Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  "Bishop Martin has requested your presence immediately. When I said you would probably be asleep, he told me to wake you."

  "How dare he?" William said in an icy voice. "I have played their silly games long enough. If he wishes to rescind his absolution, then so be it. We'll leave immediately."

  "Sire?"

  "They won't dare stop me. Tell the holy father that I'll attend him within the hour. Get the men ready and the horses saddled. And alert Lady Elizabeth that our plans have changed."

  "She won't go, my lord. The mother abbess said to tell you she's changed her mind and wishes to stay at the convent."

  "She's not allowed to change her mind. Do what you have to do, Winston. We'll leave immediately, and she'll be coming with us. You can silence her, but just don't kill her. Do you understand? If Rufus is gone, you'll have to take his place. And you know I'm not happy when my wishes are thwarted."

  "We'll meet you at the west gate, my lord. That's the one least guarded, and it's heading south. They wouldn't expect us to leave that way."

  "Very wise, Winston. I think you'll do quite well."

  Elizabeth had managed to doze off, though she wasn't quite sure how. Her brain was whirling with confusion, and the worst part was, why had she kissed him back? For that matter, why had he kissed her? He was back now, in the life he had chosen, where there was no room for a woman even if he wanted one, and yet he'd come to her room and kissed her. And if Mother Alison hadn't interrupted, God only knows what would have followed.

  She would have hoped she'd have had the sense to stop him. Stop herself. But there was no guarantee that she could have.

  She rolled onto her back, heaving a sigh of frustration. Things had grown quiet for a bit, but now she could hear the sounds of horses being made ready, the muttered voices of men. Who could be leaving at such an hour? With any luck it would be Peter, knowing that there was nothing but temptation left behind.

  When she woke he'd be gone, and she could start her new life, one of prayer and repentance and obedience.

  She closed her eyes. She wasn't going to sleep, she knew it. It felt as if a sword were hanging over her head, ready to fall, and if she weren't alert enough it would slice through her brain and her heart.

  Or perhaps it already had. Neither of those seemed to be working properly—her brain had melted the moment Peter had put his hands on her, her heart had shattered when she found out his true identity.

  No, her heart had shattered when she knew she loved him. Because even then, she'd somehow known only grief awaited her.

  She rolled onto her stomach. The good sisters' beds were austere, with no pillows or freshly laundered linen coverings. She would learn to sleep this way—it was at least better than sleeping on the floor.

  But the last time she'd slept on a floor she'd been in his arms, and she could have slept on hot coals and not cared.

  She had to stop thinking about him. About his betrayal, which he seemed perfectly willing to repeat. The only way she would sleep would be if she could clear her mind, and the only way she could clear her mind was to pray.

  She didn't even know how to begin, her sin was so great and so unrepented. All she could mutter was, "Please, Lord, give me a sign. Save me."

  She didn't hear the door open. Her eyes were closed, and she didn't see the shadow steal across the room. All she knew was the hood coming down over her face, smothering her.

  She tried to scream, kicking out, but the rough fabric got in her mouth. She knew the blow was coming, but she didn't feel it. She thought this was not the sign she wanted.

  And then everything turned black.

  He lived. Adrian lived, they told her so, and Joanna almost collapsed.

  "You are welcome here among us, Dame Joanna," Mother Alison said, but she couldn't quite believe her.

  "I am a great sinner, Mother," she said. "If I had anywhere else to go…"

  "There are none of us here who are without sin. As to whether or not you qualify for greatness in the matter of sinning, that's a matter for God and your confessor to decide. In the meantime we'll have a room made ready for you. I am certain you'll want to rest after your ordeal. We can talk of sin tomorrow."

  "Adrian…"

  "He lives, and should continue to do so for many years. The young man is impervious to things that will kill most hardened soldiers. Do you wish to see him?"

  "No!" Joanna said swiftly. The sooner she parted from him the better. But she couldn't resist asking one last question. "Then he is not a holy friar?"

