by Tamara Leigh
"And what say you, wife?"
She put her chin up. "I say you ought to return to England without me."
Had her words been arrows, she could not have bled him more. He flushed, baring his teeth. "Whore!"
And he could not have bled her more.
"Return to the donjon, Juliana," Gabriel called.
She met his gaze and saw that his back was stiffer for the foul name Bernart had put to her.
"I warn you, Juliana," Bernart seethed, "many shall die, for I will not leave without my son."
One last time, she gave him her regard, searching for a piece of the man for whom she had once felt. Gone. She shook her head, then turned that she would not be made to witness the terrible contorting of his face as he spewed curses.
Now there would be war, and many would die.
Feeling more an old woman than her twenty years, Juliana descended to the bailey. Hardly had she stepped to the ground than the drawbridge sounded its creaking and tumbling of chains. A few moments later, Gabriel was at her side.
'Take you to the donjon," he said, wearing distance as if it were a mantle.
Realizing he was no longer the Gabriel who had taken her heart to his, that this day he was a warrior, ready to battle for his home and people, Juliana quelled the desire to be near him. Were he to stay alive, it was as it should be.
"I shall come to you at first opportunity," he assured her.
Which could be tomorrow, or the day after, or never... Nay. He would come to her. Her breasts twinged with ache, a reminder that her babe would soon be in need of suckling. "I shall await you," she said, and turned.
"Juliana?"
She looked over her shoulder.
"Ever," he said, for a brief moment coming out of his armor; then he swung toward the gatehouse and began shouting orders.
That single word swelled hope through Juliana. "Ever," she whispered, and pressed a hand to her chest. Not even when, as a young woman, she'd glorified love as being the end of all had she dreamed it could be like this— beyond the body, the heart, the mind... not only within herself, but without. No courtly love, this. And were she to lose it in Gabriel's death?
She refused to ponder that last. As she lifted her skirts and started toward the inner drawbridge, her thoughts turned again to the one who could end the siege with but his coming. Where are you, King Richard?
The walls were coming down again, the outer work crumbling beneath the barrage of boulders flung against the repaired stonework. There were fires as well, enough to warm the chill air and put sweat upon the brows of his men. But of all the ill wrought this first day, the worst of it was the shouts of pain that would not be put from Gabriel even after the injured were carried to the donjon for tending. As for the dead, there was one—at least until the wounded fell to infection, and it would happen if the siege did not soon end. Would it?
Gabriel peered through the arrow loop at the land before the castle. It was scarred and scattered with men and siege engines. Though Bernart's wounded were of greater number, partly owing to the vulnerability of battling on open land, and his army had suffered more deaths, still he sent men to the walls as if they were of no more consequence than the lifeless boulders culled from the wood. Most promising, though, was what appeared to be strife between Bernart and Faison. An hour earlier, Gabriel had witnessed across the distance the rebel baron's angry exchange with the man to whom he had offered aid. As there could only be one leader in any conflict and Bernart was not it, Faison was displeased. And he ought to be, for his losses included men, horses, and a trebuchet burned to the ground by a flaming arrow. For it all, he had bits of wall and a handful of the enemy fallen. It was not the revenge he sought.
Gabriel pushed his gaze to the horizon. Sunset was an hour away, but with the dark would come no respite. Of course, Bernart might not take advantage of the night to steal men over the wall to attack from within. But should he, those men would have to elude the light of torches Gabriel had directed to be set to the walls.
He turned into the gatehouse room, flexing his facial muscles in an attempt to ease the tension. He was tired, dirty, and smelled of the smoke of Bernart's fires. He closed his eyes and remembered the last that had leaped to the sky. It had taken a good portion of the stable roof before it was doused. As a result, a man-at-arms had been seriously burned and two horses lost. Of all that Mergot had endured this day, it was only the beginning.
Gabriel crossed to the stairs. As he began his descent, thunder sounded, rippling through the wood beneath his feet, but it was not of the clouded heavens. Another boulder had met its mark—a very large one. He took the last steps at a slide and surged into the bailey. "Damnation!"
