Lord of Danger

by Anne Stuart

  He turned his back on the window, on Alys, moving to the makeshift workbench and stretching out both hands, loosening the cramped right one. He couldn't afford any more distractions. The potion needed to be completed, that much was certain. Whether he ended up giving it to Richard was yet to be decided.

  He pushed his hair away from his face, rolling up his long sleeves. He would concentrate on his work with single-minded diligence. And he wouldn't think of Alys at all.

  Except to wonder if she'd heard and believed.

  "He's been what?"

  "Castrated. Unmanned. Like a gelding," Claire explained with great patience. "Surely you've heard of that?"

  "Not with people," Alys said. "What makes you think that?"

  "Because he told Sir Thomas."

  "Sir Thomas doesn't strike me as the sort for gossip."

  "The servants overheard the conversation."

  "And how did it go? 'Oh, by the way, I'm missing my manly parts?' "

  "You don't believe me," Claire said, shocked.

  "Oh, I believe you were told that. I just don't believe it's true," Alys said calmly.

  "It would be a blessing if it were. No risk of dying during childbirth, no submitting to his beastly desires…"

  "It is our Christian duty to submit to our husbands' beastly desires," Alys pointed out. "And children are worth the risk."

  "You could get the marriage annulled. Marriage is for the procreation of children, and if there's an impediment…"

  "Marriage is for political purposes, and for that matter, there's been no marriage," Alys said sharply.

  "Pray God that there never will be."

  Alys stood up abruptly, striding away from her sister as she rubbed her arms. It was a cold night, and she was restless, troubled. "I thought castration changed a male. Turned them placid, like a gelding, or plump, like a capon. Simon of Navarre is neither placid nor plump."

  Claire rose too, pushing her golden hair away from her face. "Since you're so doubtful, why don't you simply ask him?" she said in a sharp voice.

  Alys turned. "I think I will."

  "Alys!" Claire shrieked in utter horror. "You're not going…"

  But Alys had already left the room.

  It was late, but the Great Hall was still noisy with revelry. Alys kept to the shadows, moving silently toward the tower steps that led to the wizard's rooms. She was cold, and she wrapped her arms around her body, shivering slightly as she mounted the curved steps. The wind blew through the arrow loopholes. The noise and music from the Great Hall receded in the distance as she climbed.

  She had to be mad. Was she really going to barge in on Simon of Navarre and ask him about the state of his genitals? It was one thing to tell her sister that she planned to do it, another actually to accomplish the deed.

  She was tired of being a quiet little mouse. She was tired of rumors and whispers and hushed threats. She was tired of lies.

  Of course, there was always the chance that it wasn't a lie. She paused on the landing, leaning against the cold stone wall as she considered that unlikely possibility.

  What would she do? Would it be cause to rejoice, as Claire had said? He wouldn't be able to possess her, deflower her. For all her convent upbringing she knew perfectly well what went on between men and women. She'd even seen them coupling in corners in the Great Hall, in the stable yards. The thought of doing that with Simon of Navarre was both terrifying and fascinating.

  But maybe she wouldn't be doing that with anyone at all. If Richard married her to an impotent man, she would live out her life in chastity, like the very nun she had wanted to be. Surely that was cause to rejoice?

  And hadn't he told her she could bestow her favors where she wished? Perhaps it had been his way of telling her he had no use for them himself.

  It was driving her mad. She wasn't afraid to know the truth, and she wasn't afraid to ask him. At least, not much.

  His servant lay outside the door, and his eyes opened as Alys approached. He was a gentle looking man, though Alys suspected he could be quite fierce in defense of his lord, and he scrambled to his feet as she drew closer.

  "I wished to see…" she began, but he'd already opened the door for her, and she let her words trail off, moving ahead before her nerves could fail her.

  He stood at a makeshift table, not bothering to look up as the door closed behind her. This time she didn't make the mistake of thinking he wasn't fully aware of her.