  "Sir Adrian? Good heavens, no! I can't think of a man less suited for the cloister. I'm certain his wife would agree."

  For a killing blow it didn't even make her sway. She'd survived worse blows. Hadn't she? "He's married?" she asked in a deceptively even tone.

  "As good as. He's been betrothed to Baron Leffert's daughter these past three years. I believe they were just waiting until he finished his service for the king to wed. I imagine tonight's work will have put an end to any welcome he might have at court." Mother Alison looked at her closely. "There was nothing between the two of you. was there? No promises?"

  No promises, she thought. If only this blessed numbness would last. She felt encased in ice, and she never wanted to feel warmth again.

  "Nothing at all," she said. "He's a young man and I'm a woman of the world. We have little in common."

  The tiny nun made a quiet noise, one that might have been agreement or not. "Well, you will probably want to see him and give him your thanks after you're better rested. He saved your life, after all, rescuing you from that horrible attack."

  She thought of the long hours, dragging his bleeding body through the forest on her cape, and she almost thought she could smile. Almost. "Indeed. Though I think a period of solitude and prayer might be the best for me."

  "You're as bad as Brother Peter. I find that those most likely to atone for their sins are quite often those whose sins are merely human. The true monsters of this world seldom truly repent."

  "Are you speaking of Prince William?"

  "I would never dare speak thus of my king's son," Mother Alison said smoothly. "I'm simply saying that those who appear to sin quite often are not nearly as bad as they think, and those who appear blameless can be instruments of the Devil. Sister Agnes will show you to your room. You'll be on the left side of the cloister with the guests—I hope the noise won't bother you."

  "Isn't there room in the convent for me?"

  "Do you wish to take the veil, child?"

  "I would scarce believe I am worthy."

  "All God requires is a willing heart. Stay with us for a time and see if you think this might be the life for you. If in time you come to feel that way, we would welcome you with all our hearts."

  A week ago, even two days ago, she would have had no hesitation. Even now, when harsh reality settled in on her momentary adolescent dreams, she should know the wisest, safest, best course. Because in truth, no man was ever going to touch her again, if that man was not Adrian.

  Would he need a mistress? Many married men had them, but even if he were willing, she would not be. It was a hard lot for a wife, even if she were spared the labor of fornication. And with Adrian, the loss of conjugal duties might be a greater sacrifice than she had previously thought.

  The room they brought her to was small and neat, at the end of a corridor. She bathed and changed into the plain chemise they'd brought her and climbed into bed with the vague notion of crying herself to sleep.

  Moments later she rose, pulling her blanket around her narrow shoulders, and stepped out into the hallway.

  The stone floor was icy beneath her feet, but the hall was deserted. She had no notion of who might be resting in these rooms, but she had every intention of finding out, if she had to wake half the abbey.

  She found Adrian in the third room, sound asleep, fresh bandages on his wounded shoulder and across his belly. He'd been hit on the head, as well—she could see the bruising that extended
to one eye, and she wondered what would happen if she blackened the other one. She was feeling strangely violent, she who had always been so passive, and her anger was directed at the beautiful man-child sleeping so peacefully when she was so troubled.

  Or not sleeping. He opened his eyes to look at her, and his smile would have melted a harder heart. "They told me you were safe," he said. "But I couldn't quite believe it until I saw you."

  She moved into the room, her face stony. "You seem to have survived your battle in good order," she said in a cool voice. "I thought he was going to slice you to ribbons."

  His smile had faded. "You look like you wish he had. Have I done something to offend you, Joanna?"

  "Apart from lie to me about who you were? And… and take advantage of me in the wagon bed?"

  she said. She'd long ago lost the ability to blush—the heat in her face must have come from some other source.

  He slid to a sitting position, wincing, and it was all she could do to keep from rushing to his side to help him. She wanted him to hurt, she reminded herself. She wanted him to hurt in his body as she hurt in her heart.

