The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series)

by Claudia Dain

  "Yet he was going to give up—"

  "But only to get something he held in higher value. If he doubts he will get it, then he will withdraw, hoping still to touch what he yearns to have. I always knew him capable of perfidy, as did Baldwin. Gautier's name for sharp bargaining has traveled far in Christendom."

  "He would kill to keep from fulfilling a vow made between men of honor?" Raymond asked.

  "He would kill to get what he wants," Hugh said. "What man would not?"

  "You knew he would walk this path?"

  "I suspected only," Hugh said, clasping Raymond on the shoulder. "'Twas my pride and folly to defeat him at sword point within his own walls. I should have kept my name as the Knight of the Bathwater. 'Twould have served me better, yet I could bear no more of his insults. My sword is more than a match for his, and now he knows it."

  "And so he speaks to Edward."

  "To get his killing done," Hugh finished.

  "My lord, I am ever at your side. I will not leave you, though we fight all of Warkham!" Raymond vowed, his blue eyes alight with manly passion.

  "Nay," Hugh said. "That is not how this game will run. Does the wolf announce to the hart that he is on the scent? Nay, we will continue on as we have done. Do not betray our knowledge with action. Unless he set all of Warkham on our heels, we will win the day."

  "He may do that, my lord. We are alone here, outnumbered."

  "He will not do that. It is too open and his cause too dark. Between us, we can manage a score of men from this isle, can we not?" "Aye, my lord," Raymond said staunchly.

  "Then play your part, Raymond, as I play mine."

  * * *

  Elsbeth and Denise made it to the chapel in time for Prime, but just barely. They slipped into the back of the chapel, hiding behind the font, hoping to remain hidden so that none should note their tardiness. Hugh noticed. He stood at the front of the nave, just below the rood, and, upon their entry, turned and beckoned with a wave of his hand. Beckoned, though the throng of bailey, village and field stood between them.

  "Look! Hugh wants us to stand with him!" Denise said, her voice joyous with childish pleasure at being so noticed.

  Elsbeth felt no such joy. She did not enjoy being the object of so many eyes.

  "We should stay at the back. We are late. Others are before us," she said.

  "But he beckons!" Denise said, pulling on her hand, tugging her forward.

  Elsbeth stepped on the foot of a cotter and mumbled an apology. Denise had dragged her forward before she could finish what was only to be a two-word apology in any regard.

  "Denise!" she hissed, pulling at her bliaut, which had become twisted in their scramble. "There is no need—"

  "We are come, Lord Hugh!" Denise trilled.

  "Go, then, but I will stay here," Elsbeth said, trying to pull her hand free. They were in the center of the nave, the press of bodies heavy and thick.

  "I will not leave you alone!" Denise said, grabbing again for her hand. "You did not leave me alone."

  "What? I am hardly alone," Elsbeth said.

  "I will not leave you," Denise repeated, catching hold of both her hands and pulling with a backward step, determined and strong. How could a child of such slight form be so strong?

  "Go, I say. Leave me here. I am content," Elsbeth whispered, smiling awkwardly at Father Godfrey, who was staring at them in hesitation.

  Denise paused. "Are you certain?"

  "Come, Daughter. The very presence of God, it seems, awaits your coming," Gautier said with a hard smile. "Shall we delay our worship for you? Come. Stand where you are bid."

  A flush of shame washed through her and she ceased her battle to stay in the anonymous center of the crowded nave, letting herself be pulled forward by Denise's suddenly hesitant hand. Before she had taken more than a step, Hugh was moving through the crowd toward her. The people of Warkham parted almost miraculously for him, as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

  She stopped and stared at him, at the angelic, golden form of the man who was her husband. She stopped, and still he came on, smiling, his hand reaching out to her. His very heart was in his smile, or so it seemed. And so it seemed that her very heart answered him and her hand reached out to meet his, was taken in his gentle grip, resting there. Safe.

