by Anne Stuart
"Oh, my poor angel," Claire moaned. "That you had to endure such a terrible thing."
"But it wasn't," Alys said."At first I was quite shocked, but since there was no way I could get away from him I simply let him kiss me. And it grew very dark and strange, Claire. The room seemed to glow, and I felt as if I were sinking into a deep, soft pillow made of velvet, and darkness was all around me, but it was lit with stars, and I knew I had to hold on to him or I would fall, but he was there, and quite strong, and I knew I should be safe, and…" Her voice trailed off as she noticed Claire's stupefaction.
"You did like it," she accused her.
"I don't know," Alys said in a practical voice. "Perhaps I'll have to try it again to make certain."
"Alys!" Claire was shocked.
"I don't know what would have happened if Richard hadn't suddenly arrived," Alys added. "I felt faint, and oddly weak, which I imagine was what he had in mind. Lord Simon's motives could never be simple."
"He was trying to cloud your mind. He probably used one of his filthy potions on you, and your addled brain is the result of drugs, not his kissing," Claire said sternly.
"Does my brain appear addled?" Alys sounded wistful. "I'm not surprised. And yet I've always prided myself on my sharp wits."
"It's witchcraft."
"It's nothing of the kind," Alys said sharply. "And there were no potions tonight, nothing to make me weak and pliant. For all that he likes to frighten people into thinking he's some sort of dread monster, Simon of Navarre is only a man. No more, no less."
"And you still intend to marry him? You're still willing to sacrifice yourself for me?" Claire was unaccustomed to feeling guilt, but all her sister's protestations were unable to allay the feeling.
Alys lifted her head and met her sister's gaze, and for the first time there was a trace of her older sister's usual serenity, her calm good humor. "Claire, my sweet," she said in a soft voice, "I begin to suspect that it will be no sacrifice at all."
Claire stared at her in disbelief. This wasn't the staid, plain older sister who'd always looked out for her, always cared for her. With her shining eyes and flushed cheeks, with her hair awry and her lips reddened, she looked absolutely lovely. Not at all the perfect little scholar and would-be nun. She looked like a woman, a woman whose first concern was no longer her sister Claire.
She swallowed her moment of panic with admirable calm. "Perhaps Grendel is preferable to the convent You know I have never approved of your supposed vocation. But you know you have only to say the word."
"And what, my love?" Alys asked. "Will you step in and take my place as the virgin sacrifice? Or will you skewer my betrothed?"
"You mock me. I would do either, if necessary," Claire announced with great dignity.
"There will be no necessity. Simon of Navarre and I are very well suited. He is a man of many talents and interests. I know I shall enjoy learning from him."
"And what exactly is it that you'll be learning, sister dear?"
And to Claire's dismay, steady, stalwart Alys turned a bright, embarrassed crimson.
Simon of Navarre stood by the narrow window slit and stared out at the castle. He preferred his rooms in the north tower to all others—from his vantage point he could see the mountains to the east, and the thick, dark woods of Summersedge Forest which stretched for countless miles to the rocky sea coast He could see the rich, fertile valley below and the rustic buildings that comprised the town. And he could see across the rest of the castle, the battlements and windows, the towers.
His betrothed was still awake. Either she or her sister still moved about in the room in the east tower he'd manipulated Lord Richard into giving them. He'd chosen it for that very reason—that he could see it well from across the empty space over the rooftops and the battlements. He could watch her.
He was a wise, distrustful man, and keeping an eye on all those who might do him damage was a habit he'd learned early on. He told himself he had no other interest in keeping watch over Lady Alys. He cared not if she had a lover or two, as long as she was discreet.
Except that now he'd had a taste of her virgin mouth, he found he wanted to be the one to explore the rest of her innocence. He'd never been a man particularly attracted to virgins. They wept, they were almost impossible to pleasure, and they were usually ugly as sin, else they wouldn't still be virgins by the time he got to them.