The left face of the inner wall surrounding the donjon had taken a serious blow. Though it yet stood, four feet had been torn from its uppermost bounds.
Praying there were no injuries—especially to the villagers who huddled beyond—Gabriel ran past his men. Barely had he stepped to the inner drawbridge than a shout from atop the outer walls reached him.
"An army approaches, my lord!"
He faltered. An army. Yet more men Bernart brought against him? God's rood! Still, he did not turn back.
The mass of people were near frenzy when he strode into the bailey. The moment they caught sight of him, they surged forward.
"Any injuries?" Gabriel shouted above the babble of men and women and the cries of their children, the latter reminding him of Gabrien.
"Here, my lord!" A man's voice rose above the rest. "My boy's been struck on the arm and is bleeding."
Gabriel could not see beyond the others who crowded him. "Take him to the great hall," he shouted. "Any others?"
Two more answered. Fortunately, that seemed all, and the injuries were minor. Gabriel also directed them to the donjon, then instructed the villagers to keep back from the walls. They were hardly soothed, but there was naught else he could do. War awaited him. However, as he turned away he was struck by the sudden stillness—the absence of missiles striking stone and mortar. Who came to Mergot?
The riders came from out of the west, first putting fear to Bernart that they were hired by Gabriel to attack from without the walls, then foreboding when they drew near enough that the markings on their banners could be seen. It was no hireling army come to Mergot. It was King Richard.
Bernart quaked as he nudged his destrier around to face the one he dreaded. But was it coincidence that England's king took himself from the construction of his beloved castle, or had Gabriel called him to aid? Bernart would not have guessed the latter. Never had his friend-turned-enemy called upon others to do his battles, but men changed, as Bernart knew well. If Gabriel had, could this mean Juliana had revealed the truth of what had happened at Tremoral nearly a year past?
The dread possibility caused Bernart to sweat more profusely into his chain mail, and more so when he recalled her defiance this morn. A moment later, sharp pain shot through his groin. He grunted, squeezing his fists to keep from clutching himself. Would Juliana have risked her sister? With Gabriel's brother dead, she could not know that the meager-minded Alaiz was gone from Tremoral.
Bernart closed his eyes. Pray, let his secret be safe, let it be chance that placed King Richard at Mergot, or that Gabriel had turned coward. But if the latter, what hope had Gabriel that the king would allow him to hold another man's wife?
"What have you not told me?" the dark Faison quietly demanded as he drew alongside.
Bernart glanced sidelong at the irksome baron who would suffer well to be put through with a sword. "I am as surprised as you, friend."
Faison pushed his barbed blue gaze to Bernart, flexing his armless shoulder as if his own thoughts ran with Bernart's. And perhaps they did, for his left arm came across his body and his hand turned around his sword hilt.
Bernart tensed, but reminded himself there was little to fear from one whose sword arm had long ago rotted upon infidel soil. Faison could pull the sword from its scabbard, but to swing it on an unbal
anced body would be laughable. And the baron must have known it, for he carried his threat no further.
Bernart looked back at the approaching army, feeling a tic start at his eye, then his mouth as the one at the fore neared. Whatever Richard's reason for coming to Mergot, he would not be pleased that his vassal made war on another of his vassals. Bernart ought to have sought his permission, but though he could be forgiven for laying siege to one who'd stolen his wife, he'd feared that bringing the king into the fray might result in the question of who'd fathered Juliana's son.
A few moments later, the king halted his grand destrier less than ten feet from Bernart.
Bernart bowed his head. "Your Majesty."
The ensuing silence opened up rivulets of perspiration down Bernart's torso. Would his mail rust before the king gave response?
"Kinthorpe," Richard clipped.
Bernart swallowed, lifted his head, and met those fiery eyes a moment before they swung to Faison.
"Ah, Faison, we ought not to be surprised." The king spoke in the language of the French, so thickly accented Bernart had to strain to translate the words of England's king, who it was said knew not a word of English.
