Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  “Before I allowed this kitchen to be used, we tested the strength of the fire pit and oven, again and again. I don’t understand how it could have crumbled,” Juliana said. She leaned against the oven with a weary wince that brought Raymond’s wrath bubbling up.

  “Not often enough,” he roared. In two strides he reached her side and reached for her hand. She jerked it back, but he glared until she extended it. Gently, he unwrapped it. The back was only dirty, but the palm was reddened in random splotches, and a blister had formed. The cook hovered, craning her neck to see over his shoulder, and he directed, “Bring a clean bucket of water.”

  As the woman hurried away, Raymond lifted the charred area of Juliana’s skirt. With her free hand, she slapped at him. “There’s nothing there but a few singed places. ’Twas my hand I set down in the embers.”

  With awesome patience, he asked, “And why did you do that, my lady?”

  “Because in the rush to put out the fire, someone pushed me down.” She sounded cross. “If that blasted boy hadn’t come into the great hall yelling about the fire, Cook would have had it extinguished with no problem.”

  “Here ye are, m’lord.” With a thump, Cook placed the bucket beside his shoe. Straightening, she looked for a cloth to dry her hands. She settled for her own sleeves, muttering, “Fools don’t know how t’ aim fer th’ fire. But m’lady’s right, I would’ve had th’ fire out. M’lady insists we keep th’ full buckets on hand, an’ I could’ve done it.”

  Raymond brought the bucket up and Juliana plunged her hand in. “It’s cold,” she said. Her shoulders relaxed. “It feels good.”

  Glancing down at the men, Raymond asked, “What caused it?”

  “Maybe…” Keir paused doubtfully. “Maybe fire stress to the stones.”

  Layamon stood and shook out his knees. “Maybe.”

  “We’ll move the kitchen out to the bailey at once.” Raymond indicated the oven with a wave of his hand. “If we start on the fire pit immediately—”

  “Nay.” Juliana’s voice was flat.

  Raymond froze, his arm uplifted. “What?”

  “Nay. The kitchen stays where it is.” Juliana swept her loosened hair back from her face. “We’ll bring the master castle-builder in to look at this.”

  “Ha!” Raymond said, remembering Papiol’s blanched face.

  Juliana ignored him. “Maybe he’ll have some ideas why the wall failed, and how to fix it so it doesn’t fail again. Next time—”

  “Next time?” Raymond rumbled.

  “Next time we bring a new boy into the kitchen, we’ll drill him on what to do in case of fire, so he doesn’t run squawking up the stairs and rouse the entire castle.”

  Juliana’s exasperation was obvious, but not nearly as deep as Raymond’s aggravation. “After this demonstration of the dangers of a fire in the undercroft, you would leave it here?”

  “Nothing happened,” Juliana answered patiently. “When I designed the kitchen, I took good care to put the fire away from anything that would burn. If you’d look around, you’d see most of the damage was done by the panicked rampage of the idiots above stairs.”

  He did look, and it was true.

  Juliana continued persuasively, “The well is down here. As Cook says, I insist buckets of water be kept ready at all times.”

  She lifted her hand from the bucket and examined it. With her other hand, she explored the injuries, and Raymond was reminded of the night before. Of her soft hands exploring him. And he knew one of those soft hands would be aching for days to come. “We’ll move the kitchen outside,” he said.

  She didn’t lift her head. “Nay, we won’t.”

  “Aye, we will.”

  “Do you think”—she exploded, her voice rising—“I would allow my children to stay in a place where there is any danger? Even I am not so stubborn.”

  His voice rose, matched hers, exceeded hers. “And even I am not so shortsighted as to allow you to continue with this madness.”

  “This is not your concern.” She stopped, gulped in breath, and regulated her tone. “I am trying to say this is a woman’s concern.”

  He didn’t bother to regulate his tone. “You are my concern.” He was roaring again, and he didn’t care. “Everything that happens here is my concern.”

  She shouted back. “Not in the kitchen.”

  From the corners of his eyes, he saw the observers stepping back, but he didn’t care. This damned woman—his damned woman—was arguing with him. “Not in the kitchen? Where else? Not in the garden, not in the bailey, not in the great hall, not with your children, not with the defense? What is my concern?”

