by Anne Stuart
She reached up and covered his hands with hers. Their hands, pressed together, seemed almost painfully intimate, but she wouldn't let him escape. "You are mine," she said in a fierce little voice.
The words startled him, but he didn't move. She was a woman who claimed very little, who sacrificed all that mattered to her for the sake of others.
But she wouldn't sacrifice him. She held his hands against her face and stared up at him with calm determination. He was hers, she said. And she was right.
"Go to sleep, Alys," he said gently, letting his thumb caress her swollen mouth. He'd kissed her too hard, and he should regret it. Regret the marks his loving had made on her body.
But he didn't. Instead he reveled in them. She was his, he was hers, for however long fate granted them, and that was enough.
He tried to pull away, determined to let her rest, but she caught his arm, and she was strong. "Not without you," she said.
He looked down at her. Her wet hair was spread out beneath her, her face was pale and dreamy. She looked well-loved, and that was the unbearable truth. He had loved her. He did love her. And that would be his downfall.
He should move away, kiss her lightly and dismiss her. He'd entered into this marriage knowing it would only last as long as it suited him, as long as this life suited him. When things became tricky he would disappear, abandoning his young wife and whatever he had earned, and take only Godfrey and what wealth was easily transportable.
And Alys of Summersedge, Alys of Navarre, was not easily transportable. She was afraid of horses, she couldn't ride, and as fate would have it, speed would be an important part of his escape. She would hold him back and destroy him, and the sooner he pulled away from her, the better.
Her hands were light against his, insistent. He could break free with no trouble at all. "I won't leave you." he said. And he lay down on the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.
When Alys awoke the tower room was deserted. She lay naked in the bed, alone, the fur throw pulled tight around her. The gown she'd worn lay in a sodden heap on the floor, the fire had burned low, and cool sunlight pierced the windows, sending bright shadows across the floor. The storm had passed, and she should have been relieved.
"I won't leave you," he'd said, and he'd come to bed with her, and the night had been endless and shatteringly beautiful. He had done things she couldn't imagine, coaxed her into touching him, tasting him, taking him until she was weeping and shaking, lost in some strange world where only the two of them existed.
But he was gone, and she was alone.
She sat up, trying to still the sense of uneasiness that washed over her. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong. She scrambled out of bed, searching for something to cover herself with. None of her clothes were there, and she settled for one of Simon's plain black tunics. It was so long it trailed on the floor, and the sleeves draped halfway to her knees, but at least she was decently covered when the soldiers burst through the door.
"You'll come with me, my lady." She didn't recognize the knight in charge of them, nor would it have done her any good. Her questions were ignored, her protests stifled, and she was dragged from the tower room with uncaring force.
She screamed for Simon, but someone clapped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. She kicked, but it was useless against the heavy leather boots of the soldiers. She bit, and an arm caught her along the side of her head, and everything went black.
She awoke in blackness, in a darkness so thick it was like death. She was freezing cold, lying on something hard and unforgiving, and she could hear the soft, scuffling noises that could only be rodents' feet.
She didn't scream. Much as she wanted to, she clamped her teeth shut, stilling the panic that threatened to break forth. She was afraid that if she started screaming she would never stop, and the stone walls would echo with her madness.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, summoning calm in the midst of her panic. She knew where she was. Even though she'd never seen them in her life, the knowledge was immutable. She was locked in the dungeons of Summersedge Keep.
Who had put her there? Only Richard had the power to command such a titling, but why in God's name would he do so? She had done him no harm, except to protect her sister from his twisted urges.
There was another, far more sinister possibility, one she shied away from even as it sprang into her mind. Had he locked her away at the request of his favored advisor? Had his wizard told him to dispose of an unwanted wife? With the marriage and the bedding her political worth had been exhausted. Perhaps she had no more value and was simply being put away, to be forgotten until decades from now when someone came across her bones?
She sat up, shivering in the damp chill, and peered into the darkness surrounding her. A faint light emanated from the far wall, and she rose, moving toward it, toward the iron grille that kept her prisoner. Beyond lay another room, dimly lit, though this one looked more like a crypt man a dungeon. A woman lay stretched on the stone slab floor, but Alys had little hope she was alive. The form was too stocky to be Claire, and for that she breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
One bar of the grille obscured her vision, and she rose on tiptoes to get a closer look, peering at the face of the dead woman. She fell back with a cry of horror.
Lady Hedwiga would give no more misguided lectures on comportment in the marriage bed. She was well and truly dead.
"It's quite simple," Richard said smoothly. He was dressed in full mourning, and he'd wept, openly and fulsomely, as he'd accepted the condolences of his people. His eyes were still red-rimmed as he closeted himself with his wizard, but his mask of mourning had transformed into smug glee.
"Simple, my lord?" Simon echoed. He knew when to be wary, when life had taken a particularly dangerous turn. As it had this morning, when he'd come down to the news that Richard the Fair's lady had died in her sleep.
"You shouldn't underestimate me, Grendel," Richard said, smoothing his beer-dewed mustache with a stubby finger. "I can be just as clever as you can, in my own way. Hedwiga has always been burdensome. The sleeping draught needed to be tested. Unfortunately my lady wife proved frailer than I expected."
