by Anne Stuart
He looked as if he were about to argue the point with her. But instead he simply nodded, leading her from the solar, his handsome, somber face averted.
She was a witch, Simon decided. Quite simply a witch. In his infinitely varied life he'd seen and heard many things, learned tricks and seeming powers, enchantments and healings, magic that was nothing more than clever manipulation of the gullible. He'd learned the power to draw men and women, to make them believe the impossible. But he'd yet to run across a creature such as Lady Alys de Lancie.
He'd known witches, both men and women, and in truth, they weren't that different from the monks he'd lived with in Switzerland. They all had their own form of magic, their own incantations, their own herbal powers that transcended most human understanding.
Alys was possessed of none of that. Her knowledge of herbal healing was laughably rudimentary, and knowledge of Greek and Latin, which she was purported to possess, had never been known to have any particular arcane effect on mankind. She was no great beauty, though he found her oddly pleasing. And yet she seemed to have exerted more influence on his waking and dreaming hours than anyone in his memory.
He had a grudging, distrusting fondness for women. For their soft bodies and sweet sighs, for their gentleness and appalling resilience. If women had fought the Fourth Crusade, they would have taken Jerusalem again, by wit rather than by force. They wouldn't have been distracted by the rich booty of Constantinople into forgetting their holy mission.
Not that he considered women particularly holy. They were practical, of the earth rather than the spirit, and he'd enjoyed them as such. Gypsies and countesses, whores and Saracens, peasants and even queens, they were all sisters in their delightful flesh.
Lady Alys was far more complicated. If she was earthy, it was disguised by shyness. And it wasn't merely his body that was distracted by the thought of her. She seemed to be distracting his mind and spirit as well, a dangerous state of affairs for a man who lived by his wits.
If he were any other man he would go to his priest for confession and absolution. He would ask for strength to avoid temptation.
But he was a man who liked temptation, who enjoyed resisting it almost as much as he enjoyed giving in to it. Lady Alys was temptation personified, and letting her leave his workshop, the healing salve safe in her little leather pouch, was disturbingly difficult.
He had potions he could have plied her with. Herbs to loosen her tongue and her morals and her gown, spices to make her need him. As he had suddenly, unexpectedly begun to need her.
It was ridiculous, of course. A stray fancy, borne of indolence. Richard the Fair had yet to apprise him of the full scope of his ambitions, though it didn't take an unholy wizard to guess where Richard's sights were set. He was a greedy man, unlikely to settle for anything less than the crown itself. And he would want his pet monster, his Grendel, to help get it for him.
He would want to tie Simon to him first, by the marriage vows. Since he seemed in no hurry to see Simon wed to his studious half-sister, then he must also be in no hurry to make his move.
Simon could be patient as well. Up to a point. He doubted he was going to wait for Richard's sanction to bed his shy bride. And he wasn't necessarily going to wait for the church's solemn rites.
He and Brother Jerome kept their distance from each other. The good monk knew when he was outmatched, and if it came to a battle of power, Brother Jerome would be banished from the comfortable household of Richard the Fair and the wicked wizard would triumph.
Both of them were careful to ensure that it didn't come to that point. No mention was made of the fact that Simon did not attend confession, whereas even Richard received absolution for the occasional minor sin he happened to recall. And Simon made very certain he didn't interfere with Brother Jerome's duties.
But Brother Jerome would expect to officiate at the wedding of Richard the Fair's sister and his chief advisor. Confession and penance and absolution would be a necessity. If Brother Jerome were given the chance, he would probably insist that a good scourging would cleanse Simon's soul.
Simon much preferred his soul dark and unrepentant. But he would wed Lady Alys of Summersedge Keep, with all the pomp, dignity, and rite that Richard and the Holy Church would demand. The power that an alliance with the House of de Lancie would bring was indisputable, and he could mouth the hypocritical words if need be.
