether she’d ever learned to enjoy her sweet body, whether she’d been immured in a convent or another harsh marriage, whether she’d ever remember a hapless fool who’d done his best to drive her to distraction and ended up being far too distracted himself.

  He dropped his feet on the floor, cursing in disgust. He was growing maudlin with too much wine and the passing of too many years. Maudlin and weak. Never before had he allowed anyone to get in the way of what he wanted to do, and now, with her soft, trembling mouth and lost eyes, Julianna of Moncrieff had come perilously close to doing just that.

  She couldn’t have been the one to take the chalice, could she? She barely knew anything about its history—it would hold no particular value for her. And when could she have fetched it? He’d kissed her well enough to know she wouldn’t be moving for a while. He could tell by that dazed, half-drunken look in her eyes. He’d been half tempted to finish the job, reasonably secure in the knowledge that within hours he could have the relic in his hands and be gone from Fortham Castle.

  It was a damned good thing he hadn’t given in to temptation—reasonable security was not the same thing as certainty. Now he was stuck here until he found out who had run off with the chalice and where it was hidden. Stuck with Julianna for a few days longer. It could be borne, quite easily.

  The logical culprit was the Earl of Fortham or one of his minions. He was the one who would have had it placed there; he would be the one to have it removed. And it could have been taken at any point since he’d first seen it that afternoon—there was no reason to think he’d just missed it. No reason but his instincts, which were usually infallible.

  So the task would be a little harder than he’d first suspected. Fair enough. Anything worth having was worth laboring for, as long as one enjoyed the labor. Perhaps it was time for the fool to speak only in rhymes. It was a facile enough talent, and it drove people to distraction. If he were annoying enough, they would all shun him, and he could concentrate on his appointed task.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” The Earl of Fortham demanded in a suitably foul tone of voice.

  Nicholas hadn’t even heard him approach. The rest of the hall lay in attitudes of deep sleep, and Hugh of Fortham looked rumpled, grumpy, and very dangerous.

  “To sleep is but . . .”

  “Spit out a rhyme, and I’ll cut your tongue out, jester,” Fortham warned him. “I’m in no mood for your prattle.”

  Nicholas took pity on him. Indeed, he was in no mood for his prattle either. “The lady wife remains unplucked?”

  Hugh moved to the table, swept half its contents to the floor, and grabbed an overturned goblet, filling it with the remains of the wine. “Damn your eyes, she does. I’ll not endanger her immortal soul for a few hours’ pleasure.”

  “Hours?” Nicholas repeated lazily. “You’re good, man. Most men are only worth a few minutes at best. I’d think hours of pleasure might be a worthy trade for the lady. You might ask her and see what she says.”

  “Do you speak to your king with as little dignity?” Hugh demanded.

  “Even less. It’s one of the few joys we poor simple fellows have—to speak to both king and peasant as equals. Madness has its privileges.”

  “You’re not mad.”

  Nicholas smiled. “Am I not? You’ll find argument on that from most people.”

  “People in my household do not argue with me.”

  “Your lady wife will, I promise you. Wives have a habit of doing so.”

  “I’ve been married before, fool. I know full well the difficulties of women.” The Earl sighed. “They’re almost as much trouble as sanctimonious priests.”

  “But much more fun. Not that I’ve been married, mind you. No woman would have a poor mad fool such as I.” Hugh of Fortham gave him a long, cynical look, and Nicholas’s opinion of the earl, already fairly high, immediately went up a notch. Unlike most people, Hugh of Fortham wasn’t about to take him at face value, no matter how hard he tried to annoy him.

  “Women have a bad habit of doing what they’re told to do,” Hugh said finally in a heavy voice.

  It came with sudden, lightning clarity, and Nicholas almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. He’d realized that the Earl of Fortham lusted after his new wife, an entirely natural situation. Isabeau of Fortham was eminently lust-worthy—he’d had a few stray notions of getting under her skirts himself.

  But it was more than that. The gruff, soldierly Earl of Fortham was love-sick. Enamored of his new bride, and as far as Nicholas could tell, absolutely incapable of telling her so.

  Ah, life was so interesting, Nicholas thought with a lazy grin, stretching back in his chair. All of this could prove very useful in his quest.

  “Where’s young Gilbert?” he questioned.

  “Asleep in his bed like all good Christian souls, as you should be,” Hugh snapped. “Why aren’t you?”