  Juliana, too, seemed to realize she’d overstepped her boundaries, and she sounded subdued when she said, “Well, the kitchen’s not your concern.”

  Cold reality prodded him; hot anger burned him. “Is the defense of your castles my concern?”

  She squirmed under his considering gaze. “Aye. Well, aye, that’s a manly concern.”

  “Then you will be pleased to know I’ve informed my trusted knight Keir the castle at Bartonhale is his to maintain as our castellan.” He watched the red color ebb up her neck, up her cheeks, to her forehead. “I’ve also decided to give you permission to keep the kitchen in the undercroft.”

  He turned away, letting his cloak swirl around him in a grand gesture, and stalked toward the stairs. A moment before it hit, he heard a swoosh, and then the water from her bucket plastered his back. He dodged none too soon, for the bucket itself followed, and like the cold north wind he swept back to her for retribution.

  She didn’t cower. She held out her face for his slap, and he smashed his mouth on hers. With her mouth already open in a surprised gasp, it took no more than a second to remind her of the night’s passion. He locked their lips together, locked their bodies together, leaned her back against the rounded oven, and groaned when she wrapped her legs around his waist. When he lifted his head, he looked at the enraptured face that rested in the crook of his elbow. “Listen to me, and mark this well.” Her eyes flew open, and she watched him warily. “I do not hit women or any other simpletons. When you displease me, I will treat you thus, and leave you dissatisfied. Remember that, when next you rouse my anger.”

  He lowered her to her feet and headed toward the stairway once more.

  As he knew she would, she drawled, “If that is my punishment, I will displease you often.”

  His cape did not swirl so well when wet, but he turned with a competent flourish and said, “Swear not so, lady mine. First you should find out what I do when I am pleased.”

  That smile. All flashing white teeth, tanned and dimpled cheeks, eyebrows cocked at a quizzical angle. His smile. A taunting smile, as if he knew she would be tempted to please him, just for an introduction to those delights he promised her.

  As if there could be more delights than the ones he had taught last night.

  Taking care not to break the heat blister on her palm, Juliana folded the tightly woven brown cloth in half and spread it over the trestle she’d set up by the arrow slit.

  “Th’ tunic first, m’lady?” Fayette asked.

  Juliana nodded absently, and Fayette laid Raymond’s ragged old tunic over the cloth to use as a guide. With a rough chunk of chalk, she outlined it, then whipped it away. “There ye be, m’lady. All ready fer yer cuttin’.”

  He was lying. He had to be lying. There could be nothing he hadn’t done to her in bed.…But a niggling bit of curiosity kept her wondering, and a smile tugged at her mouth. No demon, he. Sir Joseph had lied about that, too. All through the night, she knew Raymond had retained his manly form. She knew, because she’d explored every bit of him and found him to be quite human. Or perhaps more than human, with his stamina and his expertise.

  Fayette knelt beside the chest which held the woolen materials, dyed and packed with camphor to keep out the moths. “Will ye be wantin’ t’ cut th’ cloak next?”

  “Bring the scarlet for that. ’Twill
look elegant with his new surcoat, yet ’twill be serviceable enough for everyday wear.”

  “Aye.” Fayette winked in saucy appreciation. “An’ ’twill make him up pretty, him wi’ that dark skin an’ hair.”

  “I suppose it will.” Untying her scissors from her belt, Juliana tested the edge. “I hadn’t thought about it.” Fayette’s coughs sounded suspiciously like laughter, but Juliana ignored her. Keir—who really seemed to know his smithing—had offered to sharpen them. She jerked her finger back and sucked the tiny cut. It seemed he had done as he had promised.

  Keir.

  That bit of betrayal ached like a sore tooth. While she wanted—needed—someone of trustworthy character to take over the care of Bartonhale, nothing could sweeten the fact that Raymond had given the position to Keir without her permission.

  The scissors bit into the cloth with a snap.

  Her permission.

  He didn’t need her permission. By every law in England and France and Aquitaine, by every law in the known world, the disposition of her lands now rested in his hands. And though they were competent and caring hands, the years on her own had taught her much, and she wasn’t ready to give up control. There was no safety in dependence.

