by Anne Stuart
“That’s good,” she said, trying vainly to right the circlet on her head. “No one will bother you—my mother will be with Lord Hugh, and the serving women leave me alone unless ordered to do otherwise. Just stay here until I return.”
He bowed his head in acquiescence, seemingly at peace. A moment later she was gone, rushing from the room with her hair and her skirts flying out behind her.
He waited, unmoving. He could be very still when need be, and right now he wanted to be certain Julianna wouldn’t come racing back. She was upset, rattled, not thinking clearly, consumed with guilt over her supposed curse, distracted by his efforts to seduce her. There was always the chance she’d come storming back into the room.
Eventually he rose, moving over to the window. He’d timed it perfectly—she was just reaching the deserted Lady Chapel, disappearing inside as the darkness grew around the empty courtyard. If she was true to her word, she’d be there a good long while, repenting her sins.
Julianna, who had little blessed notion of what real sin was. Such a waste of ripe womanhood was an affront to his nature.
He went straight to the bed, kneeling down and peering under it. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his lady’s eyesight, but Julianna had been overwrought by the day’s occurrences, and she might have missed it in the shadows. It had grown darker, but he could see no tell-tale bump beneath the slightly sagging ropes of the bed, and he sat back on his heels, looking across the room.
Directly into Lady Isabeau’s eyes.
“What are you doing here, jester?” she questioned in her soft, deceptively sweet voice. Nicholas might be a fool by profession, but he knew not to underestimate the likes of Lady Isabeau. For all her sweetness, he suspected she could be a tigress if her daughter were endangered.
He shrugged, not about to answer. But clearly Lady Isabeau hadn’t expected him to speak. “I would have thought you were interested in spending time in my daughter’s bed, not beneath it,” she murmured. She walked away from him, and he moved to his feet, ready to vanish before she could call the guards to take him back to his makeshift prison. Not that his room could hold him, but he was just as happy the Earl of Fortham didn’t know that Nicholas Strangefellow wasn’t a man who could be contained.
Instead of calling for help she closed the door, closing them both inside, and then she turned and leaned against it, watching him.
He considered her for a moment. She was astonishingly beautiful, small and delicate, sweet and feminine, very unlike her daughter. She was the kind of woman he would usually gladly tumble, and he wondered if that was what she had in mind. For all her chaste demeanor, he’d sensed she wasn’t well pleased with the abbot’s edict, though he’d assumed it was her brusque new husband she wanted. Maybe she was merely interested in an hour or two of sport, and someone who seemed incapable of talking about it afterwards would be the perfect partner.
He should be amenable, he told himself. He always had been in the past, and in truth, she was a lovely creature. But for some bizarre reason he couldn’t rid himself of the thought of Julianna, and the expression on her face if she found he’d tumbled her mother.
“You can wipe that look off your face, Master Nicholas,” Isabeau said evenly. “I want to talk to you, not sport with you. I don’t imagine you have any particular interest in me—you seem alarmingly smitten with my daughter.”
She moved to the chair by the fire, sitting gracefully, her thick skirts swirling around her. “You look horrified at the notion, good sir,” she continued. “But of course, you can’t deny it. I think conversing with a mute is most satisfying. I could only wish most men lost the use of their tongues.”
He’d given away too much already. And he was hardly smitten with Julianna—he’d never been the pawn of any woman in his life and never intended to be. Lady Isabeau must be imagining things.
Even so, he had best wipe all expression from his face. A look of vague idiocy might help; he widened his eyes and let his face grow slack, keeping his gaze unfocused.
“Very good, Master Nicholas. You are a man of many talents. Most people would be fooled by you, even my otherwise discerning husband. But women are harder to trick.”
He didn’t blink.
“Oh, not that you haven’t managed to fool my daughter. She’s surprisingly innocent for a married woman, and vulnerable. You have far too strong an influence on her, and that’s what I wish to speak to you about. I want you to keep away from her.”
She looked down at her small, delicate hands as they carefully pleated the rich cloth of her robe. “I wasn’t able to protect her when she was younger. But things are different now. I have a strong, fair husband, and I won’t stand by and let her be hurt anymore. You can’t wish any good for her—if you did, you’d keep your distance. I’ve seen the look in your eyes when you’ve watched her and you’ve thought no one else could see you. I’m afraid you’re in love with my daughter, Master Fool. And you can’t have her.”
Nicholas blinked, doing his absolute best to feign idiocy. If anyone was mad in this room, it was Lady Isabeau. He wouldn’t deny that he felt an entirely normal lust for Julianna. But he was adept at hiding every hint of emotion, and there was no way his expression could have betrayed him. No way she could know.
“You really are very good at this,” Lady Isabeau continued. “I doubt anyone else noticed, even that twisted old priest. But people tend to underestimate women, forget they have eyes and ears and brains, and they don’t take care to hide their feelings.”
That was almost a greater insult. He never underestimated anyone, particularly women. He’d found they could be the most dangerous of all creatures, wicked and wise and ultimately devastating. And he couldn’t say a word to refute her quiet accusations.
