by Anne Stuart
She hadn’t seen very many of their kind—and most of those she had seen were misshapen creatures, of either too great wit or none at all. Nicholas Strangefellow was the first of his kind who was actually quite fair of face and form—if he stopped moving long enough for someone to see him.
He was tall, he was graceful, and his eyes were quite remarkable, even when they were shining with malice. If Isabeau had been unmarried and ten years younger, she might have been similarly fascinated by such a changeable creature.
But he was the wrong man for her only child, a danger and a curse upon this household.
She could get him sent from this place easily enough. One word to her husband and the creature would be gone, back to his king, with Lord Hugh’s Godspeed hastening him on his way. Hugh was barely tolerant of him anyway, and mistrusted anything to do with King Henry. All he needed was the slightest excuse and Master Nicholas would be gone.
But a king like Henry must be played carefully. Her new husband was a wise man, but a soldier, and used to straightforward moves. Henry was a politician, tricky and dangerous. While Hugh would have no hesitation in alienating his sovereign, it behooved his wife to make certain he didn’t burn his bridges once he’d crossed them. The well-being of their household and the surrounding countryside depended upon it. As well as any chance of saving her daughter from another disastrous marriage.
In the meantime Saint Hugelina’s tiny, abandoned chapel could wait a day or two longer. It had sat in dusty disrepair for this long—a bit longer wouldn’t make any difference. If she had time later she could go and offer up a prayer to that forceful saint for the well-being of her daughter. Saint Hugelina had had no children, but she was particularly solicitous of young women, and if any blessed saint would watch over her daughter, it would be the Dragon herself.
Isabeau had the feeling that Julianna was going to need all the help she could find, both of this world and the next.
NO ONE PAID the slightest bit of attention to Julianna as she hurried down the corridors of Fortham Castle. At midday everyone was intent on their own purposes, and the stepdaughter of their lord was of little consequence in the scheme of things. No one looked twice at her, at her rumpled gown or loosely knotted hair, and she kept her eyes downward as she sped toward her destination.
The problem was, she had forgotten exactly where they were holding him. She’d found his rooms easily enough on the night they arrived, following Bogo’s instructions, but she’d never had a terribly good sense of direction. Fortham Castle had no fewer than five towers surrounding the keep, and Julianna hadn’t the faintest idea which one held the poor, cursed fool.
She also had the good sense to know she couldn’t very well ask anyone. By the time she’d investigated the third tower, she was ready to weep with frustration, convinced that things couldn’t get worse.
She was mistaken. She pushed open the final door in the third tower, not hopeful she would find it occupied, only to come face-to-face with the Abbot of Saint Hugelina standing half dressed in the darkened room, his soft white skin a raw weal of red whip marks.
Julianna froze, horrified, in time to see the lash fall once more on the priest’s flesh, wielded by someone in the shadows. “I repent of my sins, sweet Jesu,” the abbot proclaimed in high-pitched, wavering tones, and she realized with relief that his eyes were closed in some kind of ecstasy, and he hadn’t seen her standing in the door. “Again!”
The lash fell again, bringing forth a string of fresh blood, and Julianna felt her stomach twist at the quiver of delight that rippled his body. He was finding pleasure in this torment, she thought dazedly.
She started to back away, blessedly unnoticed by the priest in his holy, pain-soaked rapture, when she spied the boy wielding the whip. It was young Gilbert, Hugh’s new squire, and he let the whip fall with a sharp crack. He wasn’t as oblivious as his victim—or was it his master? He caught Julianna’s eye and simply shrugged, as if to comment on the strange appetites of the holy father.
She didn’t bother to close the door behind her, afraid it would alert the priest to her presence. She simply backed away, silently, almost tripping over her skirts, until she came up against a solid form.
She whirled around, stifling a gasp of shock, to face Brother Barth. He put a finger to his lips to silence her, then moved around her and carefully shut the door on the priest and the boy.
“Come with me,” he mouthed, and she nodded, picking up her skirts and following him down the winding stairs.
He waited until they were out in the blessed, cleansing sunlight before he spoke. “Father Paulus believes in the scourging of the flesh,” he said in a voice that was almost apologetic. “He feels he finds closer union with God through pain and subjugation. You mustn’t pass judgment on him—he is one of a small group who believe the best way to God is through pain, but it is certainly a possibility.”
“I wouldn’t dare to pass judgment on the abbot,” Julianna said, another facile lie. She had already decided the abbot was a cruel, inhuman monster, and his appreciation for pain was merely an afterthought.
Brother Barth nodded benevolently. “No, you’re a good girl, Lady Julianna. What were you looking for when you stumbled across Father Paulus? Is there any way I can aid you?”
She looked at him uncertainly. Brother Barth was the opposite of the priest in every way she could think of, and yet she wasn’t quite certain she could trust him. She could tell him of the chalice, but would he then simply take it from her and leave her without any hope of freedom? And would it leave Nicholas in his mute state, prey to the rage of king and master?
Part truth was better than none. “I was searching for Master Nicholas.”