He'd claim his reward first, however. A taste, perhaps, or the full course if he desired it. He would feast on Alys's small, soft, plump body, a feast of the senses, and when she took her vows she would be so besotted she would be no danger to him whatsoever.
She was afraid of horses. She was afraid of him, even though she was determined not to show it. Brought up in the strict confines of a convent, she was most likely terrified of men's bodies, and of what men expected of a woman.
He would calm her fears. Of horses, not of him. Her barely controlled nervousness gave him an edge that he wouldn't readily relinquish.
When he finally got around to taking her body she would be well beyond fear. She would be his, body and soul. And his claiming would be his triumph.
And hers.
* * *
Chapter Seven
The evening meals, Alys decided, were the worst. As in most great houses, dinner was served in the midst of the day, when work was still in progress. Richard would keep his magician by his side in close conversation, and Alys was left to her own devices, a pleasant enough occurrence. Claire was seated on the far side of her brother and his advisor, so there was no way the two of them could converse, and one of Lord Richard's elderly knights usually kept Alys company, if such it could be called. Sir Hector was more interested in his ale and his trencher than polite conversation, and Alys had to move fast if she were to get her share of food. Despite the deficiencies in the housekeeping during Lady Hedwiga's absence, the table was a good one, and Alys had no strong desire to share her meal with a gluttonous, drunken old soldier.
Unfortunately my lord Simon did not seem to eat at these lavish banquets. No shared trencher of bread was placed before him, though his goblet was filled with wine, and he seemed more interested in observing others and conferring with his lord than in sustaining his body.
But the evening meal was far worse. Richard was less interested in his duties as lord of the castle and much more concerned with wine and whatever young woman seemed to have attracted his fancy. As far as Alys could tell there were any number of them, well-bred, well-dressed and very beautiful, who earned his favor. It was a wonder to Alys, with the strict notions of morality that had been drilled into her by the nuns, but Brother Jerome seemed to turn a blind eye to it, concentrating instead on his own meal, failing to look up when Richard plunged one hand down the front of a young girl's gown, laughing uproariously at her sly shrieks.
"This displeases you, Lady Alys?"
She looked up to see the wizard standing over her. She hadn't realized he'd moved, and Sir Hector hastily stumbled out of his chair, knocking it over in the process, in his haste to get away from Navarre. If Simon were aware of his panic he made no comment, merely taking the seat the elderly knight had abandoned, using his good left hand.
"I am a modest soul. I'm unused to such a display of affection…"
"I'd hardly call it affection," he said, his deep voice wry. "Animal lust, perhaps."
The girl shrieked again, laughing, as Richard poured wine on her partially exposed breasts. Alys averted her gaze hastily, but not before she saw Richard's hand fumbling at the hem of the lady's robe.
"You're shocked, my lady? You disapprove of a married man disporting while his wife is away?" Simon pursued the subject, watching her out of his still, golden eyes. "Most people are prey to lust. It's a healthy enough urge."
"For the men, perhaps," she said. "You have yet to convince me that women suffer from the same flaw. Or that it would be in any way healthy if they did."
"You don't think women feel lust?"
&nb
sp; "Not decent women." Even as she spoke the words, she could hear the nasal tones of Reverend Mother Dominica with her endless lectures on the duties and trials of womankind. Since the Reverend Mother had managed to dispense with most of those trials and duties she wasn't, perhaps, the best expert on the subject, but Alys hadn't had much choice in the confines of the cloister. Sister Agnes, she of the hearty appetites and the genial nature, had hinted that perhaps a woman's lot outside the convent held surprising pleasures, but she'd never elaborated, and now it was too late to ask.
"I think you were in the convent too long, my lady."
"Not long enough," she muttered gracelessly. "And lust is a sin."
"You don't strike me as much of an expert on sin, Lady Alys," he murmured.
"And you certainly know far too much about the subject," she shot back, startling a laugh out of him.
