by Sara Bennett
“And Lord Baldessare. He stares about the keep as though he thinks he could do it better.”
Jenova did not feel like laughing now. She had not realized Raf was so acute. For one so young, he saw much. Beside her, Agetha clicked her tongue in annoyance, refusing to make fun of Alfric’s family. ’Twas a pity, Jenova thought, that Agetha was not as canny as her son…. All of a sudden she remembered something Rhona had said, something Jenova had been meant to pass on.
After Alfric had left her in the great hall, Rhona had returned, looking flushed and agitated and quite unlike her usual restrained self. Jenova had been so surprised by her change in appearance and manner that for a moment she had hardly heard what the other woman had been saying.
“Lady Jenova, my father sends Lord Henry a message. He says to tell him that they have a mutual friend. Someone who knows of le château de Nuit.”
“I beg your pardon? I do not under—”
“I must go.” The other woman’s eyes were quite bright and a little wild. “Will you deliver the message to him?”
“Château de Nuit. Of course. But what does it mean?”
But Rhona had gone, hurrying after her brother, leaving Jenova bewildered and more than a little upset.
Le château de Nuit? It was an odd name, a dismal sort of name, and not one she had ever heard from Henry’s lips. It seemed odd that Baldessare was sending such a message to Henry, a man he hated. Perhaps it was to make mischief. Jenova contemplated the idea of not telling him at all, but she was not the sort of woman to withhold information that did not belong to her.
“Lady Rhona spoke of something when she was here, Henry. A place you might know. She says you and her father have a mutual friend.”
Henry turned his blue eyes on her, smiling. There was a new tension in his body, a new tightness about his jaw. “Oh?”
“It is a little strange. The name of a castle.”
“Probably some new estate he claims I have stolen off him. I see I will have to give him every acre I own just to be rid of him. What is the name of this castle, Jenova?”
“It is called le château de Nuit. Have you heard of it?”
The smile was still on his mouth, his eyes were still fixed on hers, but it was as if he was no longer there. His body was empty, a husk without substance. Henry was gone, apart from a muscle in his cheek, which gave a violent twitch.
“Henry?” she said sharply, reaching out her hand toward him. But the unsettling moment had already passed. Henry was looking down into his wine goblet with a little frown, his hair falling forward to hide his eyes.
“The name is not one I know, or if I ever did, I have forgotten it. Did Lady Rhona say where she had got it from?”
“I believe she said a mutual friend of both her father and you. She impressed upon me that it was important, but Henry, she was acting very strangely. I think something had disturbed her when she—”
Henry shook his head, still staring intently into his wine. “Nay, it means nothing to me, sweeting.” He looked up at her and gave a grin. “I did not think Baldessare had any friends!”
She laughed even while she was thinking, He called me sweeting. He never calls me that in front of others. He must be rattled if he has forgotten to watch his tongue. What can it mean? What is this place, this château de Nuit?
“Raf,” Henry was speaking to her son. “Tell your Mama what Raven did today.”
Raf’s face lit up with the memory, and he began to tell her a long, rambling tale of the black stable cat and her kittens. Jenova pretended to listen, making the right sounds in the right places, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Henry had changed the subject on purpose to give himself time to recover. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him. His normally healthy skin was pallid, almost sickly, and his mouth was closed hard, so that deep lines were clearly visible, slashing through his cheeks.
For the first time since Jenova had known him, Henry appeared old and worn, as though his devils had caught up with him.
Jenova pulled herself up. Such thoughts were strange to her. Henry would never have done a thing so terrible that he was afraid to tell her of it. Henry had never pretended to be faithful, and she was aware that he had had many women. He was also a knight who had fought in many battles and killed many men. No doubt he held secrets with the king, matters pertaining to the kingdom and those who might wish to harm it.
Heavy secrets perhaps, but nothing to make him look so ravaged.
Le château de Nuit.