“What would you want with the fool? He’s been banished to his room for stubbornness, and I doubt your stepfather would want him to have any visitors.”
“It’s not stubbornness, brother,” she said urgently. “It’s not his fault he can’t speak.”
“Then whose fault is it?” Brother Barth said patiently. “Speak up, child. We can’t help him unless you tell me. Who did this to him? Who put such a curse on him?”
There was no way around it. “I did,” she confessed. “And Saint Hugelina the Dragon.”
Brother Barth stared at her for a long, thoughtful moment. “Come with me,” he said, taking her hand.
For a moment she resisted. “Where are you taking me?”
“To see your fool. You’ll find that it’s stubbornness and self-will and nothing more that has silenced his tongue. We should all be rejoicing. He’s a lot better company when he’s silent.”
“But it’s not his fault,” Julianna said again, somewhat desperately.
“We shall see. You must promise that you won’t tell anyone I brought you to him. I have grave doubts about such an act already.”
“He won’t hurt me, Brother Barth,” she said, not knowing why she was so very certain of that fact.
“There is more than one way to hurt someone, my child,” he said. “Remember that. People are not always what they appear to be.”
Like the abbot with his taste for pain, or her mother, who had always loved her.
Like the fool, who was no fool at all.
“I’ll remember, Brother Barth.” And she followed him down the deserted hallway, racing to keep up with his rapid pace.
Chapter Sixteen
NICHOLAS FOUND he was enjoying himself immensely. His room at Castle Fortham was quite the largest and most comfortable he’d had in a long time. While he was a favored member of the king’s court, his majesty enjoyed a large retinue, and people were crammed together like apples in a barrel. It was only Nicholas’s erratic behavior that guaranteed him his own room, and when he traveled with the king, it was often little more than a monk’s cell.
Fortham Castle was large and sprawling, but
the earl’s household was relatively sparse. Nicholas’s large room had probably stored arms or grain at some point, or perhaps even belonged to a family member. It was cold, undecorated, with only a huge fireplace and an equally huge bed, but the windows commanded a view over the courtyard on one side as well as the surrounding country.
And for the time being he didn’t have to caper, prance, rhyme, or cavort. He could simply stretch out on the rumpled bed and dream licentious dreams about Julianna of Moncrieff.
He had other business to attend to. His task had suffered a severe setback with the disappearance of the chalice, and any time spent amusing the earl would be a waste. He needed to come up with a new plan, he needed to find the chalice, and he needed to get the hell away from there. Henry’s royal patience would already be wearing thin, even though Nicholas had only been at Fortham Castle for two short days. It felt like a lifetime.
The earl might think his annoying, recalcitrant fool was safely locked away, but he failed to take into account Bogo’s gift for picking locks and Nicholas’s inborn ability to get out of tight spots. There was no prison that could hold him, and certainly not a locked bedroom.
He’d already decided what his next step would be. While everyone partook of the evening feast, he would accomplish his own little reconnaissance, starting with the earl’s chambers and moving down the social scale. If he failed to come up with the missing chalice the first night, he was willing to remain infuriatingly mute for as long as it took him.
And there was one lovely advantage to this latest complication. Whoever stole the chalice couldn’t complain if it in turn was pilfered from him. And even if the thief did voice a protest and demand its return, the silent, incarcerated fool could hardly be suspect in its latest disappearance.
In the meantime he was well fed and peaceful, waiting patiently for the advent of the evening meal to start his search.
The sound of the door being unlocked wrenched him from his well-deserved nap, and he sat up on the rumpled bed, scratching his chest sleepily, wondering if the earl had made the huge mistake of negating his punishment.
It always amused Nicholas to realize how much more annoying silence was than his usual irritating prattle. It had driven saintly men to violence, and he suspected that while Hugh of Fortham was undoubtedly a good man, he was far from saintly.
The afternoon shadows were lengthening, but he could see perfectly well as the door opened and the round figure of the monk appeared. “Master Nicholas?”
Of course he didn’t answer. He simply looked at Brother Barth with a blank, witless expression on his face, inwardly wondering what the hell the good monk was doing there.
It was worse than he expected. He turned to someone behind him. “He’s decently clothed, if you could call it that. I’ll leave you two alone, but I’ll be nearby if you need any help. Just scream.”
Mary’s Bones! Nicholas thought in sudden fury, knowing who had come to his room, to his bed, before she moved in front of Brother Barth. The last person in the world he wanted to see. The one he’d been seeing in his dreams and his fantasies.
The door closed behind her, and the shadows grew around them. He supposed he could always climb out of bed, retie his loose shirt so that half his chest wasn’t exposed, but he didn’t move. He suspected that his shy lady found his chest distracting, which suited him well. He found her chest distracting.
She was wearing some plain gown that did little to emphasize her sweet curves, but her hair was only loosely knotted beneath the veil, a vast improvement over her rigidly tight plaits. She had the soft, unfocused look of someone who just got out of bed.
The moment that thought popped into his head, he cursed. He was having trouble enough controlling his unruly cock when he was around Lady Julianna. Thinking of her in terms of bed was only making it worse.
