by Jennie Reid
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
He had another woman up there, Jessamine was sure. The floor of his room was the ceiling of hers, and she could hear two sets of footfalls, two voices talking. Other people had come and gone, but the two voices stayed there – the Count’s, and a woman’s.
Who was she?
Jessamine swore she’d make sure this woman never attracted another man again. Plotting her vengeance alleviated the boredom a little. She’d been in this room most of the time since the Count had left yesterday morning. At first she’d been dazzled by the furnishings, and the huge bed, and the novelty of having a room all of her own, just like a real Lady. The novelty had worn off by yesterday noon.
She wasn’t a prisoner. She was here of her own free-will. When she’d decided to go for a walk around the castle, no-one had stopped her. She could have walked right out the gate if she’d wanted to.
She’d thought about it, briefly. There’d been few men around – evidently most of them had left with the Count – and the remaining women had been unfriendly, and hadn’t wanted to chat. They were a cheerless bunch.
Her boredom was made all the worse by the knowledge that, through her badly timed exit, she was missing the fair at Freycinet. She’d met a few of the fair people before she’d left, and they seemed like a good lot, always ready for a flask of wine and a tumble.
She’d been guaranteed a meal here, at least. No more waiting on tables and clearing away again before she could eat herself. A tray had been brought to her door, and her leavings collected later, but it was tedious eating alone. She found herself thinking about her parents, and her brother. She’d never been away from them this long before. She’d never been by herself this long, either. She didn’t like the feeling one bit.
Surely the Count couldn’t have forgotten her already? He’d seemed hungry enough for her body the morning before he’d left. She wanted to see him, to see if he’d brought her anything back from Freycinet.
He was her only reason for staying here. He would look after her, she was sure. Perhaps, if she bore him sons, he would even make her his Lady one day, or close enough to it. How she’d enjoy rubbing that in the faces of all the people at Freycinet. Especially the Lady herself. Lady Berenice wouldn’t be able to look down her then.
She adjusted the neckline of her dress so more of her ample bosom spilled over. Whoever the other woman was, Jessamine knew the Count liked her big, round breasts, even if he did get a bit rough with them sometimes. If he wasn’t going to come to see her, she’d just have to go to him.
She opened her door in time to see two menservants walking down the stairs, carrying empty buckets. She was curious to know who was having a bath, and at this time of day as well. She’d had to bathe in the laundry. It must be something to do with that woman, she was sure.
She climbed the spiral stairs to the Count’s room. The door was ajar, so she pushed it the rest of the way open without knocking. It swung open on well-oiled hinges, allowing her full view of the chamber.
He did have another woman! Jessamine swore beneath her breath. How could he, after all the things they’d done together only the night before last! She’d done everything he’d asked her too, and then thought up a few more little tricks she thought might entertain him. He’d certainly acted like he appreciated her – and wanted her.
The strange woman was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, her head bowed, waist-length, brown hair falling over her back and shoulders. The hair gleamed in the light of many candles. Jessamine wondered what she put through it – no-one could have hair as glossy as that naturally.
The woman was wearing nothing but a shift, and an old, mended one at that.
A big wooden tub had been set up near the foot of the bed. On the bed lay the most beautiful gown Jessamine had ever seen. Made of silk damask, in a deep, rich red, it was trimmed with ermine around the neck and the edges of the long, long sleeves, which were lined with scarlet silk. Next to it lay a shift, white as drifts of snow, edged with embroidery and drawn thread work and tiny satin ribbons.
Jessamine would have died for the shift alone. It was an outfit good enough for a queen. Or a Countess.
“You will disrobe, and bathe in the water that has been brought for you,” the Count was saying to the woman, “and if you continue to refuse, I will remove your shift, and bathe you myself!”
“I bathe in my own home, in the privacy of my own room, with my maid present. No-one else,” she answered. Her voice was quiet and calm.
“You will allow the women to dress you in that garment!”
“Nor do I accept gifts of clothing, no matter how costly.”
The Count’s face was flushed. His mouth moved as though he were about to speak, but no sound came out.
“I will wear my own clothes, Count Fulk. I refuse to wear that gown.” The woman’s voice was so soft, Jessamine could barely make out the words.
“You will,” he roared. Leaning over the woman, he grabbed her upper arms, and wrenched her up and out of the chair. Once she was standing, he raised his hand as though to tear the patched and darned shift from her body.
Her hair fell back, revealing her face.
The woman was Lady Berenice.
“You!” screeched Jessamine, “what’re you doing here?”
Berenice turned to face her, freeing herself from the Count’s hold.
“Perhaps you could direct that question at the Count,” snapped Berenice. “And by the way, I could ask you the same thing. We’ve had searchers out looking for you.”
“Don’t lie to me! I know you were glad to see the back of me. You hated me from the day I arrived!”
“Jessamine, that’s not true!”
The girl was across the room in an instant.
“You get everything you want, don’t you, you high born whore, while the rest of us have to grovel for your leavings.” She was mindless in her need for revenge, planned in detail before she even knew her identity of her adversary.
