by Anne Stuart
She noticed when he kissed her.
It was no chaste salute of courtly love. It was a lover's kiss, and she tried to jerk away, startled, but he was already prepared, sliding his right arm behind her shoulders and keeping her trapped against him as he took his time, his open mouth against hers in a slow, deliberate, experimental kiss. She trembled against him, but she couldn't fight or resist, he'd already seen to that, and she simply held still and let him kiss her.
Kissing was an overlooked art, one he'd trained in during the time he spent in the Near East as well. He knew how to use his tongue with skill and wicked delight, he knew how to kiss a woman into a weak mass of mindless longing. Even an obvious virgin like Alys of Summersedge.
He felt her small hands on his shoulders, not to push him away, but to hold him, her fingers digging into the flesh and muscles beneath his robes, clinging to him. She made no sound, when he would have desired it, but the tremors that shook her body were a satisfying enough proof of her surrender, and he was hard enough to take her, right then, amidst the scattered pillows that lay along the rush-strewn floor.
His bed was only a few feet away, in an alcove beyond one of the dark tapestries, and he thought he might carry her there, stripping the ugly gown from her body, stripping the fear from her soul, when his instincts ripped him from the sensual haze that was washing over him. Someone was approaching.
Very few dared, without a specific invitation, and he controlled his snarl of frustrated rage with great effort as he lifted his head to look down at Lady Alys.
She lay passive in his arms, a dazed expression on her face, her mouth damp and reddened from contact with his. And then passivity vanished, replaced by shock and panic.
But no disgust, he was pleased to note. He released her when she squirmed, but he caught her elbow when she almost collapsed onto the floor again, easing her into a comfortable position before rising. Just in time to greet Richard the Fair as he stormed into the room with his usual burly energy.
"There you are, Grendel!" he said, failing to notice the small, huddled figure of his sister as she leaned against the cushions. "I grow impatient!"
"You often do, my lord," Simon murmured with faint weariness, knowing he could get away with it as no one in Summersedge Keep could. "What would you have of your humble servant?"
"Are you my humble servant?" Richard demanded, peering at him through the shadows. "Sometimes I doubt it very much indeed. Do you share my vision? My ambitions? You do realize that the higher your lord rises, the higher you do?"
"Indeed," he answered. "And I wouldn't deny I am an ambitious man in my own way. But I doubt anyone is capable of sharing the true breadth of your visions."
Richard preened visibly. "Still, you're a clever man. The cleverest man I know. You must have a sense of where this is leading. Of what you can do to help me. Do I have to spell it out, man?"
He turned his head, slowly, toward Lady Alys, the motion a simple, direct warning to Richard the Fair. His lordship turned bright red, sputtering in fury.
"What by the holy rood are you doing here, strumpet?" he demanded, striding across the rush-strewn floor and reaching down for her with one meaty hand. "I would have thought it was the younger one who would be eager to lift her skirts, not the perfect little nun. What have you done with her, Simon? She looks like she's been tumbled by a blacksmith with a twelve inch rod."
Simon said nothing, watching his intended bride's face turn bright red with embarrassment. Her brother hauled her to her feet with more roughness than Simon would have liked, but he decided now was not the time to interfere. Like as not Richard would escalate his bullying, and then Simon would have no choice but to do something from which there was no turning back.
"I've been instructing her on the use of herbs in healing, my lord," Simon murmured. "She's a very quick learner."
Richard stared down at her small, stubborn figure and let out a lewd bark of laughter. "I can imagine. What else have you been teaching her, you blackguard? Have you been showing her the other uses mouths can be put to?"
"Lady Alys was generous enough to grant me the boon of a chaste kiss," he said, still watching Alys's pale face.
"Doesn't look chaste to me." Richard brayed with laughter. "Perhaps we'd better hurry the wedding along. We don't want a brat appearing in six months' time. You'll fill her belly once you're wed and not a moment before, eh?" He put his thick hand on Alys's stomach, squeezing, and she bit her lip to stifle a cry.