  "Your servant let me in," she said.

  He didn't look up. "Godfrey has orders to admit you whenever you come looking for me. How may I help you, Lady Alys? Were you seeking another lesson in herbalism? Or are you perhaps interested in alchemy?"

  "Alchemy?" she said, momentarily and gratefully distracted from her quest. "You are versed in the alchemic arts? Can you make gold?"

  "I know any number of things," he said, and he looked up at her. His hair was pushed back from his face, and his golden eyes were still and watchful. "What were you wishing to learn?"

  The question jumped to mind, but stopped at her lips. She moved into the room, doing her best to appear casually interested in her surroundings. If she didn't know better she'd think he was amused. That he had guessed what information she was in search of, and he found it entertaining.

  "How is your sister? Is she recovered from her ordeal?" he asked, watching her as she circled the room.

  "As well as can be expected. She's very angry right now."

  "A healthy sign," Simon said. "And what of you? You seem to be plagued with a disordered mind this evening, Lady Alys. What is disturbing you?"

  No, she couldn't come right out and ask him. She was just as big a coward as she'd always thought.

  Stalling for time, she moved to the cushioned chair and sat down, pulling her long skirts out of the way. Claire was right, she thought absently. It really was an astonishingly ugly dress.

  "Why do you wish to marry me?" she asked abruptly.

  He leaned against the table, surveying her. "For the usual reasons."

  "And what are they? Because you care for me? Because you want children to carry on your lineage?"

  He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound was hateful."How very young you are, Lady Alys. I tend to forget that. People marry for money and power, my child. Not for love. You come with a generous dowry and a blood connection to the royal family of England. Whereas I am a traveler, with no lands or family that I care to claim. Your properties will give me stability and respectability."

  "I doubt anything could give you respectability," she muttered.

  He looked amused. "No? I expect you're right."

  "And how will I benefit from this marriage? What will be my great boon? How will it differ from the life of a nun?" She couldn't have asked him any more plainly, and she waited impatiently for his answer.

  She shouldn't have underestimated him. "You'll have far less power," he said. "If you'd stayed in the convent I imagine you would have ended up an abbess. Perhaps even a saint. Married to me you'll end up martyred like most women, without the public praise to go with it."

  "Will I have children?" She waited, holding her breath.

  The glint in his eye was by no means pleasant. "I would suppose anything is possible if you arrange things wisely." He moved closer, leaning over her, putting his strong left hand on the arm of the chair. "Let me ask you again, sweet Alys. Why are you here?"

  She stared up at him, hands clasped tightly in her lap, lost in the wicked gleam in his golden eyes. He wouldn't let her escape, she knew it, without admitting what she sought. "They have said…" she began. "… there are rumors… that is to say… I wanted to know…"

  He waited, saying nothing, merciless, and finally her temper was roused.

  "I wanted to know if you were capable of fathering children," she said in a furious rush, feeling the color flood her face. She lowered her head, refusing to look him in the eye, embarrassed and angry and miserable.

  He didn't move, and
she knew with sudden certainty that he wouldn't answer her until she looked up. The moment stretched on, seemingly forever, and the only sounds were the wind rushing around the stone battlements overhead and the crackle of the fire.

  When she could stand it no longer she lifted her head to glance at him. There was no reading his expression; he was adept at covering his reactions, and he seemed merely curious. "I have spent a great deal of time in the East," he said. "And I have learned there are many ways to conceive a child, even when it seems unlikely, and many ways to avoid conception when the time is not right Are you so interested in being a mother?"

  "Most women are."

  "Are you?"

  "Yes."

  There was a lengthy silence, and then he spoke. "Be brave, sweet Alys. Ask your question." His voice was a taunt, and there was unexpected humor in his eyes.

  She bit her lip. "Are you less than a man?"

  "More than a man, most would say," he replied. "Be more specific."

  He was tormenting her, enjoying her discomfiture, and she couldn't stand it any longer. "Have you been gelded?"

