Lord of Danger

by Anne Stuart

  Her brother would see to a great many other things, Claire reminded herself, and that was why she had run. She couldn't save Alys, she could only save herself.

  The Convent of Saint Anne the Demure was somewhere on the other side of this vast forest. Alys had said they would not welcome her, but Alys didn't know the force of Claire's charm when she chose to exert it. Even the stern Mother Dominica had been helpless before Claire's practiced, wistful smile and huge, tear-filled eyes.

  They'd take her in all right, particularly when she told them what her brother had attempted. They would keep her safe, as they always had, and eventually the wizard would tire of Alys and she would join her. And everything would be as it was, but safer.

  Claire had lost her taste for adventuring. She no longer wanted to run through fields, to have men fall at her feet. She was content to live a chaste life, as long as it meant Richard couldn't get anywhere near her. If she couldn't have Thomas, she didn't want anyone else.

  It was growing colder. It was too early for snow, but there was a bite in the air that cut through her thin wool gown. She hadn't been able to bring anything when she'd left—Madlen was simple and accepting but even she might have grown suspicious if Claire had gone for a simple walk loaded down with cloaks and extra food.

  They said this forest was haunted. She didn't want to believe it, but each rustle of leaves, each tiny scuffling made her chilled skin shiver in fear. She was tired, and it was starting to rain, icy little pellets that stung her skin. She needed to find shelter, someplace warm and dry until the storm passed.

  She finally settled for. a small clearing in the woods. Two of the ancient trees had toppled to make a rude shelter, and she nudged Arabia forward to investigate, the reins held lightly in her hand.

  The crackle of lightning was shockingly close, the heavy rumble of the thunder shaking the ground beneath her. Arabia let out a panicked whinny, rearing into the air.

  Claire hadn't been thrown from a horse in over three years, despite her recklessness, but the day had been long, her emotions were raw, and her concentration shattered. She could see the ground hurtling up at her, the crossed branches of the fallen tree, and she reached out her hands to shield herself, to break her fall, but it was too late, she was falling, trapped amid the branches, and Arabia was gone, deserting her in a mindless panic.

  Claire lay amid the branches, struggling for the breath that had been knocked from her body. It took endless moments for it to return, and with it came a sudden, blinding pain in her arm. She bit her lip, forcing herself to stay conscious, but the rain grew heavier, colder, and all she could do was crawl through the maze of branches and huddle beneath the uprooted trunks of the huge old trees.

  Another crash of lightning, and Claire let out a muffled shriek, pulling herself into a tight little ball of pain and cold and misery. She was protected from the rain, but just barely, and with her luck some ferocious wild animal would stumble upon her and have her for dinner.

  She didn't care. She had never been more miserable in her life, and worst of all was that she couldn't even feel sorry for herself. She had brought it on herself, she had done nothing to help her sister, and she deserved all the misery that had come her way.

  She would have given anything to see the proud, disapproving Sir Thomas again. She would throw herself at his feet, beg his forgiveness, beg him to rescue her, and promise to spend the rest of her life chaste, docile, and holy. She would have her head shorn, dress in sackcloth and ashes instead of her fine clothes, and walk barefoot to the convent if only she could get out of this mess.

  But there was no one to save her this time. No strong, handsome knight, no willing sister. Even her horse had deserted her. She cradled her hand in her lap, pulled her knees up to her chest, and silently began to cry.

  Richard was waiting for him. He sat alone in his solar, a mug of strong ale in his hand. He looked up when Simon appeared in the door. "You're much later than I expected," he said. "It's well into the middle of the day. I thought you weren't going to emerge from the bridal bower at all."

  "I had things to do," Simon said coolly.

  "I'm certain you did." Richard smirked. "And where is the blushing bride? Did you fuck her bowlegged?"

  "Your concern for your sister is touching," he murmured. "Godfrey tells me she's resting in her room in the east tower."

  "How could Godfrey tell you anything? You cut out the man's tongue," Richard said in his cheerful voice.

  "In fact, I wasn't the one who maimed Godfrey. He'd hardly be my devoted servant if I had done it. And we have no trouble communicating, I assure you."