Simon moved then. He had enough sense not to put his hand on Richard—there was a limit to what his liege lord would tolerate, and he was too far gone in wine to be sensible. If it came to a fight Simon would kill him quite easily, but he wasn't ready for Richard to die.
"My lord," he said, and Richard wheeled around, forgetting his sister. Alys shrank back, a trembling hand pressing her stomach. "If you wish I can send the wench away."
"Do that," Richard said with a wave of his hand. "Can't stand the silly creatures most of the time. They belong on their backs, you know, with their legs spread. Send the bitch away, and we'll have a glass of wine and talk about the future."
Simon had little choice in the matter. The seduction of Alys of Summersedge would have to wait. At the moment she looked both faint and confused, and if the reddening of her mouth had lessened, the reddening of her cheeks was still bright. Time would only be to his advantage. She'd liked that kiss—it was no false pride that told him so. He'd felt the softening in her flesh, the faint yearning that had begun to blossom. Given a few days to think about it, that yearning might come to full flower.
Before he could say a word Alys turned and ran, disappearing from his tower room like a frightened rabbit. She was an interesting mixture of bravery and fear. He had little doubt she'd face a dragon for those she loved. But for her own sake she was more than willing to run away and hide.
Richard, with his usual single-mindedness, walked directly past the damning desk with its page of illuminated manuscript. He poured himself a goblet of wine and tossed it down, ignoring the red trails that dribbled into his beard. "Damn me if you don't have the best wine in the castle," he said, belching. "I know that can't be the truth of it, but every time I drink in your rooms it tastes sweeter."
"Perhaps it's the company," Simon said in a dulcet tone.
Richard blinked at him drunkenly, missing the irony entirely. "As you wish," he mumbled, waving an airy hand. "So you're teaching m'little sister about herbs, are you? Knowledge such as that can be dangerous in the hands of the frailer sex."
It was taking Richard a surprisingly long time to get to the point, but Simon was prepared to be patient. "Dangerous, my lord? How so?"
"Herbs can be wicked things. Dangerous, even deadly. What if a wife takes it into her head to choose a new husband? Couldn't she administer something deadly in his wine, and no one would ever know?"
"It is always possible."
"There are such things, aren't there?" Richard pressed the issue, moving closer. He smelled of sweat, sour wine, and ever so faintly of vomit, none of which odors was unexpected. "Drugs that can be fed a man, or even a child, that would kill him without a trace."
"Perhaps. Though most physicians and barbers could recognize the signs of poison easily enough."
"But there are other potions, herbs and the like, that can simply put a man into a deep sleep, are there not? Nothing harmful, unless, of course, one made the mistake of taking too much. I remember hearing of such a matter. Prince Edward of Normandy's wife was used to dosing herself with various herbs, and one night she simply took too much, and never woke up."
"There were, of course, rumors that the prince assisted her in making such a fetal error," Simon said gently.
Richard beamed at him. "Exactly! That can happen, can it not? A perfectly reasonable medical mistake, and the unwanted person is conveniently disposed of."
"It's been done since the beginning of time, my lord," Simon said, lowering himself into the seat by the fire, hi
s right hand hidden in his long robes. "And who is it you would have me kill?"
Richard blinked, momentarily disconcerted. And then he roared with laughter. "That's my Grendel," he shouted. "Always ready with a quip. Poison's not my weapon—I prefer to meet someone on the field of battle. I leave the sneaky stuff to those best suited for it."
"Such as myself?" Simon murmured.
"You came highly recommended, Simon of Navarre. An expert at exterminating… difficulties."
Simon allowed himself a small, cold smile. "You still haven't answered my question, my lord. Exactly what difficulty did you wish exterminated?"
"All in good time, my Grendel. All in good time. There do exist such potions, do there not?"
"Which potions do you mean?"
"Sleep potions," Richard said irritably. "Elixirs which do no harm in moderation, but might prove dangerous if taken in excess. Herbal concoctions that might only make a strong man drowsy, but could kill a frail boy of twelve."