But for some reason he didn't fancy the notion of some other man between her legs, taking her maidenhead, claiming her. He wasn't a greedy man, having learned early on that most possessions were as easily lost as won, but he found that he had the most uncharacteristic desire to possess Lady Alys of Summersedge.
The soft glow of candlelight lit her deep window, and he thought he could see a woman's shadow cross in front of it. There was no long ripple of hair, no flounce in the gait of the pacing woman, and he knew it wasn't the younger one. The silly flirt, the supposedly pretty one.
He'd given Alys something to pace over, something to trouble her mind and her spirit. He wondered if it troubled her body as well. It assuredly troubled his.
There were women he could have, quiet, discreet women who knew how to share pleasure, but somehow he couldn't summon up any interest in them. It was little wonder he wanted to possess Alys. For some reason she had managed to possess him.
He left the window, moving to stand by his partially completed manuscript. There were no pages describing what Lord Richard had asked for, and he wondered whether he would commit the ultimate, foolish act, and detail the herbal concoction that would kill a king. Complete with glowing colors and careful illustrations. He expected that he would.
He didn't bother to look down into the courtyard to make certain his workshop was dark. No one dared enter the place—they were convinced that ghosts and creatures of the devil haunted the rooms when he wasn't there. Of course, they believed that he was, in truth, a creature of the devil, so it made little difference whether he was there or not In daylight or darkness they gave his workshop a wide berth.
Of course he had lied to Richard about the poisonous concoction. It was simple enough to make, and the ingredients were to be found almost anywhere in England. The proper proportions were crucial of course, but it was something he was experienced in using. He'd killed twice using that herbal remedy, with care and forethought The patients had died, peacefully, an old woman with unbearable pain and rotting limbs as her only future, a middle-aged merchant who'd just beaten his second wife to death and wanted to ensure that he slept well before he wed his third victim.
They had died in their sleep, in no pain, though he might have wished that the merchant had suffered a bit more. He could only hope the hereafter, which he wasn't sure he believed in, would take care of punishing the brutal merchant with suitable severity.
The young king would feel nothing, and it would doubtless be a kinder death than countless others had in store for him. Being a king was a profession filled with danger, and the life expectancy was almost as short as that of a sickly babe. Henry the Third would die sooner or later, probably sooner, probably painfully. In truth, Simon of Navarre would be doing him a service.
His own cynical laugh surprised him. He hadn't realized quite how far he'd gone, down the spiral of death and evil. He'd never killed a child, either by malice or in battle. It had been the deaths of children, hundreds of them on that cursed crusade, that had sealed his own fate and made him who he was. And yet now he was ready to commit that very crime, to justify it, for his own ends.
Human frailty, his own in particular, always amused him. He sank down in his chair and stared into the fire, clenching and unclenching his hand. He would assemble the ingredients for the lethal sleeping draught. But whether he would actually let Richard the Fair administer it was yet to be determined.
Whether Simon of Navarre had truly lost his soul was still a question better left to those who judge. Brother Jerome would insist that there was salvation. Richard the Fair would bid him dan
ce with the devil.
It was a simple choice. All the power and wealth that Simon had ever desired was within his grasp. The boy wouldn't make it to manhood anyway, not in these perilous times.
But he wasn't a man to be rushed into any choice. He would most likely do it, for the simple reason that it would give him exactly what he wanted. Perhaps he'd have Lady Alys do the actual mixing of the concoction. After all, she was so very eager to learn.
The fire was dying, but he made no move to stir the coals. In the distance he could see a flash of lightning, and he remembered Alys's fear. Was it the lightning that kept her awake and pacing? Or was it the memory of his kiss?
It certainly wasn't a guilty conscience that kept her from her bed. Alys was truly innocent, untouched, unsoiled by the darkness that roamed the earth and seemed to have settled in Simon's soul.
He would soil her, and part of him regretted that feet. But in truth, it was only a very small part, the tiny piece of his conscience that still remained. He managed to push it aside with no great difficulty.
He would make the fatal draught, and he would swive Lady Alys. And the devil could take his soul. If he hadn't already.