That Berenice was the unknown woman made the possibility of vengeance even sweeter. First she’d taken the troubadour from her, now she was stealing the Count. Jessamine intended to destroy her, to rip that smug look from her face, to scar her so no man would want her, ever again.
With a howl like a demon from hell, she flew at Berenice, her fingers curled into claws.
The Count stepped between the two women.
“You will not harm the Countess.”
Countess. That single word destroyed all Jessamine’s hopes, all the fantasies built up since he’d left the previous day. Her hands landed, ineffectually, on his chest.
“No,” she whimpered, “you can’t have married her, not her. You don’t know what she’s like! You don’t about her and…”
“Enough, woman.” His huge hand clamped down upon her shoulder. He twisted her around so she was once more facing the door. “Get to your room. I’ll deal with you later.”
Jessamine turned back to him, desperate to persuade him. “She’s not what she looks like! Please believe me!” She begged, “everyone talks about her as though she’s a saint, but she’s not, I know, I saw.”
In reply, the Count hauled her across the room. He was hurting her arm, and her feet and legs banged against the furniture. At the entrance to the chamber, he bellowed down the stairwell for his captain. Gilbert must have been waiting close by, because he came quickly.
“Take this woman somewhere I don’t have to see her. Make sure she stays there.”
Jessamine was thrust into Gilbert’s arms. The door to the Count’s chamber slammed shut behind her.
“Let go of me, oaf,” she spat.
He didn’t release her. If anything, he tightened his hold, pressing her against his body.
“You don’t know how close you came to death just then,” he said, holding her chin in his hand, and forcing her to look up at him, “the Count’s killed for less than being interrupted. Let me get you away from here, before it’s too late,” he be
gged.
Her closeness was having a predictable effect on him. She wriggled a little, increasing the contact between them, enjoying the effect. If the Count wasn’t available…
“Do you still want me for yourself then, Sir Peter?” Perhaps she could still turn this situation to her advantage.
“Let’s get you to your room.” Without releasing his hold on one of her arms, her escorted her down to her chamber, and closed the door behind them. She made no move to escape from his grasp.
“I loved you once, Jessamine. I betrayed my oath to my liege Lord to follow you. Let me get you away from here, before it’s too late, while the Count’s attention’s occupied elsewhere.”
Jessamine had other ideas. She’d no intention of leaving the Count. He might be annoyed with her at the moment, but he was still her road to wealth, to status, to power. But it wouldn’t hurt to have an ally, just in case one was needed.
“Don’t you want me – now?” Her dress had slid down a little further, and now her shoulders barely supported it. She saw his glance flicker downwards. She felt him stiffen even more. His hardness moved against her belly.
“Behave yourself, woman,” Gilbert said, “I have to take a message to the Count. The priest’s been sighted.”
“The priest?”
“To perform the blessing.”
“What are you saying? They’re not? She’s not?” Hope surged in Jessamine’s breast.
“They’re not married yet, no.”
“But he said…”
“Count Fulk has a way, I’ve noticed, of assuming the rest of the world will fall in with his declarations. Lady Berenice is not yet his wife, no matter how much he desires the union.”
Jessamine threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.
“What’ve I done now?” he asked, a little dazed.
“There’s still a chance, Peter. He may not marry her. Something could go wrong.”
“I think you’re grasping at straws there, girl. Once the Count decides he wants something, that’s usually it for all concerned.”
“You said you loved me once, Peter.”
“I did love you. And I care about you still…”
“Then promise me something.”
“It depends what it is.”
“If something does go astray with this wedding, promise me you’ll not stand in the way.”
“How can I promise you that? I’m the Count’s man, and you know it. Besides, the Count’s laid his plans with his customary attention to detail. She’ll be his wife, in all ways, before morning, believe me.”
Jessamine ignored his protests. “Things sometimes don’t work out how people plan. Even when it’s the Count doing the planning. Would you do it for me? Would you promise?”
She let her body lean into his, feeling herself react to the big man’s closeness. She remembered the rippling muscles of his chest and back. How could she have ever thought the Count was well built?
His mouth came down, and found the hollow between her breasts. She leaned back in his arms, wallowing in the sensations created by his tongue. He left a trail of wet kisses up her neck, until he found her mouth. His tongue, fat and thick, filled her. She remembered just what he could do with that tongue.
“I can’t promise you anything, Jessamine. The Count would kill us both if we defied him. But I’ll see what I can do when the time comes.”
She’d forgotten how arousing this big, blonde Englishman could be. Unable to find her voice, she nodded.
“Now, I must take this message to him. Stay here, where you’ll be safe. I’ll come for you when it’s all over, and I’ll take you away.”
He kissed her again, quickly, deeply, and was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Gilbert wasn’t happy. Again. As he’d discovered long ago, spending his days in Count Fulk’s milieu was not conducive to happiness.
Jessamine had made it clear she didn’t want the wedding to go ahead. Gilbert didn’t entirely follow her reasoning, but he knew, for reasons of his own, he agreed with her. The bride was showing a quite definite reluctance to proceed with the nuptials. Now Fate had decreed he would be the bearer of more unhappy news.