"It follows, hmm?" Richard taunted.
Faison inclined his head, but that was all. No other acknowledgment or respect did he give.
Surprisingly, the fiercely redheaded king grinned. "We will speak later, Faison." He looked to the castle walls. "Now we settle this matter between Kinthorpe and De Vere."
What knew he of it? Bernart wondered with a new rush of fear.
"Join us." Richard turned his destrier to the walls. Bernart and Faison followed, the former clutched with dread, the latter darkly silent.
The devil! Bernart silently cursed the man who was as if untouched by fear. Did he not care if he lived or died? Was his pain truly so raw? And what knew he of suffering? True, an arm he had lost, but still he had the get between his legs, still he could plow a woman's belly and grow it large with child.
The lowering of the drawbridge swept aside the clat-terings of Bernart's mind, forced him to consider that which awaited him—Gabriel and Juliana. Betrayers! But the king would make good his claim. Come the morrow, Juliana and the babe would leave this place with him. All he must concern himself with was convincing the king that what Gabriel had done was so grievous as to warrant severe punishment. Death? Dared he hope? Unfortunately, from all he heard, Gabriel was among Richard's favorites.
Bernart pressed his sweat-soaked shoulders back and cocked his chin in terrible anticipation of again meeting Gabriel.
Chapter Twenty-five
Juliana sprang up from her knees, spinning around to face Lissant where she stood in the chapel doorway. "The king?"
"Aye, he comes."
Juliana listened, realizing the commotion without the walls had ceased. He had come!
"Lord De Vere would have you make ready for the king's arrival in the hall."
Juliana nodded. "A moment, please." She turned back to the altar before which she'd knelt until she could scarcely feel her knees, then clasped her hands before her. 'Thank you, Father." She squeezed her eyes closed. "Pray, guide my tongue." She lowered her arms and swept around. "Gabrien sleeps?"
"He does, my lady."
"Then come." She hurried past the woman, traversed the corridor, and descended the stairs. Upon stepping into the hall, she halted. Save for the servants who were dragging tables and benches from the walls and gathering debris from the rushes, the room was empty.
"Where are the villagers?" she asked.
Lissant came alongside. "Gone outside, my lady—'tis an audience of few the king seeks."
Of course. "And of the injured?"
"Moved to the storeroom, my lady."
Juliana nodded. "Good." She looked around and settled her gaze on a servant who yawned widely as she picked a bone from the rushes. "Ann! Prepare the sideboard." Juliana hoped the woman would not argue with her as a few continued to do, though she was now mother of Gabriel's heir. "Lay it with whatever cook can manage."
Ann inclined her head and bustled toward the kitchens.
"Cloths upon the tables," Juliana directed another servant. "And the salt cellar." She turned to Lissant. "Tend the fire."
The maid turned to the hearth.
Juliana looked around. All was provided for—or would be shortly. Now she must change her clothes.
Her hope that the babe would sleep through the coming of the king was doused when the creak of her chamber door brought forth a cry.
She hurried forward, lifted him from his cradle, and held him close.
He calmed and waved a fist as if to admonish her for awakening him.
She smiled past her worry. "King Richard is here, little one." She kissed his brow.
He gurgled, nuzzling her bodice.
It seemed the king would have to wait.
Who had sent for Richard? Gabriel wondered as, with a tightening of fists, he waited for the king to pass over the drawbridge. Bernart? Juliana? Blase? Nay, not his brother, and though Juliana had wanted to, she had no means of sending word. Bernart, then. What he could not take himself he had brought another to do. Though Gabriel had not denied the king entrance, as he'd momentarily considered, he would not surrender Juliana and his son. Be it by arms or a revelation he did not wish to make, he would hold them. Damnation! He ought to have taken them and fled France. But to leave his people to Bernart's wrath, to ever be running...
As the king passed beneath the raised portcullis, he thrust his gaze to Gabriel.
Gabriel swept beyond him to Bernart and Faison, then grew stiffer. The stink and filth of war upon him, he looked again to Richard and bowed.