What did it mean? Henry was pretending he had never heard the name before, when it was perfectly obvious to Jenova that he had, and that it meant something very important to him indeed. Blast Baldessare! Why could he not leave them alone?
“Mama? You have stopped listening to me!”
Raf was tugging at her sleeve impatiently. Jenova apologized, promising to listen now, but when she glanced up to include Henry in the moment, she found he was watching her with a strange, bleak expression in his eyes. As if he were a stranger.
Or she were.
Henry stood on the roof of Gunlinghorn Keep and looked out across the lush paddocks and water meadows and woods that comprised Jenova’s lands, all the way to the sea. He could not see the cold, heaving waves in the darkness—there were clouds across the moon—but he knew it was there. Just as le château de Nuit was there, at the back of his mind. Waiting, always waiting.
He had hoped that that particular part of his life was gone, but at the same time he had always feared it was not. That it would return when he least expected it and destroy him.
And now it seemed that Baldessare knew the name. Henry could not imagine where he had found it out, or who had told it to him. Aye, that was the big question. Who? What nameless creature had remembered him and unburdened his soul to others? Whatever the circumstance, Baldessare had the name, and the implied threat was that he would use it.
King William would distance himself from his friend. Henry fully understood what such revelations would mean to his comfortable life at court. It would be over. And yet, for some strange reason, it was not the king he thought of now. It was Jenova, and what she would think of him when she knew about that place.
She would never be able to touch him and kiss him, to smile at him with that same glow in her green eyes. When she understood that Lord Henry, the handsome, womanizing, oh-so-clever Lord Henry, with his witty tongue and brilliant mind, was but a sham. A façade behind which the real Henry hid, the boy with the tear-streaked face and trembling lip, who crept through the woods surrounding le château de Nuit.
Jenova had never known that boy.
Henry had taken great care that no one would ever know him.
But now it seemed that Baldessare knew. Knew enough to make his veiled threats, anyway. Henry wondered if he could discover just how detailed Baldessare’s knowledge was before he made his next move. And he needed to know exactly what Baldessare wanted, or if he was just enjoying tormenting Henry. Revenging himself for all the supposed wrongs and slights Henry had committed upon him.
Henry didn’t think so. Baldessare never did anything without hoping to gain something material. It was greed and avarice that ruled that man.
There is nothing I can do but wait and see. And keep a watch over my shoulder….
And hope he could stop whatever catastrophe was coming before it crushed him.
“He will kill us. I know it. We can never be free of him.”
Rhona looked over at her brother’s slumped form—a shadow in the darkness—his frightened words echoing in her head. She tried to think of something comforting to say, just as she always had. For once her clever mind was blank, her cunning tongue silenced, and she realized she was as frightened as Alfric. So much depended upon her now. She wasn’t sure if she was up to the task.
She remembered again how they had returned to Hilldown Castle, routed by Lady Jenova but pretending otherwise. Their father was in a rage, one of his white-hot furies that even Rhona co
uld not dampen with sweet reason. She had tried, but before she had been able to utter more than a few words, she had realized that their father knew.
He knew.
He had a spy at Gunlinghorn, and that spy had heard and seen enough to understand that Jenova had refused Alfric utterly.
“Why have I been cursed with two such useless spawn!” Baldessare had screamed, shaking his fists in the air. “I ask one simple request! One…simple…request…”
Alfric had whimpered and covered his head, knowing what was coming. His father had promptly thrown a goblet at him, and then another, and then the wine jug after them. Sour wine had dripped from Alfric’s hair and clothing. The castle dogs had begun to bark with excitement and fright, circling him, not understanding that this was no game.
Baldessare had stood, panting, his face puce, and Rhona had closed her eyes and waited for him to begin to use his fists. And then she had heard it. Laughing. He was laughing! Her eyes had opened wide and she had watched, uneasy still, as the color had faded from his raddled face and his cold eyes had lost some of their craziness. Alfric had continued to huddle in the corner, rocking himself and moaning, but the dogs had begun licking at him—evidently the wine had been to their taste.