  Richard grimaced, taking a huge gulp from his ale. "So why are you here, Grendel?" he demanded. "Have you changed your mind about which sister you want? If you haven't managed to take her maidenhead then I suppose we could see about an annulment, though I can tell you right now I'm not about to part with the other one."

  "Such brotherly protectiveness is admirable."

  "I told you, I don't believe Claire's any kin to me at all. Her mother was a whore, like all women. Of course she'd lie about the girl's parenthood, since my own father was dead and couldn't deny it."

  "You say all women are whores. Does that include Lady Hedwiga?"

  Richard laughed at that. "Would that she were, my friend. She'd be a lot more interesting than she is now. What do you want from me?" His red-rimmed eyes met Simon's without wavering.

  That was part of Richard's particular strength. He had no qualms about his sins; he committed them boldly, without conscience.

  "We both know what I want, Richard," he said gently. "The draught is not yet tested. It could be dangerous…"

  "The draught?" His face held the innocence of a gifted liar. "You told me you were days away from perfecting it."

  "It's not perfected yet. It could have unfortunate, unexpected effects…"

  "And you think I stole it from you? Which means, I gather, that it's missing? That it's fallen into the wrong hands?"

  "Indeed," Simon said. "Dangerous hands."

  Richard looked up at him from beneath his thinning blonde hair, and his expression was bordering on smug. "Then you'd best find it, before someone gets killed."

  Simon didn't move. The warning was implicit, and yet there was nothing he could do about it. He had no proof—he could scarce accuse his liege lord of high treason against the young king. As long as Richard stayed at Summersedge Keep then the king was safe, it was unlikely that Richard would trust anyone to commit the murder without him there to oversee it. Richard had an inflated opinion of his own abilities, and he would assume that none of his minions could perform properly without instructions. Simon had time.

  "That would be a great tragedy," he said slowly. "Perhaps I simply misplaced it. You may be certain I'll be more careful in the future."

  Richard's grin was smug. "I'm certain you will, Grendel. I know I can always count on you in the end."

  "Always," Simon agreed, lying effortlessly.

  Alys slept, a deep, dream-crazed sleep, tossing and turning in the wide bed in her tower room. There had been no sign of her sister when she'd entered the room, only Madlen sitting by the fire, placidly working on her stitchery. She'd taken one look at Alys's face, made a comforting, clucking noise, and quickly divested her of the rumpled rose gown and tucked her into the bed. Alys never heard her leave.

  Her dreams were strange, tumbled things. They were pure sensation, touch and scent and taste that made no sense at all, and when she finally awoke the day was almost spent, and she was shivering.

  She sat up in her bed. Long shadows moved across the tower room, and the wind blew through the narrow slits, stirring the heavy wall hangings. Her headache was gone, but her mouth felt thick and sluggish, and her brain wasn't functioning properly.

  "I thought you might be wanting a bath, my lady," Madlen's voice penetrated the sleepy haze that still befogged Alys's brain. "Seeing as how you spent last night, that is."

  Alys blinke
d. How would Madlen know how she spent the previous night?

  "Are you in much pain, my lady?" she asked, her solicitousness doing little to cover her avid curiosity.

  Alys didn't know what to answer. She tried to remember the horrors that Lady Hedwiga had warned her of. Pain and blood, she'd said. Wet and disgusting. For some reason she had yet to associate Simon of Navarre with things that were disgusting, but then, he hadn't wanted her. That in itself was fairly disheartening.

  "I'm fine," she said shortly. "A bath would be lovely, but I would like privacy as well."

  "My lady, if I may be so bold as to say so, at times like these women need the advice of other women," Madlen said, not giving up easily.

  "Lady Hedwiga has already been more than helpful."

  "You've seen her today?" Madlen sounded doubtful.

  Alys was becoming an adept liar. "We had private converse," she said.

  "But Lord Richard said she was unwell—unable to see anyone."