The king reined in. "It has been long, De Vere."
Would that it could be longer, Gabriel straightened. "Your Majesty, you are welcome at Mergot."
"Hmm." He picked his gaze over the debris-strewn bailey, then lifted it to the holed walls. "We trust there is good reason for this, Kinthorpe."
Bernart sat taller in the saddle. "A good reason, Your Majesty. De Vere has stolen my—"
"We did not ask for an explanation," Richard snapped.
Gabriel watched the color rise in Bernart's face, embarrassment razing his smug expression.
'To the hall," the king commanded, and spurred his horse ahead.
Following, Bernart put hating eyes to Gabriel. "Mine," he said, loud enough that only Gabriel might hear his claim to Juliana and the babe.
Gabriel stared at Bernart until he was past.
As for Faison, the baron needed no words to express his feelings for the one who'd been awarded his brother's lands—but then, no words were needed for enmity so deep.
Bracing himself, Gabriel followed.
The villagers who crowded the inner bailey were silent as he strode past, watchful as if aware of the import of what was to be spoken in the hall, hopeful as if it would soon see them returned to their homes.
When Gabriel entered, the great hall was empty save for King Richard, who had taken the lord's high seat, as was his privilege; Bernart and Faison, who stood left of the dais; and four of the king's guards. No Juliana. Was it as the king wished? Gabriel wondered as he positioned himself to the right of the dais.
Richard flexed his shoulders, settled deeper into the chair, and looked to Gabriel. "Where is Lady Juliana?"
Then he had not sent her from the hall. Struggling to keep his face expressionless, Gabriel said, "Likely abovestairs, Your Majesty."
The king's brow gathered. "Summon her."
Gabriel hurled his gaze against Bernart and caught his old friend's smirk. Damn Bernart for bringing it to this! Such humiliation Juliana would suffer—and their son if the truth of his getting were revealed.
"Summon Lady Juliana," the king harshly repeated.
Gabriel started to turn.
"I am here, Your Majesty."
Gabriel sucked in his breath at the sight of Juliana as she stepped off the stairs—auburn hair
dressed in luminous plaits and coils, brown eyes large and traced with thick lashes that caused shadows to flutter against her cheekbones, bowed lips parted to reveal straight, white teeth. A more beautiful woman there was not—would never be again. And when she was old, she would be as captivating. Adding to the sight was her gown. Fashioned of profuse blue cloth that, in what seemed another life, was to have been made into a surcoat for him and trappings for his destrier, it embraced her figure as she crossed the hall with chin up and her gaze stuck to the king. Not once did her eyes waver toward Bernart. It was as if he were not even present. From Bernart's change of color, her slight struck center.
Juliana came to stand at Gabriel's side.
A longing to put an arm around her, that all would know she did not belong to Bernart, pulsed through him. But it was enough that she stood with him.
"Your Majesty," she said, and bowed.
Richard lifted an apple from the platter of viands set before him. "Arise."
She straightened, and for a moment met Gabriel's gaze. Though misgiving darkened her eyes, no more would she allow Bernart to manipulate her to his will.
The king looked from Juliana to Gabriel to Bernart, and twice more. Finally he took a bite of the apple and swung his feet to the table. One boot crossed over the other, he gave the appearance of having gathered his subjects to speak of hunting. "A siege in the winter of spring," he clipped. "A siege that has snatched us from an undertaking we hold most high." His eyes settled to Juliana. "Who will tell us what is of such import, hmm?"
Gabriel stepped forward. He would do the telling—all of it, if need be. Guilt for what he could not change had no place where he and Juliana and their child were concerned. "Your Majesty—"
"Nay," Richard barked, though still he held Juliana with his gaze. "We have not asked you, De Vere."
Bernart issued a derisive snort, causing Gabriel to jam his fingers hard against his palms to keep them from his sword hilt.
"Speak!" King Richard demanded. "Surely there is another who might tell?"
Confidence expanding his chest, Bernart put a foot forward. "Allow me, Your Majesty. I—"