Mayhap it had looked funny, but Rhona had not been able to laugh. She had felt too sick at heart. The thoughts had run crazily through her mind. Was this to be her life? To be forever afraid of this man and what he could do to her, or have done to her. She could not live thus. She could not….
As if he had read her mind, her father had turned and stared at her.
Remembering it now, Rhona shuddered and hugged herself, but at the time she had found herself frozen to the spot. Years of living with terror had taken away her ability to run, and even if she had run, where could she have gone? Jesu, where was there to go?
“Help me to destroy Lord Henry, and wed Lady Jenova, and you can have whatever you wish, Rhona.”
Help you? She had licked her lips and swallowed, trying to find her voice. For a moment his words had made no sense. “Help you?” she had managed. “I have tried to help you, my lord. What more can I do?”
“That is for you to decide,” he had said, as cold as he had been boiling with rage a moment earlier.
“If I help you, can I…can I have my freedom, my lord? A house in Normandy, mayhap? A life there.”
He had stared at her, his face unreadable, and then he had smiled. A slow, savage smile, with a touch of pride in it. As if he’d seen a part of himself in her. “Away from me, you mean? Aye, why not. Get me what I want, Rhona, and I will have no need of you anymore. You can do what you like.”
Her legs had trembled so badly that Rhona had thought she might have fallen over, but she’d locked her knees and stood straight. Her face had been deathly pale. “You say you want the Lady Jenova, my lord, but do you want her for my brother…or for yourself?”
He had stilled, arrested by the thought. It clearly had not occurred to him before. And if Jenova was to wed Baldessare rather than Alfric, then Alfric, too, would be free of his father.
Both of us to escape this monstrous place, and the monster within it….
Her eyes had remained fixed on her father. All manner of emotions had passed across his face, and she’d noted each one. Excitement, lust, anticipation and greed. Oh, especially greed. Greed for Jenova’s lands and her wealth, greed for her spirit and her beauty, greed for her body. Baldessare would enjoy breaking Jenova into one of those sniveling creatures he preferred.
Rhona had planted a seed and it had taken root, and with any luck it would grow into a tree that would shelter both her and her brother. That was all that mattered, she had told herself. That was all she must consider.
Abruptly Baldessare had nodded. “You are right, as always. I want her for myself, Daughter.”
Rhona had nodded slowly, refusing to feel pity for the other woman. This was a matter of life or death, her own life or death. “Then I will get her for you,” she had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
Her father’s eyes had flicked to Alfric, and a spasm of his earlier rage had crossed his face. “Get him out of here.”
Rhona had not needed to be told twice. She’d hurried to Alfric’s side, shooing away the dogs and lifting him with trembling arms, murmuring in his ear. He’d leaned heavily against her as she’d led him from the hall and the scene of yet another humiliation.
“I hate him, I hate him!” he had wept, his face contorted like a child’s, stumbling along by her side. “I want to use it now, Rhona! Let’s use it now, and run away!”
“It” was the sleeping potion that they had been keeping hidden, to use at such a time they needed to run from Hilldown Castle. But the time had never been right, and they had always known that, once he woke from his stupor, their father would pursue them.
Rhona’s arm had closed tighter, a warning. “So do I,” she had whispered. “But what good is a sleeping potion if he will wake and find us? Do not despair yet, Alfric. I will take you to your room and you can rest there. I have a plan that I believe will set us free.”
He had looked at her in disbelief. “Free?” he’d spat. “We will never be free.”
But they would, Rhona thought now, gazing again at the huddled form of her brother. They would be free, finally free. And she knew just the man to help them.
The winter dawn was a pale wash of blue and pink on the horizon. Reynard, on his way to the stables to see Lord Henry’s horse readied for his morning ride, paused to stare. There was beauty in that sky, but a cold, bleak sort of beauty. He preferred warmer climes himself, a hot yellow sun and a blue sea and bright-colored houses along the foreshore.