  "Nay, stay where you are, little wife. You have the right of it," Hugh said, none too softly. "Let us humble ourselves before God, not raise ourselves up by crowding to the front. Did Jesus not say that he who is first shall be last, and he that is last, the first in the ranking of heaven? I follow your will in this, and gladly."

  He did not mean a word of it. She knew him well enough to know that. These words of God and His kingdom flowed out of him without effort, and perhaps without thought. These words were his weapon in the battle to win her; she knew that, yet still they worked to win her. He could turn her heart with only a smile and the flowing gift of his approval.

  Yet he did more even than that. He had done what she hungered for most and most often: rescued her from her father's will and censure.

  He knew her better than she had supposed, and she could find no fault with the knowing. To be rescued every now and again was a sweet sort of pleasure. There could be no sin, no breaking of a vow, in that, could there?

  "And do you think that God's own son meant that we should be last into worship?" Gautier said on a bark of laughter before turning to once again face Father Godfrey. "Come, Father, begin. We are past our time, and delay serves no one well."

  "That is true," Hugh said, taking Elsbeth's arm and holding her to his side in the center of the nave, the space around them cleared of all save Denise, who kept tight hold of her hand. "Warkham's time seems to run to delay. Or rather, to creep to it."

  Gautier gave Hugh a hard look. "You speak to me?"

  "I do," Hugh said. Elsbeth trembled beneath his hand so that he looked down at her.

  "Do not provoke him," she whispered. "It gains naught."

  "Then speak out, Lord Hugh of Jerusalem," Gautier said. "I am certain all here would eagerly hear our discourse on matters of delay."

  "Please," Elsbeth said, closing her eyes, squeezing his arm, "do not."

  In that instant, Hugh made his choice, certain of the rightness of it. He had his own motives for pricking Gautier, but it was within Gautier's power and capacity to shame Elsbeth publicly. He would not open the door to that.

  "Is this not the hour for prayer and have we not delayed enough? Pray on, Father Godfrey, we are yours to shepherd," Hugh said.

  Gautier smiled, a hard, cold smile that Elsbeth knew well, and turned to face the priest. The hour of Prime was upon them, their hearts turned to God at the birthing of the day. Yet she could not find peace in worship. There was no solace here, not with her father and Hugh scrabbling for power and dominance. The world of men was a very exhausting place. Surely a life behind abbey walls would have more peace in it. She only prayed that she would one day know the truth of that for herself.

  "I do not fear him," Hugh whispered to her.

  Elsbeth bent her head and whispered to the stones at her feet, "You should."

  She could feel his grumbling, as if his skin were writhing in irritation.

  "You do not know me," he said as they knelt on the cold floor.

  Elsbeth lifted her eyes to the rood before closing them to all sight of earthly things. "Yet I know him."

  "What can he do? He can do nothing," Hugh said, his voice rising.

  Elsbeth said nothing for the rest of the hour, her thoughts straining toward God and prayer and the perfection of sanctification. Hugh never did settle into prayer; she could feel his tension throughout the long hour of the service. He thought her father could do nothing? How that a man could be so blind to danger? Her father was capable of anything, at any time. All who knew him knew that of him.

  Yet Hugh was her husband of an hour, a day, a week, but no longer. She would somehow break free of this false marriage, and then he would be gone, away
from her father and all danger. An added benefit to setting Hugh on his way southward, away from Gautier. Away from her.

  Then all was done and the people of Warkham were moving slowly toward the door, their eyes cast back at the two men who had been locked in a quiet battle of few words. She could see that Hugh wanted to urge her to feel a confidence in him that time and experience would not allow her. She knew her father well; more, he was lord of Warkham. There was nothing Hugh could do. He had little might beyond the strength of his arm in her father's domain. Gautier held all power here.

  It was only one of many reasons for her wish to reach Sunnandune. Gautier could not touch her in Sunnandune; his arm did not reach that far. Who was Hugh to tempt her to think that he could gainsay Gautier in Gautier's own holding? That was a dangerous thought, and she would not walk on such treacherous and boggy ground. Not even for Hugh. He could not tempt her into forgetting what she knew of Gautier. That knowledge was old and dependable.