He slept, sitting in the chair, dreaming of Alys wrapped in nothing but her silken hair. He dreamed of Alys, her mouth opened in a scream of horror.
And then he saw them. The children. Slaughtered along the road to Damascus. Bought and sold as amusements for depraved soldiers. The Children's Crusade. The last frail hope in a world gone mad, now blighted by horror. And there had been nothing he could do to save them, nothing at all.
And he woke with an anguished cry.
* * *
Chapter Ten
Sir Thomas du Rhaymer awoke in a cold sweat, sitting upright on his straw-filled pallet, shaking in the frigid morning air. As a knight he was deserving of better sleeping accommodations, but the narrow pallet on the stone floor was suited to his nature, and he slept hard and well upon it.
Not that night, however. His dreams had been tormenting, restless, wicked dreams, and as he scrambled out of bed to splash his face with icy water, he thanked a merciful God he couldn't remember them. The evidence still remained on his wayward body—he was hard as a pikestaff—but he told himself it was no more than the need to relieve himself. And he knew he lied.
It was early, even for the most energetic of the Keep's inhabitants. He could smell fresh bread baking on the cool, pre-dawn air, but the garderobe was empty, and all around him people slept.
He washed and dressed quickly, his early morning plan simple. He would head for the chapel and morning prayers, then find a quiet place in the still, cool air to contemplate his sins, both real and imagined. By the time the spoiled beauty roused herself from her bed he would be fully prepared to resist any temptation she might throw in his way.
There were two chapels inside the castle walls: the small, family chapel in the Keep itself, and the larger one that abutted the curtain wall. With luck Brother Jerome would be about, and Thomas could make his confession. Brother Jerome would be too lenient with him, but Thomas could add to his own penance. Indeed, his proximity to Lady Claire of Summersedge was a penance in itself.
A few stray dogs were slinking about the courtyard as he made his way to the larger chapel, shivering in the crisp air, but there were no people about He was just reaching for the door, when he heard the distant whirrup of a horse.
He froze. That noise could have come from any number of the horses lodged in the vast stables at Summersedge Keep. It could have come from a workhorse, or one of the knights' steeds. It could be a gentle lady's palfrey, restless in her stall.
But he knew it was no such thing. He slowly turned, in time to see the huge mare flash by in the murky predawn air, a pale figure clinging, saddleless, to its broad back. And there was never a question in his mind who that stubborn creature was.
He moved quickly, speed an essential part of his soldier's training, telling himself there was no way in heaven she could get beyond the castle walls. At that hour of the day the drawbridge should be up, the portcullis down, all entry and exit barred even in this less than hostile time.
But he'd underestimated the treacherous female. He didn't know who she'd managed to bribe, or cozzen, but the entrance to the castle was free and clear, and no soldier of Lord Richard was about to put a crossbow bolt in a lady's back if she refused to halt.
He was cursing under his breath as he ran for the stables, too furious even to notice the wickedness of his language. He'd ridden since he was a child—he had no more need of a saddle than that hell-bent female�and he found Paladin easily enough amidst the horses. Within moments he was thundering out the gate after her, but she was so far away, a mere speck in the distance, that he doubted she knew she was being followed.
He hadn't ridden bareback, without armor, in years. He bent low on Paladin's neck, urging him faster, and a sense of glorious power filled him as the wind tore through his short cropped hair. It was a cool, damp air, redolent of mist and dry leaves, and for one brash, wild moment he thought of simply urging Paladin faster, faster still, until he passed the troublesome wench, leaving her in the dust. Leaving all of Summersedge Keep in the dust, the memory of his wife, his duty to a corrupt lord, his troublesome urges that had chosen a fine time to reappear and torment him.
He could just imagine the expression on Lady Claire's beautiful face as he soared past her, ignoring her. He could equally imagine Richard the Fair's shock that his most holy of knights had turned his back on duty and honor and simply returned home to his neglected estates in the north.
It wasn't to be. His liege lord might be unworthy, but Thomas had made his vows to him, just as he had to his faithless wife. If he were to damn his eternal soul by breaking his God-given vows, then he'd rather do it with Lady Claire than by running away.