"You murdered her," Simon said, keeping his voice calm. It should have come as no surprise. Richard was capable of that and more. If Simon hadn't been so besotted by his wife he would have seen it coming. Not that he would necessarily have stopped him, but he had a dislike of surprises.
Richard smiled sweetly. "Whether she was murdered or not remains to be seen."
"Why?"
"It may have simply been a tragic accident. After all, Alys didn't realize how strong the draught was when she gave it to my sickly wife. Or, at least, that's what I would hope. I would hate to think my sister was a coldblooded murderer."
"Alys?" He showed absolutely no emotion. He was beyond reaction. "Why would Alys have murdered your wife?"
"Now that part troubled me," Richard confided. "Why would a demure, practical creature such as Alys want to murder Hedwiga? Apart from the fact that anyone who met her would want to murder Hedwiga," he added cheerfully. "The fact remains that several of my servants and men at arms saw her enter Hedwiga's room with a goblet and vial just before evensong. She was the last person to see her alive."
"Alys was in my solar…"
"No one saw her, Grendel. And no one would believe you."
"She had no reason…"
"Witchcraft, Grendel. She was invaded by demons that forced her to commit such a hideous act." He took another leisurely sip of ale.
"Then it's not her fault."
"Ah, but how do you get rid of demons? Only by destroying the host. You know what they do to women convicted of murder, don't you? They're buried alive."
"Where is she?" He kept the hoarse desperation from his voice by sheer willpower.
"In the dungeons. In a cell next to the body of my wife, where she may look upon her and contemplate her sins."
"You c
an't do this."
"Simon of Navarre, I have."
He could kill him, quite easily. Richard was thickly muscled, but he'd grown soft with age and meat and drink, and he'd be no match for Simon's height and skill. But that wouldn't help Alys.
If it weren't for Alys this would all be very simple. He would kill Richard the Fair and escape.
If it weren't for Alys he would never have been caught in this trap in the first place. Richard would have no power over him, other than his own greed.
He sat down, leaning back in the chair, surveying his lord with deceptive idleness. "So what is it you want, my lord?" he asked in a curious voice. He already knew the answer.
"What I have always wanted. Your loyalty and devotion. Your dedication to my best interests. Your assistance in helping my plans come to fruition."
"You want me to kill the king."
"Such bluntness!" Richard protested. "But in a word, yes."
"What made you think I wouldn't be willing to do it for you? Your interests are mine. I would rather serve the King of England than a second class earl."
Richard's face darkened for a moment. And then he laughed. "Ah, Grendel, your boldness enchants me. And I have no reason to doubt your loyalty. I merely believe in making certain that my allies are well-motivated."
"And I'm supposed to care whether Lady Alys is judged guilty of a murder she didn't commit, and sentenced to a brutal death?"
"Don't you?" Richard asked, eyeing him curiously.
"Not particularly. She's a clever enough wench, but no great beauty. Her main value is in her kinship to you, and if you choose to dispense with that kinship, and her, then she's of no value to me. I would do as you bid, regardless."
"Almost, dear Grendel, I believe you. But you must confess you were surprisingly laggard in your production of the sleeping draught. And you've been… odd, recently. Distracted. I assumed my stone-hearted demon had fallen prey to Cupid's dart."
Simon just looked at him, and Richard laughed.
"Foolish me," he said. "I should have realized you would be impervious to such weaknesses. Now the other one, Claire, she's a tidy handful. It's easy to grow foolish over such beauty. But you're such an odd creature, you didn't even want her."
"I leave her to you, my lord," he said in a silky voice.
"And I believe I'll take her," Richard said. "As soon as she recovers from the stomach grippe. Can't abide spewing women. Hedwiga cast up her accounts before she died, you know. I was afraid she'd purged herself of the poison, but God was on my side."
"Indeed," Simon murmured.
Richard leaned forward across the table. "You know the truly horrifying thing about the whole affair? She became amorous!" He shuddered in ghastly remembrance.
"It does have that effect," Simon murmured, his brain working feverishly. So Richard didn't know that Claire had run away. That might be put to good advantage, though at the moment he couldn't see how.
"I almost had to strangle her, which would have complicated matters, but fortunately she spewed and died."
"Fortunately." Simon kept his right hand twisted beneath the long sleeve of his robe. It was clenched in a tight fist of rage. "When do we leave for court, my lord?"
Richard beamed at him. "That's my Grendel. I'm a man in mourning, but the young king and his regent will overlook that detail in my zeal to present my condolences. After all, Hedwiga was a cousin to the boy as well."
"And what of Alys?" he asked with what sounded like no more than idle curiosity. "If you don't intend to charge her then you might as well set her free."
"You care so much for your plain little wife?"
"You should know me better than that. I have no need of her, and she's an annoyance. Send her back to the convent if you like. One with a vow of silence. Then she need trouble us no longer."
"But what if she's with child?" Richard asked with cunning sweetness. "Or is she still a maid?"
It was a question Simon had no desire to answer. No desire even to contemplate. But he had to be extremely careful with exactly what he divulged to Richard. "She's no longer a maid," he said casually. "Though I doubt she'll quicken with child."