  When they were clear of the chapel, her father striding back to his tower, Denise trailing behind to loiter with the pig boy, Elsbeth said in some irritation, "What can you do, my lord? My father is lord here. Whatever he will do, he will do. What power have you to stop him?"

  Hugh took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. The green of them was as soft as marsh mist, inviting and mysterious. Deadly. If she was not careful, she would lose her footing and drown in such eyes. He called to her with even more power now than before.

  His words of salvation and sanctity had been a balm, sweet words that suited her most well. But his words of power and safety and might were more potent still, for they promised what she could never believe: a world of rest and security in the arms of a man. He could not give her that. No man could give her that.

  She was Ardeth's daughter with Ardeth's counsel ringing in her ears.

  "I have the power of my arm and my will, Elsbeth, that is the power I have," he said.

  He believed it; she could see it. Well, mayhap he had no cause to doubt. But she did.

  "A mighty power, my lord," she said, taking his hands and lifting them from her shoulders. "You are most strong."

  "Yet you cannot trust in me," he said, taking her by the hand and fingering the ring he had given her on their wedding day. It gleamed in the uncertain light like a promise.

  She had worn it to please him. He seemed pleased by it. When had she ever worn anything to please a man? Never. Never until now.

  "I do not distrust you," she said.

  "Yet you do not trust. What ground do you tread?" he said, smiling softly.

  Deadly ground. His smile could lure her to destruction, as could the softness of his words, the gentleness of his entreaty.

  "Safe ground. Solid ground," she said. "Do not ask what I cannot give. You promised that it would be so between us."

  "What can you give me, Elsbeth? Not your body, not your trust, not your love. What more would you have of me? I ask only this. Only tell me why you can not trust that I can manage the machinations of your father? I know what sort of man he is. I am more than man enough to manage him. Can you not give me even respect?"

  "You know what sort of man he is?" she said. "Do you? You have known him slightly for a few weeks. I am his daughter. I have known him intimately for year upon year. My knowing of him is differently shaded, my lord." She took a hard breath and faced him. "I give you what I can, my lord. I can do no more. If you want to repudiate me, you have cause."

  "Aye, you have seen to it that I have cause, yet I will not, Elsbeth. I have sworn to keep you, and I will."

  Denise and the pig boy were straying close to them, though they were ten paces from each other. The two pretended to themselves that they were not keeping distant company; the pretense carried no farther than themselves. Raymond, too, was in their sphere, even more distantly connected.

  "Come, we are too closely watched here," Hugh said. "The sun breaks through. Shall we find patches of sunlight to bathe ourselves in? I would share the light with you, little one."

  How could she not follow him when he invited so softly? Nay, she did not follow, but walked at his side, content. Safe. For now.

  He would keep her. Why? Why would he not let her go? He said he had not her body or her trust or her love. Well, did she not suffer the same lack from him?

  Nay, he would give his body quick enough, like any man, but nothing of trust or love was in him. He wanted something of her; some arrangement was in place with her father, yet Hugh would speak none of it. He spoke to her of trust? Nay, she would not trust, and never, never would she love. This half love, this half temptation would pass and she would rise above it. She had only to hold herself still and quiet and small and all would pass. She would survive even Hugh of Jerusalem.

  She would ever and always survive.

  They left the muddy bailey of Warkham and followed the villeins to their homes. And when the villeins disappeared inside their wattle-and-daub walls, Hugh and Elsbeth walked on. The road, High Bridge, led them away from tower and field to the distant bridge over the Nene River, close upon Peterborough. Far distant from Warkham. All seemed distant from Warkham; her father's domain, yet his dominion remained as firm and unyielding as the unbroken mass of cloud above them.

  The sun did try. White patches of warm light slipped through the high clouds, strands of silken light falling to earth in streams of promise. Promise that the clouds would break. Promise that the sun would blaze forth in triumph. Promise that there was more to the sky than cloud and rain and deadening fog.