  “Well done, m’lady.” Fayette whisked the tunic away and handed Juliana the bundle of scarlet cloth. “I’ll have th’ sewin’ maids start on it at once.”

  “Have them finish it by tonight,” Juliana instructed. “Lord Raymond is in rags. Until he moved his trunk in with mine, I had not realized…” That his shabby dress wasn’t merely male carelessness. She’d been horrified to discover he owned only the clothes on his back.

  “Aye, ’tis a shame.” Fayette cast a dark look at the well-clad Geoffroi and Isabel where they sat, heads together, by the fire. “Smell like rotten meat, they do.”

  Juliana didn’t answer. What could she say? She couldn’t approve such criticism of the maid’s betters, yet she would not reprimand Fayette. With a flip of her wrists, she spread the thick wool on the table, looking up only when Fayette whispered, “God help ye, m’lady,” and moved swiftly away.

  Isabel stood beside the table and with a bitter kindness that could turn sweet milk to curds, she asked, “Are you talking to yourself, my dear?” Not waiting for an answer, she sat on the tall stool her maid had provided. “I’ve been hearing the most interesting rumors about you.”

  Juliana snipped the scissors and watched the flash of the blades in the sunlight. Should the cloak close with a string tie around the neck, or should she create a more elaborate yoke? With the yoke, she could attach a hood for warmth, but from what she’d seen of Raymond, he preferred to grab a hat and jam it on before leaving the keep. Or to go about bareheaded. She frowned. Although she’d reprimanded him, still he forgot, and just this afternoon she’d had to chase him clear to the door with his hat.

  “Well might you frown.” Piqued at being ignored, Isabel sounded a little sharper. “I know the whole story of your escapade three years ago.”

  A string tie was the simplest, Juliana decided, and would therefore be Raymond’s choice. A string tie it would be. Having distanced herself from Isabel’s blatant cruelty, she answered, “No one knows the whole story.”

  “Enough of it to condemn you, and even if you were to deny every word”—Isabel lifted one brow, but Juliana refused to justify her silence or her behavior—“there is still the matter of your reputation.”

  “My—”

  “Which is in shreds.”

  “You have been busy.” Juliana tightened the cloth and walked her fingers across it as a measurement. “To whom have you been speaking?”

  Isabel waved an airy hand. “Everyone.”

  “I can hardly believe everyone has the bad taste to talk to you.”

  “Such sharpness is not attractive in such a young woman.” Isabel turned Juliana’s face to the light. “But you’re not too young, are you?”

  “I’m getting older all the time,” Juliana said drily. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and then I’ll tell you to go to the edge of the earth and drop off?”

  Isabel tittered, not at all offended. “Go to the edge of the earth and drop off. How amusing. You have a witty tongue, my dear. I suspect you would do well at court. It’s almost a shame Raymond can’t keep you.”

  “Ah, so we come to it.” Juliana tried to be as sophisticated—or at least as uncaring—as Isabel. “Why can’t Raymond keep me?”

  A swift change of masks, and Isabel became the caring, commiserating bearer of bad news. “We told you before. Raymond is the only heir of a great house. He can’t have a woman like you as his wife. No matter how carefully you hid them, no matter how firmly he quashed them, the rumors would overwhelm you. He’d have to banish you or be banished with you.” With a sob in her voice, she said, “And you know how honorable Raymond is. He’d insist on being banished with you. He would spend the rest of his life in this provincial backwater. The king would be without his greatest counselor. The kingdom would suffer.”

  “All because of insignificant me,” Juliana finished. She distrusted the smile that curved Isabel’s reddened lips.

  “You doubt me.”

  “Not at all. Everything you imagine may come to pass. But I didn’t want to marry your Raymond.” Juliana set the scissors and began to cut a straight line guided by the weft. “Why should I care what happens to him?”

  Isabel tapped one curved nail on the table. “Look at what you’re doing.”

  Juliana glanced at the scarlet material that seemed so significant to Isabel. “Cutting?”

  “Cutting what?” Isabel demanded impatiently.

  Still puzzled, Juliana said, “Cutting a cloak?”