The silence was absolute. In the ensuing stillness the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire, and the sound of the wind whistling through the arrow slits.
The king of England, Henry the Third, was a frail boy of twelve. Second cousin to Richard de Lancie, who was several steps removed from the throne. But those steps could be easily surmounted if the throne were rendered empty by a tragic accident, a fatal miscalculation of a herbal potion intended to soothe.
It was no more than Simon had suspected of his amoral liege lord. Murdering a child might be a hideous crime, but murdering a child-king was simply a matter of political expediency.
"It could be done, my lord," Simon said slowly. "There are rare potions, spells that I learned in the East, that could bring about the desired results."
"We must be very careful. We cannot allow such things to fall into the wrong hands."
"My herbs are safe in my rooms," Simon said. "No one would be able to touch them without my permission. No one would dare try."
"Do you have that potion made up?"
"No, my lord. Such concoctions are complicated, delicate matters, not done easily. There is very little call for it. It would take time to prepare it."
Richard moved closer still. "Be very careful, my Grendel. There are dangerous people in the world, those who wish ill of ones such as my dear cousin, the king. We are all sworn to protect him with our lives."
Odd, Simon thought, staring up into his face with no expression whatsoever. His bad hand was clenched in a painful fist beneath the enveloping robe. He wouldn't have suspected Richard's machinations would disturb him. But then, he'd always been foolishly sentimental about the lives of children. One of his few weaknesses.
"I am yours to command, my lord," he murmured. "I'll prepare that potion and keep it safe."
"How long will it take you?" Richard didn't bother to disguise his eagerness.
"It could be a matter of days, or a matter of weeks, my lord. It has to do with making certain I have the correct ingredients. Some may be difficult to come by."
"You are my best and dearest lord," Richard said fondly. "Do it quickly, my Grendel. And you'll have anything you want as a reward."
"Your sister is reward enough."
Richard grimaced. "And you're a very odd man. Not a bit like me."
Simon looked up into the conscienceless eyes of his sworn lord. "Yes, my lord," he said in a slow, deep voice. And if he'd still believed in God he would have thanked him that it was so.
* * *
Chapter Nine
Sir Thomas du Rhaymer was an interesting man, Claire decided as she scrubbed her mouth with fresh water and mint leaves. Every now and then she suspected there might be a human being behind those flinty eyes, that stern expression on his handsome face.
She'd asked the servants about him, of course, and come up with a variety of answers. He had a wife, all right. Gwyneth du Rhaymer had run off with a wealthy baron whose land bordered the distant reaches of Summersedge, and she was great with child.
It was rumored that she'd been pregnant before, by her handsome husband, and that she killed the babe, rather than bear it. It was rumored that her husband had beat her often and severely, causing her to lose the unborn child. It was rumored that she'd been pregnant by Richard himself, and he'd made his sorcerer give her drugs to rid herself of the child.
Claire didn't know what to believe, and in the end she believed none of it. In truth, the man had an unfaithful wife. And he was dour, disapproving, and far too handsome for a man who wanted to give his life to a monastery.
Madlen was full of useful information, most of it reasonably reliable. "Such a shame," she'd muttered, rolling her eyes. "Such a handsome man, and what a waste! He could do so much more good out in the world. Think of what pretty babies he'd have!"
Very pretty babies, Claire had thought, remembering his icy blue eyes and silken hair.
"But he's out to make a hermit of himself, and even if Lord Richard won't let him, he'll be a hermit knight if he has his way. He's a stubborn young man, far too interested in his soul and not enough concerned with the life he's living."
"He needs a new wife."
"And where's he going to find one? He's still married to that heartless jade."
"Couldn't he have her put aside? Have the marriage annulled? With Richard's help he would be certain to..."
"What makes you think Richard would help?" Madlen demanded with a coarse laugh. "He was the one who made the match in the first place, knowing he was marrying a whore to a saint. He'd only interfere if he thought it would aid him, and having Sir Thomas miserable and cold and angry suits him very well indeed. It makes him a better fighter, and that's all Lord Richard cares for."