  But who was she to complain of fog? She was a child of England. She liked the rain. She had learned the beauty of clouds.

  "I have prayed daily for sun," Hugh said, mirroring her thoughts. "It seems the Lord God has heard my prayer only in parts."

  The sun shone, almost. The day cleared, in part. Hugh looked up at the sky and then at her as they walked along, their steps silent in the soft, damp earth.

  "Yet I have little cause for complaint—"

  “There is little proof of that," she said, laughing at him. It was a joyous thing to be out of Warkham; her very soul felt bathed and new.

  "—with such a bride beside me," he finished. "See how you have ruined my compliment? A wife should keep still and let her husband speak his compliments in peace."

  "If I did, I would have no chance to speak at all, since my husband compliments me with every motion of his tongue."

  "Churlish woman," he said, running a hand through his hair. “The English are a strange race, yet perhaps they must learn churlish and grim tenacity to thrive in such a soggy clime. I find I can forgive you, thinking that."

  "I am not churlish. England is not soggy and I do not—"

  "A wise wife would not dissuade a man from forgiveness, especially when it is so freely offered," he said, tapping her on the bottom and then running a pace or two ahead.

  "Running away?" she said.

  "From you?" he asked, grinning back. "Never."

  "Then running where?" she asked, watching him. Devouring him.

  "Just... running," he said, turning from her, his hair lifting in the wind.

  "Then run, my lord. I will be here when you do seek me out."

  "Sweet words, little wife. You are learning the art of soft speech very well. I am a worthy instructor."

  "Go!" she said, laughing in spite of all her best and most grim English intentions.

  And he went, his long legs carrying him up the road. It was a long, straight road. He never was beyond her sight, though he went far from her side. Still, he was in her eyes and in her thoughts as he ran and ran from her.

  It would be just so when he finally and truly left her.

  And he would leave her. His life was in Jerusalem; he had not promised otherwise. His vow was to Baldwin, his heart set, his will unbroken.

  She was not the woman to break a man's will or heart when they were set elsewhere. This was something she had always known. It was just that the knowing
of it now was exquisite pain. She could not hold him, though she bled new blood with every pulsebeat of her heart.

  He had won something from her, some small patch of ground within her heart that she had not known was there. She had guarded, she had prayed, she had fought with all the weapons she possessed, and still, still he had won something of her. A part of her was lost and would stay lost, no matter what befell between them.

  Had she said she was half in love with him? A strange lie to tell herself. Was this love, then? This half pain, half joy, blanketed in aching sorrow and longing? How well the troubadours sang of it. She had thought it all of chivalry and none of truth, yet the truth was that love was a wound that bled, and the worst pain was in the healing of it. She would love him long, the pain of it her banner, and she could not find the will to turn from wounding. To lose this pain would hurt her worse than dying.

  Had her mother taught her this? Had Ardeth even known of love? Of passion and of loss, she'd known, but what of love?

  He had set out from the start to win her and he had done it. Why, she did not know. She was not worth such effort. For such a man, such victories must fill out every day, for what woman could resist Hugh?

  Not she.

  Forgive, Ardeth, if you watch from heaven. Forgive.

  Yet was there still not a way? Her heart was lost, but not her life. If he would only return to Jerusalem, picking up the shards of his life there, leaving her to Sunnandune, all could still be well. If he would only go back to the life he had known before misty England had wrapped itself around him. If he would only run away from Gautier and the destruction that waited in every shadow when he was near. Hugh did not know her father and so he could be man-proud in his strength and sure of his victory, yet she knew better. She knew her father.

  How long had she feared Gautier? She could not remember a time when she did not. He was not an angry man, nor given to brutish force or bellowing commands. In fact, he was a man much given to smiles. Yet it was a truth that when he smiled, she feared him most.

  There was no logic to it, and she had prayed heartily and with goodwill to have her heart changed to a heart that was proper for the daughter of a respected baron or, barring that, to have her father changed into a baron she could love and freely obey. Neither of her prayers had been answered.