  Isabel leaned over the table. “For whom?”

  “For Raymond.”

  “What kind of clothes?”

  Now Juliana understood, and the scissors began their trek across the material again. “Everyday clothes.”

  Isabel tossed her well-coiffed head in triumph. “One can easily understand the import of that.”

  Deliberately stupid, Juliana asked, “You’re offended because you think I shouldn’t have Raymond work?”

  “Nay, nay.” Isabel slapped her hand on the cloth just ahead of the scissors, and Juliana jolted to a halt. “You’re making clothes for Raymond because you’ve conceived an affection for him.”

  Juliana stared at the thin, aristocratic fingers so close to her own.

  Scornfully, Isabel continued, “One of those sickening, all-consuming affections like Queen Eleanor’s troubadours sing about. I thought nothing of it when you made him that fine outfit—and it was fine, my dear. If you should ever desire a position in court, I’m sure I’d be glad to recommend you as seamstress to her majesty.”

  “My thanks,” Juliana said with a sarcasm that eluded Isabel.

  “Where was I?” With cupped hand on forehead, Isabel thought. “Ah, the clothes. Well, of course I understood when you made Raymond that princely tunic and surcoat, but these everyday clothes betray you.”

  Juliana did not have to feign puzzlement now.

  “My dear, I myself kept Raymond’s court clothes in excellent condition, for of what use is a son except to further the family’s ambitions? And if he doesn’t embody wealth and power, how can he gain further wealth and power? It’s part of the image, you see.”

  Juliana did see, and it sickened her. “You believe I made Raymond fine clothes so he could go to court and gain new honors from King Henry. But you believe I make him everyday clothes—”

  “Why, to keep him warm.” Isabel braced both hands, leaned across the table, and smiled fatuously. “’Tis obvious by the thickness of the material, the generosity of the cut.”

  “Perhaps,” Juliana offered, “I only wish to assure myself he’ll not sicken and die, thus ruining my chances for advancement.”

  Unable to conceive of any ambition other than her own, Isabel agreed. “Possibly, but there’s a passion between you, both i
n bed and in battle.”

  “That’s lust.”

  “Ah, is it lust that makes you gaze on him when you think he’s not looking? Is it lust that brings the color to your cheeks when he glances up and catches you? Is it lust that makes you hum while you weave, and is it lust that makes you run after him with a wool cap when he goes out into the cold?”

  A longing, previously undetected, called itself to Juliana’s attention. It centered itself in her chest, quite unlike the other longing Raymond had called up, but still she insisted, “It’s lust. I don’t wish to lose so skilled a bed partner.”

  “Your actions bespeak a greater emotion. Doesn’t your breast ache with it?”

  Juliana’s hand flew to her chest like a guilty confession, and she mumbled, “Lust.” But this was a pain of the heart.

  “You love him. Confess it.”

  The scarlet cloth, lit by the strip of sunlight, burned Juliana’s eyes. Isabel’s hands were spread like a spider’s legs across her cloth. The scissors flashed temptation, and Juliana yielded. With an unsteady laugh, she cut through the material, chasing Isabel’s hands backward until Isabel gave a shriek of pain.

  “You cut me!”

  “Aye. I did.” As Isabel sprang across the room to Geoffroi, Juliana reeled away from the trestle table and fought her way outside. Standing on the platform outside, she took big breaths of the fresh, cold air and looked over her bailey. Like iron to a lodestone, her gaze found Raymond. He held her palfrey for young Denys, patiently showing him the ways of a horse.

  His ragged brown cloak could not detract from his aura of masculine glory, and although he laughed the wind whipped the sound away. He was strong and brave, kind and clever, and too loyal for his own good. Juliana put her hand to her chest. The ache now burned like unshed tears. “I do love him. And I’m going to make him hate me.”

  14

  Juliana had been the image of the perfect woman all night. Her voice had never risen with excitement. She’d never laughed aloud. She took extra pains to ensure that the young squire, Denys, was well fed, slept on a pallet, and had a blanket. She moved with grace, dealt patiently with servants, and refrained from pointing out the superiority of the supper Cook had prepared on her makeshift fire in her undercroft kitchen.