  “I don’t need much sleep. And you, my lord? Why did you leave your lady’s side?”

  “Damn your impudence!”

  “Too tempting?” Nicholas said, unabashed. “You’re probably wise. There are times when retreat is the wisest attack.”

  Hugh’s look of strong dislike did nothing to quell Nicholas’s mood. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you still up?”

  “In truth, I was hoping for a few hours’ repose in a holy place. I avoided the main chapel for wise reasons—the abbot is not overly fond of me. I was hoping for some quiet meditation in the deserted chapel in the courtyard, but even that small, abandoned place proved full of visitors.”

  He got the reaction he was seeking, though not the one he wanted. “The devil you say!” Hugh exploded, pushing away from the table, loud enough to finally wake a handful of his sleeping men. They stirred, then fell back into various attitudes of drunken stupor. “Who was there?”

  “It was dark, and I was loath to show myself, my lord. But all manner of men and women were coming and going in the dark hours of the night, including the abbot and Brother Barth. It seemed a small, disused place to inspire such interest.”

  “God’s wounds,” Hugh muttered in a fury. “I’ll cut out the heart of any man who dared steal the Blessed Chalice.”

  “Chalice?” he echoed with due innocence. “What might that be, my lord?”

  He didn’t need to put that much effort into it—Lord Hugh was beyond thinking about the annoying jester. “The Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon,” he said in a low, furious voice. “Someone has stolen it from its sacred resting place.”

  “Are you certain, my lord?” Indeed, Nicholas was wise enough to know that Hugh might be enacting a very effective show for his borrowed fool. Hugh didn’t make the mistake that most men did when it came to Nicholas, and he might be wise enough to pretend shock over the loss of the chalice when at that very moment it might be residing in a place of his own choosing.

  “It’ll be gone,” Hugh said, so grimly that Nicholas was inclined to believe him. “But it won’t have gone far. No one will leave the place until it is recovered. The first man who tries will be tortured until he tells the truth.”

  Hugh of Fortham seemed the last man to endorse torture, even as a means to a most precious end. “I doubt your lady wife will approve,” Nicholas murmured.

  Love-sick indeed, like a veritable moonling. When faced with the loss of a holy relic and family treasure, the thought of his wife’s disapproval had the power to distract him. He was going to be dead easy to play.

  “I’ll find out the truth,” Hugh said in a harsh voice after a few moment’s hesitation. “And I’ll pay the cost.”

  “And if the co
st is your bride?”

  “It won’t be. What need would she have for the blessed chalice? She is of this household now—it is hers already.”

  “Perhaps someone else wants it.”

  “A great many people want it,” Hugh said grimly. “Are you one of them, Master Fool?”

  “A cup, a mug, a chalice of gold

  Would serve a fool or master bold

  I’ve little use for a sacred flagon

  Even one owned by a dragon.”

  “Your master wants it,” Hugh said.

  “You are my master, my lord.”

  Hugh shook his head, unconvinced. “You were sent by the king, and for but a short time, thank Christ’s mercy. I assumed he was merely sick of your prattling, but perhaps he knows you have more wisdom and talent than you pretend. Perhaps he sent you for the sacred vessel. Do you have it, Good Fool?”

  Nicholas smiled sweetly. “I have it not. Feel free to set my shoes on fire if you wish to verify it.”

  Hugh looked down at his mismatched leathern slippers with derision. “I’ll burn more than that if you’ve betrayed me.”

  He found that possibility unlikely. Fair and just punishment for misdeeds was one thing, torture and burning was another, and if Nicholas was adept at anything, it was reading his enemies. Hugh of Fortham was an enemy, by decree of the king. Though if truth be told, Nicholas would have liked the Earl of Fortham far better than his chosen sovereign had he been given the choice.

  But few were given any choice in this day and age. “If I may be so bold, my lord, you might make certain the chalice is truly gone from its niche. And then you might speak to your lady wife to make certain she has no knowledge of it.” It was an obvious suggestion. And any time spent with his new bride would manage to distract Hugh for a disproportionate time, allowing Nicholas the opportunity to do his own searching.

  “You are always bold, Master Nicholas.” Hugh moved closer to him, a huge man, and Nicholas remained slouched in his chair. He was as tall as the earl, though not nearly as broad, and he found that when people began to suspect he might not be all he said he was, it was best to stay seated. Hugh continued, “And full of surprisingly wise advice for a fool. I only wonder one thing.”