  "I don't know that I received any great benefit from our moments in the miller's wagon. If anything it made my life a great deal more difficult."

  "Then you should have kept your hands off me."

  "It wasn't my hands that made you climax."

  She didn't flinch. "I'm a whore," she said carelessly. "It's easy enough to do."

  "I killed the last person who called you that. Even you aren't allowed to do so. And it seemed to me as if you had not the slightest idea what was happening to you as you lay beneath me. If it wasn't so farfetched I'd think you'd never known real pleasure from a man."

  She looked away. He was far too perceptive, and lying had always been difficult for her. "Far-fetched indeed," she said. "Mother Alison said you were to be married when you returned home. I hope your wife knows what a liar you are."

  His look of confusion smoothed out and his smile returned. "So that's what's going on! I wondered what turned you into such an icy witch."

  "There is nothing going on. I was going to thank you for saving my life and bringing me here safely, but since I saved your life earlier I expect we're even. Goodbye, Sir Adrian."

  "Not so fast, my lady. Come back here."

  She'd reached the door, but his voice stopped her. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears—she'd learned long ago that they were no real weapon against the fists of men, but they seemed beyond her control.

  "I'm going back to my room…"

  "Turn around, Joanna, and come back here. I have something to say to you."

  She should run, she told herself. Anything he might say would only make it worse. But she turned, anyway, blinking back the tears. He was holding out his hand, as if he actually expected her to take it.

  She walked across the room, keeping her hands at her sides. He simply reached down and caught one, pulling it against his chest. "You're not joining the holy sisters," he said in a calm, decisive voice. "You're coming home with me."

  She tried to yank her hand away, but he held it tight. "No," she said sharply. "I won't do that to another woman!"

  "I don't want you to do a thing to another woman. Only with me."

  She fought back the treacherous weakening. "I will not be your whore while your bride sits alone."

  "I would tell you I'm man enough for both of you, but I doubt you'd be amused. I have no wife. The girl I was pledged to died of a fever two years past. I barely knew her, so it was no great sorrow, but as of this moment I am planning to marry no one but you."

  She froze. "That's very cruel of you," she said in a small voice.

  "To marry you? I promise you, I won't make that bad a husband."

  She realized he was serious. Which could only mean the blow on his head was worse than she thought. She put a quick hand on his brow, checking for fever, but it was cool and dry. "You're mad," she said. "I'm probably ten years older than you, I'm barren, and I don't even like being with men."

  He smiled up at her, very sweetly. "You're not more than five years older than me, and I'm very mature for my age. I intend to show you more pleasure than you can even begin to imagine, and we'll have beautiful children together. Now, get into bed with me."

  "You've been wounded…"

  "I'm not going to show you that pleasure now, lady. I'll wait till Fin mended and we're married. I just want to lie next to you. I sleep better that way, heal faster that way."

  He was mad, totally and completely, but one should humor madmen. And there was nothing more she wanted than to lie next to him on that narrow bed and feel his body next to hers.

  Without another word she climbed up onto the bed beside him, and he made room for her, pulling the blanket she'd brought around them both as he settled her against him. "Your feet are cold," he said.

  "Yes."

  "You think I'm mad." He kissed her nose, and she let him.

  "Yes."

  "You'll marry me, anyway."

  "Yes," she said. "Yes."

  Peter lay facedown on the cold, hard stone of the chapel. He hadn't moved for hours, determined to keep his mind empty, his senses shut down. He heard the uproar from a distance, the shouting and the noise, but he ignored it. He was too busy listening for an answer.

  He'd spent seven long years atoning for a sin that could not be forgiven. Hundreds of innocents had perished in that fire, women and children. The fire he had ordered set. In the end, the only one to survive had been William, his body burned and broken as his soul was already twisted. He should have died in that fire. As Peter should have died.