He wasn't going to do either, and he cursed himself for even thinking such a thought. She was out of sight of the castle now, just beyond the copse of trees, and he cursed again. Summersedge Forest was no place for the likes of her. It was a wicked place, filled with wild animals and evil spells, and the paths were strewn with dangers, low hung branches, up-shot roots. She could be swept from her horse, her fragile bones smashed against the ground, and he would have to carry her corpse back to her brother.
But her bones weren't fragile, they were strong. And she was too good a rider to take foolish chances. He was a halfwit to worry about her. Besides, it wasn't Lady Claire he was worried about, it was facing her brother with no good excuse.
He couldn't find her. She had melted into the forest like the first snow on a bright day in December. The leaves were thick along the narrow trails, and he couldn't even attempt to track her.
He waited, he searched, he called for her, knowing full well she wouldn't answer even if she heard him. In the end he turned back to face his punishment. If Lord Richard wanted him hanged from the battlements, so be it. There were far worse futures he could face.
The castle was awake and a-bustle when he rode back over the drawbridge. His squire, Alain, was waiting for him, but the boy had the sense to keep his questions to himself and simply take Paladin's reins and lead him back to the stables.
Lord Richard would be in the Great Hall, breaking his fast. Most of the castle would be there as well, either eating or serving. It was as good a time as any to confess his transgressions. That way a hunt could be mounted for the missing beauty as quickly as possible.
He didn't pause during his headlong dash into the hall, and the doors banged loudly as he pushed through, causing an uncustomary silence to wash over the busy place. He strode down the middle of the huge room, past the side tables, skirting the huge fire, coming directly to the dais and the curious, merciless eyes of Richard the Fair.
"What kept you, Sir Thomas?" he demanded, taking a deep draught of his morning ale. "Have you forgotten your duties? Overslept, eh? And with whom? None of the serving wenches claim any knowledge. Perhaps you prefer young boys?
"
Thomas didn't even blink, so intent was he on confession and punishment "Your sister, my lord..." he began in a rough voice.
"Don't tell me you've bedded my sister, for I'D know you for a liar," Richard said with a coarse laugh. "She's been here this last half hour, wondering where her chaste champion had gotten himself to."
He hadn't seen her. Too intent on confession and punishment, he hadn't even noticed that she was seated next to her boisterous brother, albeit as far away as she could manage. He stared at her in dumbstruck disbelief. Her hair was chastely plaited, with a loose veil and circlet covering its golden glory. Her clothes were somber, her eyes utterly calm as they met his.
"So?" Lord Richard demanded. "Where were you, Sir Thomas?"
He managed to pull his gaze away from Lady Claire, but only with supreme effort "Er… I was lost in prayer, my lord."
Richard's contemptuous snort was reply enough. "That's no way to watch over a high-bred filly like m'sister. You'd best watch yourself, lad. She could lead you a merry chase."
Thomas cast a sudden, suspicious glance at his liege lord, but Richard had no idea how very close he'd come to the mark. "Aye, my lord," Thomas said in a dutiful voice. "A thousand pardons."
"A mere handful is enough, and see that it doesn't happen again. If my little sister continues to behave herself, you might find her a nice little palfrey and allow her a gentle ride within the castle walls. Something suitable for a lady. You'd like that, wouldn't you, my dear?" he demanded of his sister.
She lifted her willful chin. "You are too generous," she said sweetly.
Thomas looked at her doubtfully. He couldn't believe her sudden docility; he couldn't believe the neat hair and calm demeanor that suggested a woman just risen from her bed. She seemed a far cry from the hoyden he'd chased through the forest. Her color was high, but Richard's crude jests could be the cause.
Old Sir Hector was seated next to her, drooling over her, and Thomas had to content himself with a seat at the lower table, where he could look up at her and torment himself with his indecision. His morning ride had increased his appetite, and indeed, Lady Claire seemed equally hungry. She never looked in his direction; she kept her face down and her expression demure, but he told himself he wasn't fooled.