“Master Nicholas?” she said in a soft, anxious voice.
What the hell was she anxious about? he wondered. What had they told her?
He said nothing, simply watching her from his position of state in the middle of the rumpled bed. Forcing her to come closer.
Which she did, bless her. With a sudden rush she came to the side of the bed, dropping on her knees beside him and taking his hand in hers. There were tears in her eyes, and he stared down at her in complete astonishment.
“I’m so sorry,” she said in a broken voice. “So very, very sorry. I never realized—” Her words caught, and she bit her lip, trying to quiet herself.
Sorry about what? he wondered, but he couldn’t very well ask her. Brother Barth was probably just beyond the door, listening to every word, and there was a good chance there were other spies around as well.
Naturally he had no choice but to touch her in reassurance. He had no notion of what had gotten her into such a state, but stroking her head would calm her. The thin veil with its ribbon circlet got in his way, and he pulled it off, tossing it on the bed beside him as he cupped her chin in his hand, drawing her face up to his.
There were tears streaming down her pale face, and they broke his heart. Julianna of Moncrieff didn’t cry easily—he knew that as well as he knew his own father, a fact which many people disputed. She was crying now, and she was crying for him.
“It’s all my fault,” she said. He brushed the tears from her face with his long fingers, resisting the impulse to taste them. He couldn’t remember when a woman had last cried for him. Oh, to be sure, he’d brought them to tears of pleasure in bed, quite easily, but he’d never had a woman weep for him. Unless you counted his easily exasperated old nurse.
“You’ll drive women to tears,” she’d warned him, and finally she’d been proven right. But he still had not the faintest notion what Julianna was weeping about.
Her eyes were closed as the tears streamed from beneath them, and there was no way he could communicate with her without using his voice. He waited, stroking her tear-damp cheek, until she opened her huge brown eyes to stare at him.
He gave her a quizzical look, half smiling, and she let out a fresh wail of misery. “I did this to you,” she said. “Please forgive me—I had no idea it held such power. I simply wanted you to stop tormenting me, but I didn’t really wish to have you stricken mute, even if I told Saint Hugelina so. And now you’ve lost your ability to speak, and if my stepfather doesn’t have you beaten to death, you’ll still be an outcast. A fool has to be able to sing songs and tell stories and rhymes, no matter how awful those rhymes are. If you can’t speak, you’ll die.”
Ah, thought Nicholas, keeping his face impassive as he gently stroked her. So she thought she was somehow to blame for his silence, that she’d managed to will it with the help of the Dragon. It was an amusing notion, and he was sorely tempted to explain the facts of the matter, but he resisted the impulse. His lady enchanted him, with her tears and her anger and her soft mouth, but he didn’t trust her for a moment. He’d decided on at least three days of silence until he found the chalice, and silent he would be. Even if his words could coax a kiss from her.
There were other ways to coax kisses from a reluctant woman, particularly one whose reluctance was only temporary. He tilted her face up, so he could look into her tear-drenched eyes, but she shut them tightly, and there was no other way to communicate but through touch.
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her closer, pressing a soft kiss on both eyelids, tasting the tears as he’d longed to. She choked back a sob, and he kissed the side of her mouth.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “I didn’t know the chalice would hold such powers.”
Nicholas halted in the act of kissing the other side of her mouth, for one long moment. She had it. His reluctant lady love had somehow stolen the chalice and obviously wished for him to be punished. And here she was, repentant and weeping, and all he had to do was say something civil, push her out of the way, and go find the c
halice. As far as he could tell, Lady Julianna didn’t have a devious bone in her body—any hiding place she chose would be easily discovered. She probably had it hidden under her bed.
It was quite clear that was exactly what he should do. She might raise the alarm, but he could simply feed her guilt, tell her that her repentance had freed his tongue, and he’d be gone before anyone could stop him. With the chalice tucked in Bogo’s pack.
And that’s exactly what he would do. After he kissed her one last time. He’d have no more chances—once he’d retrieved the chalice, there’d be no reason for him to stay, and their paths would never cross again.
There was no particular hurry. No reason he couldn’t take just a few moments to savor her sweet, untutored mouth. Brother Barth was keeping guard outside, and for a brief moment Nicholas allowed himself the luxury of believing Julianna mattered more than the future his king had promised him. Mattered more than his father’s title and a place of his own where he answered to no man.
She opened her eyes then, staring up at him. “Please,” she said, but he doubted she knew what she was asking for.
He did.
Without a word he kissed her. He put his mouth against hers, kissing her slowly, letting her get used to the shock of his open mouth before he used his tongue. She quivered, and he slid his hands down her arms and pulled her closer against him, wrapping his arms around her. He wanted to feel her breasts against his chest, even through her layers of clothes.
She was a quick learner. Last night she’d been frozen, endearingly awkward. Less than a day later, she was relaxing beneath the coaxing heat of his mouth. Her hand was trapped between them, curled against his chest, and he reached up and caught it, moving it downward across his skin. And she let him.