  But they'd both lived. Peter to spend the rest of his life in penance for a crime too horrifying to live with. A sin committed without knowledge was still a sin. William had told him the building was empty of all but a few soldiers, and Peter had ordered the place torched. William had lied.

  It made no difference. He was the man who'd given the order. He was the man who'd flung William off the adjoining roof, into the midst of that conflagration, wanting him to suffer.

  But God had spared William, as God has spared Peter. And for the first time Peter wondered if God knew what the hell he was doing. Blasphemer, he mocked himself. He groaned, hitting his head against the hard stone floor in frustration.

  The sound of voices was an insistent buzz at the back of his head. The chapel doors slammed open and a breeze made the candles sputter. Peter closed his eyes, ignoring the booted footsteps coming down the nave. If it were William or one of his men come to dispatch him, he'd welcome it. He'd be one step closer to forgiveness.

  "Brother Peter." Adrian's voice came from close at hand, but Peter ignored him. There was nothing Adrian could say that would make any difference.

  "Leave him alone, Sir Adrian." Brother Jerome was there, as well, his voice chill with disapproval. "Bishop Martin said he was to be left alone with his devotions. There is no need to disturb him—all will be well."

  Adrian ignored him, bending down and putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Peter," he said urgently. "Get up. There's trouble."

  "There is no trouble," Brother Jerome snapped. "And if there were, Brother Peter has no need to be involved. He's been out in the world too much—he needs solitude and reflection, not a mad journey to save a woman who has no need of being saved. The prince has repented and vowed to live a chaste, good life, and even if he had not, do you truly think he would waste his time with someone with hair that color and so freakishly tall? When he could command the greatest beauties of the kingdom? Brother Peter…"

  Peter had surged to his feet in one swift movement, ignoring Brother Jerome. "She went with him after all?"

  "We believe it was against her will. No one saw them leave—the prince chose to sneak out in the middle of the night rather than face Bishop Martin. But there was definitely a struggle in her room—the place was torn apart."

  "When did they leave?"

  "They can't have been gon
e more than a few hours. We can't be certain which way they've headed…"

  "I can," Peter said grimly.

  "Brother Peter, I refuse to allow you to leave. If Lady Elizabeth is in any sort of danger Bishop Martin will dispatch a group of my men to return her here, where she belongs. I'm sure he'll even let Sir Adrian lead them if his concern is so great. But you have been among worldly temptations too long. You will stay here and pray for their safety and the good of your soul."

  Peter ignored him. "Have you got horses?"

  "Waiting for us. How many men will we want?"

  "An army would be slaughtered. Just the two of us." He moved past Brother Jerome, brushing past him as if he were nothing more than a ghost.

  "If you leave, Brother Peter, there'll be no place for you. You will be damned to hell for all eternity. What woman is worth paying such a price for?"

  "Do you want me to hit him?" Adrian asked calmly.

  Peter shook his head, opening the chapel door. "We don't have time." It was full light outside—when he'd last seen Elizabeth it was before midnight.

  "I have clothes waiting—"

  "I belong in these clothes." he said, indicating his robes. "Whether or not Brother Jerome agrees."

  "Can you fight in them?"

  "Yes. If need be I can even kill in them. But they'll remind me not to if I can help it."

  "Not kill William?"

  "I'll leave that joy up to you," he said.

  "You'll be damned for this," Brother Jerome cried after him. "There'll be no hope left for your miserable soul."

  Peter paused for one last moment in the doorway of the chapel. "Then the price is worth it," he said. And closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  Elizabeth waited until the sun was high, the covering was off her head and she'd been dumped off the horse by the odorous soldier carrying her before she decided to throw up. She'd been contemplating the notion for the long, horrible hours since she woke, her body trussed and imprisoned against someone's unbathed body, her head aching as if it had been split by a mace, her stomach roiling in rhythm with the mad pace of the horses. Her head was covered with something that smelled of wet sheep and mold, so that she couldn't see a thing, but she could tell by the thunder of hooves that there were a great number of them.