Obviously the household of Richard the Fair was unused to hearing the magician laugh. Even Richard himself stopping pawing his willing partner to stare at Simon of Navarre.
"Something amuses you, my Grendel?" he demanded. The young lady had somehow ended up on his lap, and he pushed her off, so that she landed with a muffled shriek among the bone-strewed rushes.
"You have been gracious enough to gift me with a clever wife, my lord," Simon said.
"A clever woman is a curse," Richard said flatly, eying Alys with profound distrust. "Change your mind, my friend. Choose the pretty one."
"My lord," said Simon, "I did."
It was stated as simple truth, shocking Alys into momentary silence. The fact that anyone could prefer her to her gay, lovely half-sister was a wonder. He was a brilliant, devious man—surely he could have a reason for such an unlikely preference?
But she could think of none. The conversation had once more built into a muffled roar, and she turned to face the man whose bed she would eventually share. "You are most illogical, sir," she said. "Have you fallen madly in love with me then?"
He laughed softly, as she meant him to. "I feel about love as you feel about lust, my lady. A sin and an abomination, a waste of time and a danger to the soul. Will you convince me otherwise?"
"I know as little of falling in love as I know of lust," she said. "And I think, like you, I prefer to keep my acquaintance with that emotion limited. Life would be far tidier all around."
His answering smile was cool and calculating, and utterly bewitching. "Life is seldom tidy, Lady Alys. And if you wish to fall in love with one of Richard's stalwart young knights I will make no objection. After I acquaint you with the many and varied delights of lust."
His face wasn't that close to hers, and yet she felt caught, trapped, drowning in his golden eyes, the rich timbre of his voice. An enchanter, they called him, and she could well see why. He was enchanting her, against her will, enchanting her with indecent promises and sensual lures, and Alys had always fought her senses.
As she fought the profound effect he was having on her. "Is that future supposed to make me happy?"
"It should. Isn't that what women want most? Prosperous, advantageous marriages and the freedom to love wherever they choose?"
"One person cannot control another's love."
"No. But I grant you the freedom to act upon it."
"You give me leave to cuckold you?" she demanded, incredulous.
"I give you leave to bestow your love and your favors upon a worthy knight or noble if your heart demands it."
"You believe the heart can demand such things?" she asked.
"I believe gullible humans can convince themselves of it," he replied.
"You make it sound as if you're not one of us. Human, that is," she said.
"I'm certain most people wonder the same thing. Even Richard at times suspects I'm the embodiment of some ancient monster with fierce powers."
"And does he fancy himself Beowulf?"
"God knows," Simon replied. "I imagine Richard sees himself as the hero of any number of heroic tales."
She glanced over at her brother. The very notion of Richard the Fair had seemed heroic indeed, and yet she'd never trusted in that particular fantasy. She had reason not to, with the faint memory of that day, so long ago, the plunging horses and her mother crying out for her, a memory that had somehow become connected with Richard. Unlike Claire, she'd never dreamed of being rescued from the convent by a forgetful, loving brother, though she'd kept herself from passing on her doubts to her younger sister.
She glanced down at her trencher. Most of the food lay there, untouched, yet she was unable to make herself eat She would regret it, she knew she would. Hours later she would be famished, and she would spend the night that way. But right then she couldn't even imagine secreting a piece of bread in the leather pouch attached to her girdle.
A bowl of water was presented to her, and she dipped her hands in, cleansing them. She noticed that no one offered the ewer to Navarre. Logical enough; since he hadn't eaten anything, he would have no need to wash his hands. But she suspected it had more to do with what lay hidden beneath the folds of his dark robe.
"What happened to your hand?" she asked before she could think twice. She was immediately filled with horror at her own gaucherie, but Simon seemed amused.
"Do you realize you're the first person who has ever asked me?" he replied. "Most people just avert their eyes and cross themselves."
"I was wondering if there was anything that can be done to help you? Herbs, poultices… ?" Her voice trailed off before his skeptical expression.