"Some of your Arab tricks, eh, Grendel? Well, I like 'em that way myself on occasion."
"So you'll have her released from her captivity?" He made it sound as if it were of the least importance to him.
"Oh, no, Grendel. I would fear for her life. I'm afraid too many of the servants have been gossiping, and they're afraid of her. They think she's been tainted by her association with my wizard, and they firmly believe she killed my wife. They're afraid of you, but they're perfectly willing to put her to death." He smiled sweetly. "Besides, I need guarantee of your good behavior. We'll take her with us."
"You don't need any guarantee, and I have little interest in what happens to her."
"Then why do you keep asking about her?" Richard counted.
Simon managed a cool smile. "Guilty conscience?" he suggested. "She's only an innocent."
"You have no conscience, Grendel, and I would have said you have no heart. Nevertheless, Lady Alys will accompany us to court, and we will present her case to his majesty."
"She'll be an inconvenience. She doesn't ride." He kept the desperation out of his voice, but he doubted Richard was fooled.
"That's not a problem, dear friend. She'll be traveling in a barred cage."
For Claire the night had been endless. Somehow she managed to sleep, curled up in a tight ball beneath the fallen trees. Her clothes were soaked from the rain above and the ground below, her wrist was swollen and throbbing with pain, and she was desperately hungry.
She wasn't alone in the woods, she knew that much. She wasn't sure which she feared more—wild boar or civilized men. Both were deadly; neither could be reasoned with. And Claire was beyond reasoning.
When she awoke it was close to dawn, though the light barely penetrated the darkness of the ancient forest. The rain had stopped at last, with not even a stray rumble of errant thunder. She ducked her head out from her makeshift shelter, and her hair caught on one of the branches. She reached up to release it and gasped with pain. Her wrist was bruised and swollen, throbbing with such pain that she could barely raise it. She yanked her hair free with her other hand, leaving long, silken strands enmeshed in the fallen tree, and moved into the clearing.
There was no sign of Arabia. At least she was bridleless; there were no trailing reins to get caught in the trees as she ran in desperation. For that matter, Claire was righteously annoyed with her beloved mare. Had it not been for Arabia's skittishness she would never have fallen, and she wouldn't be cradling what was likely a broken hand.
She sneezed, loudly, three times in a row, and her temper didn't improve. She wanted warm dry clothes, she wanted something to eat, and she wanted her sister to fuss over her, to wrap her damaged hand in herb-soaked bandages to bring down the swelling. She wanted to be taken care of, but there was no one to turn to but herself.
She kicked her long skirts out of the way and started walking in what she hoped was a north-westerly direction. Back to the Convent of Saint Anne the Demure, back to safety and the stern care of the nuns.
She found berries to eat, and fresh water to drink. The sun grew hot enough that the rain-soaked forest grew moist and sticky, but still she walked, her wet leather shoes sloshing uncomfortably around her feet. The thought of Alys, trapped with the cruel and heartless wizard, panicked her, but there was nothing she could do but pray that her sister pass through her time of trial and torment with as little pain as possible.
She prayed for herself as well—that she might stop her endless wanderings and find a clear path to safety.
She prayed for her brother too, though she doubted that God would grant those particularly bloodthirsty petitions.
She even prayed for Arabia, ungrateful beast that she was, that she'd find safe shelter, not in her brother's stable, but someplace where she would be appreciated and loved.
&nb
sp; It was the same that she wished for herself.
There was one more soul to pray for, one she'd avoided thinking about. Sir Thomas du Rhaymer deserved her prayers, for the loss of his wife, for his stern attention to duty. She should thank God he was stalwart and honorable.
She tripped over a root and went sprawling, her injured hand taking the brunt of the jarring. She was wet and hungry and miserable, and she lay in the muddy grass and wept, ugly, noisy tears of pain and sorrow and regret. She wept for all of them, for her sins and her selfishness. And in the end she wept for Thomas, wanting him, needing him.
She was lying in the mud having a temper tantrum, there was no other word for it. Thomas had heard her angry squalls from a long way away, and he'd known with a certain grim humor that it was his quarry. His lady love, his heart's delight, lying in the mud, kicking her heels and howling like a babe.
She was a spoiled brat and he knew it. She had spent her short young life getting her own way by dint of her beautiful face and her wheedling charm. Someone should have spanked her lovely little arse when she was a child, but he suspected that no one had had the heart to.
It was too late for that now, even though it might have done her some good. He'd married Gwyneth, and now he'd buried her, and in her grave he'd buried his regrets and dour soul. He was a free man, and his love lay sprawled in the mud, screeching. In faith, it was a glorious day.
She didn't even hear him approach, so caught up in her self-pity that she was oblivious to everything. He slid off his horse and tethered the reins to a nearby bush. Not that Paladin would run off—he was properly trained, unlike her ladyship's spoiled mount. But Thomas was a careful man at all times.
He came to stand over her, and even within the shadowy forest he blocked the fitful sunlight. She grew suddenly still, but she didn't dare look up.
"You should be glad I'm not a wild boar, or you would truly have something to weep about," he said in his most practical voice.