  He caught her chin in his hand before she could look away, his long, strong fingers cradling her face. "You'll find out eventually," he said, and put his mouth against hers.

  She was too stunned to react She simply sat there, letting him kiss her, letting him cup her face with his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as she closed her eyes and gave herself up to frightening, floating feeling.

  He moved back, and she let out a little cry of disappointment, opening her eyes to stare up at him dazedly. "Why do you tease me?" she whispered.

  "Because it's so much fun," he said, brushing his mouth against her cheekbone. She moved her face, to give him better access, and she found she was shivering. He felt it too, drawing back with a frown that should have been terrifying, but for some reason his frowns no longer frightened her.

  "You're cold," he said. She didn't deny it. "It seems I should do my best to warm you up." Before she realized what he'd intended he scooped her body up in his arms. It wasn't that difficult a task—though she was plump she was small, and Simon of Navarre was quite strong. He carried her across the room to the alcove, mounting the dais that held the big bed, and set her down carefully, covering her with a fur throw. She was still shivering, though she knew she shouldn't be cold, and she stared up at him mutely, waiting, wondering.

  "That should warm you up," he said, tucking the cover around her. "I think it would be better if I didn't lie down with you."

  "Why?" She was beyond being shocked at her own temerity.

  "Because I don't think you're ready to find out the truth," he said lightly, starting to turn away.

  "I'm still cold," she said in a very small voice.

  He paused, his tall body rigid in the dim light. And then he turned, looking down at her as she lay, helpless and waiting in his bed. She wasn't sure what she wanted from him. She only knew she was cold.

  "As you wish, my lady," he murmured. "Never let it be said that Simon of Navarre couldn't be chivalrous." And he lay down on the bed beside her, the fur throw between them, and pulled her shivering body into his arms.

  It took her a while to realize that that was all he intended to do. To hold her against the warmth of his body, her face pressed against the rich wool of his dark robe, to let her feel the steady beat of his heart against hers through the heavy fur, to let their breath rise and mingle in the night air. She could smell spices, rich and fragrant; she could smell his skin, the scent of wine on his breath; she could close her eyes and revel in the sounds and scents and feel of the night around her.

  And she did, relaxing her tense body, and slowly the shivers began to leave her. She lay against his arm, blissful, drowsy, as he slowly brushed her hair away from her cheek, his long, delicate fingers stroking her skin. And then she slept, his body pressed up against her, his fingers entwined in her hair.

  She slept, and dreamed of wizards.

  His precious little virgin bride was as innocent as he suspected, Simon thought, staring down at her sleeping face. He was hard as a rock, pressing against her leg quite insistently, and she probably thought it was his magic wand. He wanted to laugh, but for some reason his sense of humor had fled.

  She looked very young lying in his arms, far too young for a jaded soul like him. It wasn't a matter of years�there might not be ten years between them. It was a matter of all he'd seen and done. He'd lost something, something there was no regaining, and if he were possessed of any decency he would let her be, rather than soil her by taking that precious innocence.

  But he had no decency, only a certain devious common sense. Much as he wanted to take her, here and now, he was going to deny himself that pleasure for the time being. She slept in his arms, and he was content to have it so. And when she awoke, he would teach her how to mix poison that could kill a king.

  She was half-besotted with him, and he knew it, even if she failed to recognize the symptoms. He told himself he should be displeased, but in truth, he found he enjoyed it. She was a fascinating combination of cowardice and bravery, primness and sensuality. She responded to kisses with a natural delight that suggested even greater pleasure in the offing. Perhaps he should push Richard into formalizing the marriage. This all might disappear overnight—war and illness and death were common, and each of those disasters could change his course of action, and his life. He would hate the thought of leaving Summersedge Keep without claiming Alys of Summersedge's virginity.