“Reynard!”
One of the grooms was slouching toward him, wiping a sleeve across his nose. It was Formac, the man who used to work for Baldessare. Reynard suspected he was still Baldessare’s servant at heart.
“I have a message for you, Reynard.” Formac put a finger to his lips in the childlike gesture for secrecy, but his eyes were hard and knowing. “A certain lady has asked that you meet her after the midday meal, at Uffer’s Tower. Do you know it? It’s a ruined castle or somefing, in the woods, on the border of Gunlinghorn and Hilldown.”
Uther’s Tower was a falling-down pile of timber and masonry that had acquired a certain reputation among the local folk. A place of assignation for lovers, so the rumors said. But Reynard did not allow that to raise his hopes.
“A certain lady?” he asked nonchalantly, but his breath quickened and his body tensed.
Formac reached into his tunic and scratched about. “I was given somefing for you…ah, here ’tis.”
He brought out a small square of cloth and unwrapped it. A lock of hair, gold as the summer sun Reynard had just been dreaming of. He stared at it, then realized Formac was holding it out to him. He reached to take it in his big hand.
“The lady said to tell you she agrees to your terms.”
Reynard nodded, ignoring the other man’s curious glance, standing long after Formac had stumped away about his own business. He opened his hand and stared again at the smooth, golden lock of hair that lay within. It seemed to him that he could still smell the scent of her on it. A sweet, elusive perfume.
Lady Rhona. She had agreed to his terms. Her body for his soul.
He should be gleeful, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He had won, after all. He had a foot in the enemy camp, and a chance to bring down a proud, stuck-up Norman lady. But despite that he felt as if he were wading into a swirling sea, tugged by unseen currents and well out of his depth.
Chapter 14
Jenova grimaced as she threaded her needle, listening to the chatter of her ladies about her. Torn and worn garments and bedding were spread about them, and although one or two were working upon finer items, most were intent upon the tedious task of mending.
Her “ladies” ranged in age from eleven to seventy, and Jenova had the care of them all. It was part o
f her duty as Lady of Gunlinghorn, but normally she found it no chore. Today, however, her ladies were intent upon a subject she would rather have left untouched.
Henry.
“He is so handsome,” little Yolande sighed. “His eyes are bluer than…” But an item for comparison eluded her.
“Bluebells?” someone else suggested. “The sea in July?”
“He looks upon you very warmly, my lady,” said Gertrude, seemingly intent upon her work, but making mischief as always. “He is very fond of you, I believe.”
“We are friends,” Jenova replied levelly. “We have known each other since we were children.”
“I wish I had a friend like Lord Henry,” Yolande said wistfully.
“He is like a father to Master Raf,” Gertrude went on, very daring today.
Agetha frowned. “That is enough chatter. Lord Henry is not Master Raf’s father and never will be.”
Gertrude smirked. “And neither will Lord Alfric, now. I am glad he is gone. I did not like him.”
Agetha’s face flamed, but Jenova intervened before something was said or done that might embarrass them all. “Your likes and dislikes are of no interest to us, Gertrude. Look, you have an uneven stitch. Unpick it and do it again.”
Gertrude’s mouth set mulishly, but she did as she was told. For a moment silence reigned in the solar.
“Will Lord Henry be staying at Gunlinghorn?” Yolande was not to be diverted.
“His life is in London,” Jenova said, and though her voice did not betray her, she felt a prickling behind her eyes. She did not want him to go, but how could she stop him? Henry had his own life, and she had hers. It had been understood between them from the beginning that he would leave eventually.
“Mayhap you should ask him to stay,” Gertrude murmured. “Sometimes men need to be prompted in these matters. Mayhap he does not know you will miss him so much, my lady.”
Jenova blinked in startled amusement.
“Thank you, Gertrude,” Agetha retorted. “When Lady Jenova needs your fourteen-year-old wisdom, she will ask for it.”