by Fox, Georgia
She was Bishop Ravillard's creature. That news had stuck like a dagger, which he tried to ignore—a wound in battle that he tried to struggle onward without noticing, without looking down to see the blood.
"Did you drug my wine when you poured it?" That would explain his intense reaction to her. Somehow she'd laced his drinks with herbs that made him desire her to such a degree that he'd finally overcome even his last remaining flicker of guilt about lusting after a nun. Before he knew for sure that she was not one.
"Of course, I did not drug your wine!"
He couldn't trust her. There was no "of course" about it, now that he knew what she was and for whom she worked.
"Tie her to my pallet, Dominic, where I can keep an eye on her tonight. I'll decide what to do with her tomorrow, in daylight, with a clearer head."
* * * *
She sat on the floor, her wrists tied to the pallet upon which he stretched out, arms crossed beneath his head, his focus trained on the peak of the tent. The camp was quiet now. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoot was the only sound to break the silence.
Bonnenfant claimed to want sleep, yet his eyes were still open. Vivienne tried to get comfortable on the hard floor of earth, but her fidgeting won her no attention from him. He was stern faced, angry with her. Such hypocrisy! He fucked all over the country and yet he turned his nose up at her because the Baron had called her a whore.
"I do not know him," she muttered finally. "I never saw him before in my life. He mistook me for another."
He said nothing. Did not even look at her.
"I've never even been to Paris."
"Paris?" She heard him snort. "He never mentioned Paris. How interesting."
Vivienne cursed under her breath. "I don't know why he said those things about me. They are not true. Not a word."
"You can stop lying now, whore."
She fell silent.
"I cannot believe a word you say now, can I?" he muttered. "So you may as well stay mute from now on."
She sighed and laid her head against the side of the pallet. "'Tis true I am no innocent maiden. You know that by now."
"Woman, I told you to be silent."
"Neither am I a woman of God. I am merely a woman who survives in this world however she can."
"Am I speaking in a tongue foreign to your ears, wench?"
"Like you, Bonnenfant, I travel without ties and carry no burdens except the sins in my heart. I'll answer for those when I'm dead. But for now I live the only way I know how. With the only skills my creator gave to me."
There was a pause. She thought perhaps he was still ignoring her, until he said, "Not all skills are given. Some must be learned."
"Yes. And some are forced upon us by circumstances." She didn't want his sympathy, only to explain. Why she felt this urge she could not say, yet it was fierce and unrelenting. Inwardly she mocked herself. What did it matter if he thought ill of her? He did not ask about her circumstances. Good. Perhaps he would think she should have thrown herself on the fire when they burned her mother for witchcraft. Give in and die, rather than try to live under the Bishop's talons.
"It doesn't matter," he said flatly.
Oh, but it did. It did. She did not want him disapproving of her, looking at her with cold, disappointed eyes. "I know," was all she said, her pride sparking in hot tears beneath her lashes. "Why should it? I don't care what you think of me." It was just another lie among many.
They had both led sinful lives and he had no right to admonish her for anything. She'd never cared for any man's approbation. Why begin now? Because he'd touched some chord inside her, made her feel as if, somehow, he understood her and would not judge. Ha! What a mistake. Despite his own lax morals, Thierry Bonnenfant was as judgmental as the next man.
He yawned. "The world is a bad place."
Indeed it was. Few knew that better than they did. Perhaps, she pondered sadly, that was why she felt an odd kinship with him from the first sight, the first sound of his loud laughter. Sometimes a person had to laugh to hide the hurt inside. They were two wounded souls, trapped by the circumstances of life. Cursing herself for these cheerless thoughts, she dried her tears on the fur that hung over his pallet. She was not the sort to give up. If she was, she would not be alive now.
"This ground is cold and hard, Bonnenfant," she murmured. "Can I lay there with you."
"No."
"I will not harm you."
"Are you not afraid that I will harm you if you get close to me again?"
"No," she replied. "There is no part of me left to injure."
He said nothing to that.
She sighed heavily, the rope chafing on her wrists when she tried to turn and make herself more comfortable. "Montagu will be back in the morning."
"We'll leave early. At first light."
Lifting her head a little, she tried to see his face in the gathering of night shadows. "You are taking me with you then?"
"Would you rather I hand you over to him?" he snapped.
"No."
"Prefer my cock, do you?"
"Yes." Then she smiled while he wouldn't see. "It is the best cock I ever knew. Wonderfully skilled. Did things for me that no other prick ever did, my lord. Is that what you wanted to hear? Of course, as you said, you cannot believe a word I say now, so I wonder why you bother asking."
He huffed. "You talk too much, woman."
"Just passing the time. I will not get much sleep sitting on the floor, will I?"
* * * *
Treacherous, teasing hussy. He was not likely to get any sleep now either. The disturbing truth was that he almost let her lay on the pallet with him. But he could not take that risk again and let himself be tempted by her luscious body. Tomorrow he must decide whether to hand her over to justice here or in Normandy. It depended how much longer he wanted to keep her in his company. How much longer he could risk having her beside him, her sweet-scented hair inches from his fingers and his lips.