"It seems so sad for him."
"Don't you be breaking your heart over his pretty blue eyes, mistress," Madlen had warned in her motherly way. "He wouldn't accept an annulment if one were granted. He's not one to set aside the vows he made to God, even if the pope himself gives him leave." She sighed heartily. "Don't you just hate noble men?"
Claire rinsed her mouth and spat the water in the bowl, still thinking of Madlen's words. In truth, noble men were the very devil. They didn't laugh, didn't dance, didn't compliment a girl on her hair or her eyes. They just looked at you and glowered.
She wondered if she could make Thomas du Rhaymer smile. He wasn't a monk, not yet at least. Not in his heart. She didn't know why she was so certain of that fact, but she was. For all his stern disapproval, there was something in the way he looked at her. Something that kindled a strange, longing fire deep within her, something she'd never felt before.
Just her luck, she thought sourly, kicking her long skirts out of her way as she crossed the solar she shared with her sister. God had granted her a glorious gift of beauty, and the only man she longed for was the one who didn't want her. Couldn't have her. Didn't need her.
Except that Sir Thomas du Rhaymer did need her, quite badly. He needed her to teach him how to smile. And she needed him to teach her how to…
"Claire!" Alys rushed into the room as if the hounds of hell were pursuing her. Her veil was half torn off her neat plaits of hair, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes suspiciously bright. She didn't look the slightest bit like her usually staid self, and Claire gave up the disturbing tenor of her thoughts to concentrate on the unlikely tumult of Alys.
"What's happened to you?" Claire demanded. Alys had tears in her eyes, another first, and her mouth looked slightly swollen. "Did that… that creature hurt you? He hit you, didn't he? Tell me he struck you and I'll steal a sword and run him through! How dare he lay a hand on my sister! I'll gut him, I swear…" Her furious voice trailed off in the face of Alys's sudden laugh.
"I'd like to see you try, dearest," she said. "Of course he didn't hit me."
"Your mouth is swollen," Claire said accusingly.
"He kissed me."
Claire was dumbfounded. "I will kill him," she said, quite calmly.
"No, you won't. I a
m pledged to him—he has every right to kiss me." She sank down on the bed, pulling the veil and circlet from her head.
"What was it like?" Claire asked finally.
"Like?"
"The kiss? Was it nasty? Hurtful? Did he kiss your mouth or your cheek or…"
"Of course he kissed my mouth, Claire," Alys said with deceptive calm. "I'd hardly be this disturbed by a chaste kiss on the hand."
Claire felt a chill in her heart. "So there was nothing chaste about this kiss?" she forced herself to ask.
She half expected Alys to deny it. Instead a strange, distant expression came into her eyes, as if she were remembering something long in the past, when it couldn't have been more than an hour ago. "No," she said in a small voice. "There was nothing chaste about his kiss."
Claire's curiosity overcame her."Why did he kiss you? What did it feel like? Was he gentle, or rough? Did he ask leave to kiss you? Did he… ?"
"Does Simon of Navarre strike you as the sort of man who would ask leave to kiss someone?"
"He doesn't strike me as the sort of man who'd be interested in kissing," Claire said bluntly. "Does he you?"
"No," Alys admitted. "But he is. No one could be quite so adept at it without possessing a great deal of interest in the subject."
"Adept?" Claire shuddered. "I don't know how you could bear it. I know that he is not precisely ugly, if you don't notice that twisted hand of his, but I still can't imagine it. So he kissed you on the mouth. What did you say?"
"I didn't have much of a chance to say anything. It wasn't a brief kiss."
"What do you mean? How can a kiss be other than brief? Lips touch, and then part."
"There's more to it than that. He put his mouth against mine, and I thought that would be all there was to it. And I told myself I must submit. But then, when he used his tongue…"
"His tongue?" Claire shrieked in horror.
"I tried to pull away. But I hadn't realized he was holding me so that I couldn't escape. I could only stay there and let him kiss me."