“It doesn’t really matter, I suppose,” she went on. “You’ve annoyed my husband past reason. If you’re lucky, he’ll simply have you sent back to your lord and master in the morning. Unless you mysteriously recover your voice and can tell Lord Hugh where the missing chalice is.” She waited for his reaction, but he gave her none but his dullard’s stare.
“But you won’t be able to do that, will you? I’m certain of that. Not that you can’t speak—I expect that’s merely a devilish conceit on your part, designed to irritate those who were impervious to your annoying rhymes and incessant bells. But you can’t tell him where the chalice is, because you don’t have it.”
He jerked his head up, the blank expression gone, and Lady Isabeau’s smile was wise and sure. “Exactly,” she said. “I have no idea what it was doing under my daughter’s bed, but be assured it is there no longer. It will be returned to my husband, and then it will be up to him to decide which greedy bastard will have it, the king or the abbot. But it won’t be stolen by a lying fool or a thieving priest.”
She had it. And indeed, she’d made the fatal mistake of underestimating him. The door was closed, no one knew where he was, and any screams that might escape her would be quickly silenced. He had too much to lose to let a little thing like conscience get in his way.
He started toward her, his face composed in grim lines, but she didn’t stir. Looking up at him calmly, she asked, “Are you going to strangle me, Master Fool? Force me to tell you where the chalice is so you may escape and bring it back to your royal master? Odd, you don’t seem like an assassin. I’m not as certain about that child who trots around after my husband. If it were young Gilbert advancing on me, I think I’d run for my life. But I don’t believe you’ll hurt me.”
She was a naive fool, and he’d hurt any number of people over the course of his life in his quest to get what he wanted. Even if she had somehow recognized what few people did—that Gilbert was by far a greater danger than his innocent exterior suggested.
Nicholas prided himself on being just as dangerous if the situation called for it, but he hadn’t ever laid hands on a woman.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready to start with Julianna’s mother.
“You’re a very annoying woman,” he said, his voice sounding slightly rusty from disuse. “Almost as irritating as your daughter.”
“Your voice returns. I’m astonished,” she said, her voice thick with irony. “And I don’t think it’s irritation you feel for Julianna, whether you admit it or not.”
He shrugged, strolling toward the bed and tossing himself down on it. He no longer had anything to lose—a smidgen of honesty might serve him very well in the long run.
“I want to tup her, if that’s what you mean. She’s a tasty morsel, and I’ve not had a woman for far too long. It’s nothing more than that.”
“Perhaps you really are a fool after all,” Isabeau said in a musing voice.
“You could give me the chalice,” he suggested. “The king will have it, come hell or high water. It would simplify matters if you simply gave it to me. I’d disappear, no one would ever know you had it, and your daughter would be safe.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought you would do anything to protect your daughter,” he drawled.
“I would.”
“I could force you. You think I’m squeamish, and it’s true that I’ve always preferred to live by my wits rather than by combat. It’s no sport to hurt someone smaller and weaker, and it’s even less fun to be beaten to a pulp by someone bigger and stronger, but I can do what needs to be done.”
Lady Isabeau failed to look suitably cowed. “You won’t hurt me. I know that much about you—you’re no bully.”
“Even when my own life is at stake? If you think so highly of me, why do you warn me away from your daughter?”
“Do you love her?”
The question was so unsettling that he threw back his head and laughed. “Love, woman? What century do you live in? What manner of man are you used to? It’s not for the likes of me to fall in love with anyone—it’s a luxury few can afford. If I had the chance, I’d climb beneath your daughter’s skirts and that would be the end of it. Where’s the damned chalice?”
“Blessed chalice,” Isabeau corrected. “Which would you rather have, my daughter or the chalice?”
“Not that you’re offering either,” Nicholas said wryly, “but there’s no question. The chalice. Julianna is a pleasant diversion, but not worth risking my future for. The king wants the chalice, and I intend to bring it to him.”
“And if I tell my husband your plans? If I tell him we had an entirely sensible conversation free of rhymes and capers? What then?”
“My future’s fate will surely lie
Within the hands of mortal men
But greed and lust I’ll not deny
And live my life in righteous sin.”
“Stop it!” Isabeau said.
He rose from the bed in one fluid movement. She wouldn’t give up the chalice any more than she’d give up her daughter, and in truth, he didn’t know which he’d prefer. Quite possibly the daughter. The chalice had waited this long—it could survive a few more days.
But from Isabeau’s calm demeanor, he suspected she’d hidden the chalice too well for him to find, short of using violence, and there were limits to what he would do for his king. And for himself.
He strolled toward the door, all lazy grace.
“Your daughter’s virtue’s to be had,
A tender gift, a tasty prize
For one the world deems fully mad
Who’ll take her well with all his lies.”
He opened the door and stopped in sudden horror.
In truth, it could be worse. The Earl of Fortham could have been standing outside his wife’s door with a band of armed men. Or the wretched, interfering priest, ready to dispense another taste of the whip to a liar.