The effect she had on him was strangely intoxicating. He couldn't stop looking at her, but now it grew dark he hoped to be saved from that particular weakness. When he refused to share his pallet with this woman his cock objected almost as much as she did. Apparently it hadn't had enough of her yet.
He often joked that it was his duty to serve the female population as thoroughly as possible. It would be wrong to devote his talents to only one woman. But this wench was more than simply another seduction challenge, or another conquest. She wound her body, her tongue, her scent, and her hair around him, like some sort of mythical siren sent to unman him. She was Delilah and he was Samson.
Thierry and Bishop Ravillard had a long history and it wasn't the first time he'd encountered one of that man's agents. But this one was by far the most dangerous he'd encountered in his twenty seven years.
Apparently that box held something the Bishop wanted very badly and he knew Thierry's weaknesses well enough to send this woman after it. Of course he knew.
Father and son were well acquainted with one another's faults.
Chapter Eight
It rained. The sea churned, grey and forbidding, beneath an equally dark, threatening sky.
Thierry's men looked at her and whispered. She was a witch, they said. Look how she'd bewitched their leader into keeping her, when he should have turned her over to the Baron Montagu. She had cursed the trip, and this storm would send them all to their deaths.
"Mayhap you should leave her behind," Dominic had suggested within her hearing, as the men moved back and forth, loading the boat. "Or we should wait until the storm passes."
Bonnenfant shrugged the warnings off, reckless as his reputation. "If we wait for the sky to clear we could be here for days. I've crossed in far worse weather than this. And no, I'm not leaving her. She comes with me."
Vivienne wished he said those last few sentences with even a little tenderness, but his tone was curt and he did not look at her. She was simply another item to be loaded on the boat, another burden. He le
ft her tied up with the barrels, the last to be taken aboard.
The nuns had been advised by Sister Marie not to look or speak to her. Only one, Sister Heloise, was brave enough to bring her a cup of goat's milk.
"If 'tis true you're a whore, I shall pray for you," the kind woman whispered as she held the cup for her to drink. These were the only words spoken to her that morning.
Finally Dominic was sent to fetch her and she was carried over the strong man's shoulder, her head hanging limp. "Why is he so angry with me?" she muttered. "I did not harm him. I only wanted the key."
She hadn't expected any reply, but she got one, whispered hastily, "Bishop Ravillard."
Vivienne was none the wiser.
Dropped down into the end of the boat, she sat alone, separated from the nuns by a row of barrels, and watched the soldiers push out into the water. They strained and groaned against the weight of the loaded boat, until the waves took the burden and swept the vessel on a powerful surge. Then they leapt in, grabbing oars, yelling and scrambling in the spray of saltwater and rain.
Marbled clouds rolled overhead, splitting apart to dump more rain. Now thunder rumbled low over the grim horizon and the boat pitched and yawed violently, waves splashing up over the sides. It took distressingly little time for the comfort of land to slide away behind them, disappearing under the swelling, foaming sea.
Two rows of oars plowed through the waves and the boat lifted then dropped, each thrust abandoning the vessel further to the mercies of nature. At the other end of the boat, she could see Bonnenfant, his face turned away, watching for their destination.
Her hair was soon dampened by a mixture of rain and seawater. She even tasted the sea in the back of her throat and her stomach clenched, revolting against the strong, unpleasant flavor.
Horrified, she watched the waves grow larger, the boat seeming to shrink among them, an ant fallen in a bucket, scrambling for an edge, drowning pitifully. Like the soldiers, she'd not had a good feeling about this trip, but Bonnenfant had been in too much haste to set off before Baron Montagu returned that morning.
Nearby she heard two soldiers discussing their plight, their eyes worried. Sister Marie and her companions had begun to pray louder. Vivienne's feet were wet. Seawater was oozing in from somewhere. If they were going to sink, she realized, she would drown easily with her wrists tied like this, unable to move her arms. No one would save her. As usual she had only herself to rely upon.
Damp but not defeated, Vivienne looked around her small, cramped space among the supplies and saw a jagged strip of metal poking out from one of the barrels. Hitching over on her backside, no longer watched by anyone, she rubbed her rope ties against that sharp metal, slowly wearing it away to threads.
* * * *
Rain lashed his face and soaked through his surcoat and chainmail to the tunic beneath. He'd told Dominic that rough crossings were nothing new to him and that was true, but looking up at the angry, savage sky he knew this storm was different. His blood was charged, as it was just before he rode into battle. Every sense was on high alert. The men worked hard, pulling on the oars, shouting out the rhythm, but the sound was almost lost under the roar of the wind and the crash of waves into the boat. He looked down and saw that he was standing in an inch of water. It bubbled around his boots and soaked through the soles. Glancing out over the helm, he looked for land and saw nothing but seething grey, the ominous color broken only by white crests, rising and bucking like the bent manes of wild horses.
The next time he looked down, the water was over his feet.
Vivienne. Her arms were tied.