  Hell's blood, Alys thought, adding cursing to her rapidly growing list of sins. "I brought her a posset," she said. "An herbal concoction I learned from the nuns, to ease her discomfort." She summoned a learned smile. "I'm entirely able to take care of myself as well."

  Madlen looked doubtful, as well she might. Alys knew full well that Madlen was twice her age and had outlived two strong young husbands and one elderly one. She knew more about women's bodies than most midwives, and the last thing Alys wanted was to expose herself to Madlen's prying eyes.

  "As you wish, my lady," she murmured politely, lowering her curious gaze. "If you change your mind you have only to summon me."

  There was blood on her thighs when she lifted her chemise, blood staining her clothing, and she knew a moment's horrified uncertainty as she slid into the warm, fragrant bath. Had she been mistaken all this time?

  The heated water was a blessing, and she dismissed her sudden suspicions. He didn't want her, he'd made that clear. She must have been wrong about her monthly flow.

  She leaned back in the tub, letting her long hair soak up the water, and she shut her eyes, resting her head against the linen covered wood. She felt wonderfully peaceful, floating, almost ready to sleep some more.

  She let her drifting mind go chasing down the odd dreams that had plagued her, and the caress of the water against her skin reminded her of other caresses, touches, strange and dangerous delights that enticed and frightened.

  She sat up abruptly, splashing water over the floor and her discarded clothing. "Madlen!" she shrieked.

  As expected, Madlen was hovering, her plain face alight with avid curiosity. She glanced at the pile of clothing on the floor, but fortunately no blood stains could be seen. What a fool she'd been, Alys thought bitterly. So innocent and so trusting.

  "Bring me fresh clothing at once," she said. "And send my sister to me. I have need of her…" Her voice trailed off as she saw the look of utter panic on Madlen's plain face. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "Has something happened to Claire? Where is Sir Thomas? Has Richard been near her, harmed her… ?"

  "In truth, my lady, I do not know," Madlen said miserably. "We went for a walk in the courtyard earlier today and she just… disappeared."

  Alys rose from the bath, oblivious to her nudity, the chill in the air, and Madlen's curiosity. "Is her horse gone as well?"

  "I don't know."

  Alys tried to still her rising panic as Madlen helped her into dry clothes. "And what of Sir Thomas? Did he go after her?"

  "Sir Thomas isn't here. Oh, my lady, forgive me, but I didn't know what to do, and I thought she would return sooner or later!" Madlen wailed.

  It was almost full dark outside, and the rumble of thunder was ominously close. "Does my brother know she's missing?"

  "No one does. My lady, where are you going?" Madlen's voice rose, but Alys had already fled.

  She had no idea what she was going to do. Turning to Richard for help was out of the question—Alys trusted him no more than Claire did. Nor was she particularly eager to turn to her husband. Not if he'd done what she suspected. And if she was wrong it would make things even worse. She was only dimly aware of what had passed between them the night before, and she wasn't sure she was ready to ask for his help. Sir Thomas was gone, Madlen said, and Alys trusted none of the other knights who filled Richard's hall.

  She had reached the bottom of the east tower stairs when she barreled into a strong male figure, so intent on her sister's whereabouts that she didn't look where she was going.

  "Lady Alys." The voice was grim, cool, but blessedly welcome as she looked up.

  "Sir Thomas!" she cried, and without thinking flung her arms around him. "Thank God you've returned! I need your help desperately."

  Sir Thomas was not dull-witted. "Your sister. Where is she?" he said in a sharp voice. "Has anyone laid a hand on her?"

  "She's run away. I was asleep, and that fool Madlen didn't watch her carefully. I haven't checked to see if her horse is missing but I'm certain it is."

  "If the horse is gone, then so is your sister," he said. "I knew something was amiss." He spun around and headed out into the courtyard, with Alys scampering along behind him, trying to keep up.

  "You'll go after her?" she pleaded. "You'll try to find her?"

  "I will find her," he said sharply, and she believed him. She had no other choice. He paused and looked down at her, taking her small hand in his large, gloved ones. "Your sister will be safe with me, I promise. I will bring her back to you safely."