It was only Julianna, looking up at him, the expression on her vulnerable face making it all too clear she’d heard his voice—and his mocking, dismissing words.
There was nothing he could say. Indeed, he didn’t even try. He simply shrugged, no excuse, no apology.
She was her mother’s daughter after all. She straightened her shoulders, and her soft mouth curved in a cynical smile that almost disguised her pain. “The Blessed Hugelina has answered my prayers, it appears,” she said in a mocking voice.
He considered touching her. He even lifted his hand, but he heard Isabeau’s swift intake of breath, and he dropped it before Julianna noticed.
“Your servant, my lady,” he murmured. And he moved past her, into the deserted hallway, determined not to look back.
Chapter Eighteen
“MY SWEET GIRL,” Isabeau said in a soft voice.
But Julianna was not about to cry, not in front of her mother. She’d shed too many tears over the long years—she couldn’t afford to waste them on a lying, worthless fool. “I presume he was never truly mute?” she said idly, moving into the room. She moved stiffly, blaming it on her hour spent prostrate on the cold, littered floor of the abandoned chapel. She moved to the fire, but the blaze of heat failed to warm her.
“I would think not. It’s all a part of the games he plays.”
“And is he mad, do you think?” She managed to sound no more than idly curious.
“I think he might be one of the cleverest men I have ever met. One of the most dangerous as well. He’s managed to trick almost everyone into believing he’s a demented simpleton, when in truth, all he’s ever wanted was the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon.”
And she’d almost given it to him. “Why?”
“For his master the king. It was no accident that Master Nicholas was dispatched to Fortham Castle, I’m certain. He was sent to fetch the sacred relic, and I doubt he cares what he has to do to accomplish that feat. Whom he has to wound.”
“He hasn’t wounded me,” Julianna said calmly. Odd that such a bright fire would contain so little true warmth. “How could such a strange creature wound?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at . . .” Isabeau stopped, obviously thinking better of what she’d planned to say.
For which Julianna was profoundly grateful. Her mother was far too observant, and there were any number of things she’d prefer no one to know. Including the fact that the touch of the lying, treacherous fool made her weak in the knees and that for his kisses she would almost willingly suffer the pain and unpleasantness of the marriage bed. If only he hadn’t kissed her as he had.
But none of this showed on her face, and never would. She could deem it a lucky escape—Master Nicholas had the ability to cloud her judgment and override her common sense. He would be unable to do so again, after those damning words.
“I took the chalice from beneath your bed,” Isabeau said after a moment. “What was it doing there?”
She didn’t even consider lying—to lie would make her one with the jester. “I took it from the chapel. Father Paulus wanted it, and I thought if I brought it to him he’d grant my request.”
“What request is that?”
“The only comfortable life a woman in my position could hope for. I want to join the Sisters of Saint Hugelina and devote my life to God and good works.”
“And never let another man touch you,” her mother said softly, far too wise.
The color that flooded Julianna’s face finally brought some warmth into her body. “Yes,” she said. “I never want to marry again. I thought I would have more time to secure my future before the king bartered me off. Obviously, in this case, I was the fool.” She was unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
Isabeau looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment. “Sit down, daughter.”
“I don’t want—”
“Sit down,” Isabeau repeated sharply, and suddenly Julianna felt as if she were eight
years old, being reprimanded by her adored mother. She took the low stool by the fire, making her shorter than the diminutive Isabeau for the first time in years.
“I want to know what Victor did to you,” she said.
Julianna averted her face. “What men do to women,” she muttered.
Isabeau shook her head. “I don’t think so. If it were so unpleasant, there would be very few children in this world.”
“Who’s to say it’s unpleasant for men?” Julianna shot back. “They’re stronger than we are. They master and rule us. What man would listen if a woman denied him?”
“Any number of decent men.”
“Victor was decent enough,” Julianna felt compelled to admit. “It was only in the bed that he . . . was not kind.”
She could feel her mother’s eyes watching her, and she tried to duck her head further still, rather than face that wise expression. “He may have been less than skillful when he took your virginity,” Isabeau said. “Most men have little talent for it, and it starts a marriage off poorly. But surely, after that initial time, things got better? Once your maidenhead is broken and the pain is past, things usually improve.”
“The pain didn’t pass.”
Her mother was silent for a moment. “Perhaps he was having difficulty. Did you bleed each time . . . ?”
Julianna had never endured a more miserable conversation in her life. Agnes had known of her unhappiness in the marriage bed, but Agnes had once been Victor’s mistress, and she had had no question about his lovemaking. “No,” she muttered.
“Only the first time, then?”
“No.”
Her mother reached down and put her small hand under her chin, drawing Julianna’s face up to hers. “You didn’t bleed when he bedded you? Ever?”
“No.”
Isabeau dropped her hand, sitting back in her chair, clearly disturbed. “This is most strange. If only your old nurse were still alive, she might be able to explain . . .”