He rapped gently on the door to the Count’s chamber, opening it when he heard the answering call.
The bride wore the same blue dress she’d been wearing when he’d carried her unconscious body, ensconced in a sack, down the stairs of her tower, through the kitchens, and out the garden door to the waiting boat. The way she wore the faded gown made it seem as though it were made of the finest silk. He thought that, in her own way, she looked more like a queen in her own old dress than most women would wearing the grand garment lying across the bed.
Her hair was unbound, and flowed over her shoulders and down her back like a gleaming brown cape. It shone, as though it had recently been well brushed. Seeing her hair like that made him realize how young she was, not much more than a girl. Despite her pride and her aristocratic bearing, she was more innocent and unworldly than Jessamine had ever been.
Yet she was a woman too; a very beautiful one. Her deep blue eyes were sparkling, her chin was held high. The Count, he suspected, would have his hands full if he succeeded in dragging this one to the altar. She was no coy little maid who’d lean on a man’s arm, and flutter her eyelashes.
Gilbert sighed. A woman such as this was forever out of his reach. He’d never have a great keep, like this one. He’d be lucky if he kept body and soul together by selling his sword. A wife was a luxury he could ill afford.
“My Lord Count,” he bowed, “the priest has arrived. Some monks are traveling with him, on their way to Bordeaux.”
“At last,” answered the Count, “show him to the chapel. He can unpack later, I want to get this over with. Come, my dear,” he addressed the Lady, “we have a wedding to attend.” He held out his arm for her to hold.
“I have told you, Count Fulk, I’ll not marry you,” she ignored his arm, “but the sooner this priest is made aware of the fact, the better.”
Gilbert held the door open for her.
“Where’s the chapel?” she asked him.
“In the first floor of the keep, my Lady.”
“Would you be so good as to show me the way?”
“I would be honored, my Lady.”
The small procession set off down the stairs, Gilbert leading, Lady Berenice following him, the Count taking up the rear.
Torches had been lit in the chapel. Despite the warmth of the season, it was cool. A dry, musty smell pervaded the room, and dust clung to the pews.
Near the altar, three figures awaited them. The priest was a plump, jovial man, whose vestments seemed a little tight for him. Two monks knelt in prayer at each side of him, their hoods concealing their faces.
The Count took the Lady’s arm, and led her to the front of the chapel.
“You will marry me,” he hissed.
“I will not,” she answered, clearly enough for all the occupants of the room to hear.
Gilbert made a move to leave.
“Stay,” said the Count, “I would have you witness the proceedings.”
Gilbert walked behind the couple, up the aisle, towards the waiting priest.
The Count stopped in front of the altar. His prospective wife wrenched her hand free of his grasp, but remained standing next to him. Gilbert perched uncertainly on the end of one of the pews.
He noticed the monks were no longer praying. Their heads still bowed, they’d moved silently to each side of the chapel.
They were big men for monks, he thought. They didn’t move like monks. They moved more like soldiers.
The priest intoned something in Latin.
“My Lord Count,” Gilbert whispered.
“Not now, man,” the Count answered.
“But, my Lord, the monks…”
“Leave it,” shot back the Count.
Gilbert had done his duty; he’d tried to warn him. He couldn’t be held res
ponsible for whatever happened next.
He listened to the priest’s monotone. He knew little Latin, and he doubted the Count did either. The Count had told Gilbert how much he despised book learning when they’d shared the old Lord’s room at Freycinet. He considered it not only a waste of time, but unmanly as well.
Gilbert couldn’t see most of the Lady’s face, but he could tell from her stance she was listening to everything the priest was saying. He even thought she might be smiling a little. Since her original outburst, she hadn’t said another word about not marrying the Count.
The monks moved again. The taller one came to sit beside him on the pew. The shorter, wider one was on the opposite side of the aisle, nearer the Count.
Gilbert swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He turned in his seat a little, so he could see more of the monk, perhaps even glimpse his features.
He wished he hadn’t. The bearded, scarred face was that of a man he’d seen quite recently, fighting the Count in Freycinet’s courtyard.
“I won’t insult your intelligence any more than I have to,” whispered the monk, “I have a dagger in my hand. I’d appreciate your continued silence. You’ll not be harmed, the Lady would disapprove.”
“You have my co-operation, if you wish it.” Gilbert spoke quietly. A year in the Count’s employ was enough. Perhaps he was being given an opportunity to redeem himself.
“Why?” The troubadour’s tone revealed his disbelief.
“I’d come to respect and admire the Lady by reputation. Now I’ve met her, I find her reputation does not do her justice.”
“You’ll not see her harmed?”
“No. I’ll help you, if I can.”
The priest’s voice rose and fell.
“But what of the consequences for you?” said the monk.
“I was planning on leaving soon, anyway. Would you do something for me?” answered Gilbert.
“Perhaps.”
“I know the Lady won’t let you kill him, but tie him up good and tight for me.”
“That sounds like something I’d enjoy doing.”
“Then you have my support.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to make it look as though you’re resisting. The other two won’t know of the change of plan.”