  Alys found treacherous tears filling her eyes. "I know you will," she said, and flung her arms around him, planting a grateful kiss on his cheek.

  She stayed where she was, alone in the storm swept courtyard, watching him as he disappeared into the stables. The wind was tossing the heavy skirts of her gown about her ankles, whipping her long, wet hair against her face, and she pushed it back with an absent hand. There was nothing she could do now but wait.

  She turned, and froze. Simon of Navarre stood there in the courtyard, dressed in black, watching her, his face cool and distant.

  "How long have you been there?" She wondered at the calmness in her voice.

  "Long enough to watch your touching farewell to your brave champion. You forgot to give him a love token to wear into battle."

  She ignored his taunt. "My sister has run away."

  Simon nodded. "I assumed it was something like that. And du Rhaymer is going in search of her?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I suppose he deserves your kisses," the wizard said idly.

  She moved closer to him, flinching as lightning sizzled in the sky. "My lord, you have no cause for jealousy."

  "My lady, I am not jealous." He said it with simple honesty, and she should have felt relief.

  She didn't. She felt a slow building rage, curdling deep in her belly, she who had always avoided anger and passion. She came up to him, close enough that his long black robes caught and mingled with her gown in the swirling wind. She pushed the hair from her face to glare up at him, and her last ounce of proper behavior fled in the wash of emotion.

  "Of course," she said bitterly. "You have to care about someone in order to feel jealousy. And you've already given me leave to take a lover. I would think Sir Thomas would do very well. As a matter of fact, that's what we were doing before we reached the courtyard. We had an assignation in my room, and he… and he…"

  He smiled down at her, very gently. "Sir Thomas is besotted with your sister, and even if he weren't, he's far too noble and stalwart a knight to seduce a married woman. Not to mention that he's far too wise a man to make an enemy of one such as I."

  "Why would it make an enemy of you?" she said in a hushed voice, her anger vanishing as quickly as it came, replaced instead by anticipation.

  He put his hand to her face, and lightning sizzled in the air. She shivered, but she didn't pull back.

  "What do you remember of last night?" he countered.

  "Very little."


  "Then come upstairs with me now," he said, "and I'll remind you."

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  She ran from him. She ran from his touch, suddenly terrified. She ran across the courtyard, and he made no move to follow her, stop her. She knew if she looked back Simon of Navarre would be watching her out of his still, golden eyes. But she didn't dare look back.

  If she did, she might stop running.

  What had happened last night? What had he done to her? Why couldn't she remember? She was supposed to be unnaturally wise for a woman, learned and thoughtful. How could she have forgotten the loss of her maidenhead?

  Her mind had forgotten, but her body remembered. His touch on her skin had sent waves of sensation washing over her. Her stomach had knotted, her breasts had tingled, and between her legs she felt hot and wet.

  What had he done to her?

  The lightning sizzled behind her, and she let out a terrified shriek as she stumbled up the short flight of stairs to the Great Hall.

  "Marriage has turned you into a slattern, sister dear."

  Richard stood there, a dark, unreadable expression on his ruddy face, staring down at her, and she knew a sudden, unreasoning fear.

  She touched her damp, tousled hair, unrestrained by circlet or wimple. She wore no jewels, and her feet were bare. "I… was in a hurry, brother dear," she said. Belatedly she came up to him and pressed a dutiful kiss on his bearded cheek.

  "And why were you rushing about, sweet Alys? Were you in search of your sister? I've yet to see her today, and I confess, I miss her pretty face." It was said with great innocence, but Alys wasn't fooled.

  "She's sick," Alys said abruptly. "She has the stomach grippe. Madlen has been holding a basin, and you think there'd be an end to what she can get rid of, but she keeps spewing. I don't think you'd want to see her. Her face isn't the slightest bit pretty when it's green."

  Richard was looking slightly green himself at the picture she'd conjured up. "A reasonable excuse," he said, nodding. "Then if you've just been with her, where were you running to? Your husband's side? I wouldn't have thought Grendel would be the sort to kindle that strong affection. Or were you, perhaps, running away from him?"