Panicking for the first time that day, he spun around and splashed his way down the boat to find her. Long fingers of salt water sprayed over his head. He tripped, falling over a box that floated in the water round his feet.
"Vivienne," he cried, just as a great wave lifted the far end of the boat and he saw her. "Forgive me."
Perhaps there had been too many mistakes in his life and so he fixed, in that desperate moment, on only one. The tying of her wrists that would keep her from being able to swim.
But his plea to her was smothered in a mouthful of cold seaweed that slapped across his face, and then she was gone from his view.
* * * *
When the first crack thudded through the boat, shaking her body, she thought it was thunder overheard, but then a wave of frigid water hit her and she realized the wood beneath her was breaking apart. Screams and shouts filled her head. Boxes, barrels and crates rolled left and right, swept up by the waves that were now inside the boat. She tugged hard and her wrists were freed, the last stubborn shred of rope finally worn away. In the knick of time. Reaching out blindly as another wave threatened to carry her overboard, she grabbed hold of something solid. Wood.
The boat yawed, groaning and popping. She swallowed a mouthful of water and choked, spitting.
Was someone calling her name?
The clouds above splintered with a flare of brilliant lightening, stealing the breath out of her in shock and then the thunder followed. Here came the next wave. She tasted it already. The planks gave way beneath her feet and she was caught up, blown like a dry leaf over the shattered side of the vessel. Water bubbled in her ears. She shook her head, turning her face up to the wind, gasping for a breath. But the air was just as damp, just as salty. Her hands still clung to the strip of wood and it had saved her from going under. Her heart was beating, but it did not sound like hers; the rhythm seemed to mock her. She kicked hard, battling her nun's robes to stay afloat.
Oh no, she was not going to die today, not like this, not here.
A larger, curved section of torn boat floated within her grasp and she caught hold as another swell conveniently brought it close enough. Summoning all her strength, she pulled herself onto it. Lightening flared again and thunder bounced heavily over her head. Now, she supposed, would be as good a time as any to pray. Even if it wouldn't be heard, it seemed the thing to do.
Just as she began mumbling the only prayer she knew, her lost gaze stumbled and caught upon the sight of a head bobbing nearby, face down in the sea. A golden head with a sun-browned neck below it.
Her prayer cut short, she grabbed his hand seconds before he sank below the surface, and she pulled. She pulled harder than she'd ever pulled anything in her life. Her precarious raft tipped and swayed, water lapping over her feet. He was heavy. The chainmail of course, she realized. He was too heavy for her to lift. His hand slipped from hers and he began to drift away.
She cursed frantically, sobbing in fury at her own helplessness.
And at the sound of her voice, he raised his head, spitting water. His eyes were unfocused, not seeing her there, but he knew instinctively to reach out and swim in the direction of her screamed curses. With a renewed burst of enraged strength, she grabbed his shoulders and hauled him part way onto her rocking raft, until his head rested in her lap, getting blood on her gown. Only his legs still dangled in the restless sea.
"I just saved your rotten life, Bonnenfant," she cried against the wind. "You'd better be damned grateful."
He gurgled something into her lap, choking out seaweed.
"You can thank me later," she added, wondering if this storm would ever let up, because at this rate there would be no "later" for either of them.
* * * *
Thierry raised his aching head from her lap and looked around. His neck was stiff, his eyes sore, but as they came into focus he saw land at last, trees and grass, trails of smoke from rooftops.
"Vivienne!"
She stirred reluctantly. "What now?"
"Look." He pointed.
Where were they? He had no idea how far or in which direction they'd drifted. What felt like days at sea had probably only been hours. The storm had departed some time since and left them bobbing along on their broken timber raft. He'd been awake for a while, but laid still with his head in her lap, just glad she was alive. So relieved to feel her body beneath his it was
truly pitiful.
Now a small boat rowed out to them—fishermen on route to empty their nets. Today they would find not only fish, but two drenched, shivering souls clinging to one another, belched up from the depths of a deadly storm.
"We survived to live another day," said Thierry. To himself he thought, I've been granted a reprieve, a second chance.
The woman said nothing. When she first dragged him up onto her raft, he'd seen the red marks on her wrists were the rope had chafed her skin and he remembered that he was the cause of it. Yet she had rescued him. She could easily have left him to drown. Now she yelled enthusiastically for the fishermen, waving her arms as if they might not see them there. He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. There was no sign of anyone else in the water, no other wreckage.
He had lost all his men? Surely it could not be. His heart was heavy with grief. This was his fault. He'd insisted on sailing into the storm, like a rash, reckless fool. Now his loyal men had paid the price. Perhaps Vivienne was right. He was all brawn and breeches and no brains.
Self-loathing tore into his spirit just as the storm had ripped apart that boat. He could never forgive himself for this. All he had left now was this woman. She was his only chance to repent and make amends.
* * * *
They arrived in a small village, a community of no more than twenty five people, mostly fishermen, some farmers. They were simple folk with no overlord since the last one had died the year before with no sons to inherit. Apparently King William was too busy to pay much attention to this tiny outpost of civilization and had forgotten it for now.