"You'll probably be wanting me to dip my poor hand in horse dung," he said. "I hate to shatter your pride in your medical abilities, but I've already done everything possible. But I do appreciate your tender concern."
She should have been chastened into silence—doubtless he'd meant that to happen. But Alys was a stubborn woman.
"You still haven't answered my question," she said patiently.
"No, I haven't, have I?" he said. He rose, looming over her, and she had no intention of scrambling to her feet, only to emphasize the disparity in their heights. But Simon of Navarre wasn't particularly interested in her intentions. He put his good hand beneath her elbow and pulled her up, with a simple strength that was astonishing.
"Where are you going, Grendel?" Richard called out drunkenly. The wench was on his lap again, and her gown was halfway up her thigh. "You'll not be taking her maidenhead, not till you're properly wed!"
She'd fought her habit of coloring up all evening, but this last was too much for her. She turned her head away from the curious on-lookers, but to her dismay Simon of Navarre could see her reaction far too clearly. Doubtless it amused him.
He was still holding on to her arm with his strong, good hand, and it felt oddly possessive, oddly protective for a man who seemed to feel neither of those emotions. "I was planning on instructing Lady Alys in the proper use of healing herbs," he said coolly.
Richard waved a greasy hand in his direction. "So be it," he said grandly. "Just keep her away from the dreaded manroot" And he roared with laughter, a laughter echoed throughout the Great Hall. There were only a few unamused by Richard's ribaldry. One was Claire, sitting on her brother's right, a pale, unhappy expression on her lovely face. Another was the stern, handsome knight who sat beside her, watching her.
"My lord can trust me in all things," Simon said coolly. He swept Alys from the room, from her sister's presence, before she could protest.
It took her a moment to accustom her eyes to the dim light. A thick tapestry covered the door behind them, muffling the sound beyond, and a torch sent skittering shadows into the empty passageway. In the distance Alys heard another comment from her brother, one she just began to understand, when Simon pushed her toward the stairs with unceremonious haste.
"He's had too much wine," she said, stalling. "I don't like to leave Claire there without protection…"
"She has more than sufficient protection. I doubt Sir Thomas would let Saint Paul himself come within ten feet of the girl,
and Saint Paul was a dried up woman hater."
Such blasphemy left her utterly speechless, an unusual occurrence for one such as Alys. Simon noticed, of course, and he paused in the act of pushing her toward the stairs. "Close your mouth, my pet," he murmured. "There are good men and bad men everywhere, even among Christ's saints."
She pulled her scattered wits back together. "And you, of course, are perfectly willing to sit in judgment on them?"
He smiled down at her with sudden, unexpected sweetness. "If their teachings annoy me, yes."
"Brother Jerome could have you excommunicated."
"Brother Jerome enjoys a philosophical disagreement as much as the next man. He knows I'll go to hell anyway, and he's not averse to arguing with me before I go there."
Once more he'd managed to shock her. "Aren't you worried about your immortal soul?"
He looked down at her, almost pityingly. "I lost it years ago, my lady. Trust me, it makes life a great deal more convenient if you don't have to worry about such things."
"Life isn't supposed to be convenient any more than it's supposed to be tidy," she said, harkening back to their earlier conversation.
"Ah, but humans do have a way of trying to make it so."
There it was again. The reference to humans. He did it on purpose, she thought, to unnerve her. Unfortunately, it worked most effectively.
"But Claire…" she said stubbornly, getting back to her original concern. He had a wicked way of distracting her from what she most needed to know, and she was finding it extremely irritating.
"Sir Thomas is more than up to the task of safeguarding your sister. His sense of honor and duty is awe-inspiring."
"And why do I get the impression you're mocking rather than praising him for that?" she said sharply.
"Because you're already beginning to understand me quite well, my lady. And because I'm a cynic, a man who's seen too much and done too much to be impressed by a blind adherence to morality with no thought or choice involved."