  And he wanted more than that. He wanted more than the awkward, messy first coupling. He wanted to take her on a journey of sensuality that left her breathless and heartstruck. He wanted to try everything with her that he had learned in his travels, and some things he'd only dreamed of during long, fever-ridden nights.

  He wanted her almost to the point of madness, a dangerous, vulnerable state for a man like him.

  He had lain down on the bed beside her for a reason. Not to warm her—within moments the heat from the fur throw would have penetrated her chill bones. Not to seduce her, though his body was crying out with the need for it Not to comfort her, because he liked her wary and uncertain. It made things easier for him.

  He had lain beside her on the bed to prove to himself he could resist her. He was still stronger than her irrational allure, his furious appetites, his needs, and his hungers. He could torment himself by breathing in the scent of her hair and remain unmoved.

  Or at least, unmoving. He could lie beside her, hard as a rock, and not do a damned thing. Even if it killed him.

  As he was beginning to suspect it might.

  He'd never been overly fond of celibacy, even in his most idealistic days, but there was nothing he could do about it He'd already fixed it so he couldn't find release with a wining kitchen maid—the rumors had spread so quickly it would become the talk of the castle if he found himself miraculously regenerated.

  No, it would wait. He wasn't sure for how long. The only reason not to take her right now was to prove to himself that he didn't have to.

  Once he was certain he had his hunger under control he could take the steps to assuage it. He could strip off her ugly, ugly clothes, toss them into the garderobe, and keep her naked in his bed for days and weeks and months, and to hell with Brother Jerome and Richard's murderous plans.

  Or maybe he'd wait until he'd done Richard's bidding, as he knew he would, eventually. He'd come too far along this particular path to turn back now. If Richard managed to seize the throne in the aftermath of the young king's death, there'd be a place of unlimited power for the advisor who happened to be his brother-in-law. It would give him everything he wanted, and he would be content.

  He rolled over on his back, and she curled closer, letting her head rest on his shoulder. There were times he doubted if he knew what contentment was, or ever had. Years and years ago, when he'd been a child living in the north, on his parents' estates, he'd been hopeful, foolishly believing in a forgiving God and
an honorable mankind.

  He'd learned the folly of both, and that contentment was a sham, a lie to trick weaklings.

  But even now, lying amidst the furs with Alys of Summersedge sleeping by his side, so trusting, so small and sweet and delicious, he could feel the first dangerous trickle of peace. The kind of peace that would strip away everything he'd worked for. The kind of peace that would allow him to make the mistake of caring for Alys of Summersedge, only to have her die in childbirth and her child die with her.

  The kind of peace that would slaughter innocent children and turn him into a weak, useless coward.

  He wanted no peace like that He would remain as he was, invulnerable, clever, wicked as he could be.

  And he would survive.

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard the Fair had a knack for choosing his weapons. His knights were among the bravest and the strongest in all of England, his servants were devious and skilled, and his chief advisor, Simon of Navarre, was feared throughout the land.

  Simon had no doubt that whoever was foolhardy enough to sneak into his tower room in the middle of the night would be well-armed, and sent by Richard in search of the deadly herbal concoction. Richard was an impatient man, and Simon had put him off for too long.

  He lay perfectly still on the wide bed, Alys asleep beside him with the thick fur throw chastely between them. It was just as well he hadn't given in to temptation and deflowered her. Lovemaking, when done properly, took too much away from the participants. He needed to be in full control of his senses to defeat the intruder.

  The man would be entirely ready to kill him once he found the potion. It would simplify Richard's life enormously—there would be no witness, no accomplice to pay off, and he could hand his older sister to a wealthier prospect Therefore, whoever was in his rooms must be possessed of intelligence and judgment as well as ruthlessness. Richard wouldn't entrust such a decision to just anyone.

  It wouldn't be Thomas du Rhaymer. Thomas wasn't willing to do Richard's dirty work, and Richard knew it. He saved Sir Thomas and his formidable fighting skills for straightforward battle. He used others to commit murders.