by Blackheart
She felt as if touched by fire. Worse, staggered by lightning, as if she might split and fall where she stood. Though she longed to shrink from him, she looked up at the man for whom she had bled last eve. A man who knew her more intimately than any other, yet did not know her—she prayed.
"My apologies, Lady Juliana," Gabriel said. "I fear my head is not right this morn."
The light of morning made him no less menacing than on the night past. In fact, with his shadowed eyes and stubbled jaw, he appeared more so. But at least his eyes were not the eyes of a man who knew her terrible secret. He thought it a whore who had come to him last eve.
His brow lowered. "Are you well, my lady?"
"Quite." She slipped from beneath his hands and stepped to her sister's side.
"Good morn, Lady Alaiz," Gabriel said.
Alaiz smiled. "Lord De Vere."
Damn him! Why could he not simply ignore Alaiz as others did? Why did he have to show a heart he could not possibly possess?
Juliana took her sister's arm and hastened her toward the stairs.
"Something is w-wrong?" Alaiz asked.
"Naught," Juliana whispered. "Let us break our fast."
A moment later, she heard Sir Morris call to Gabriel, "You no longer attend mass?"
Juliana did not wish to hear Gabriel's response, tried desperately to drown it in the discourse of those before her, but it followed her onto the stairs.
"No more," he said as he and the other knight came behind her and Alaiz.
"Your soul is not in need of saving?" Sir Morris asked.
"Not when 'tis already lost." Gabriel's breath stirred the veil atop Juliana's head.
He was near. Too near. Only a step above her, she guessed. Lord, she could almost feel the brush of his fingertips.
"You have been excommunicated?" Sir Morris asked.
"That is what the church calls it. I can think of other words more suited."
The disturbing sensations that beset Juliana gave way to dismay. What evil had Gabriel done to bring the church's wrath upon him? Though she did not consider herself devout, especially after the church's rejection of Alaiz following her head injury, she held a steadfast belief in God. Thus she was disturbed by the revelation. Lord, that such an ungodly man been chosen to make a child on her!
"For tourneying, no doubt," Sir Morris said. "The church thought to make an example of Sir Erec and me."
His only sin was tourneying? The church's decree of excommunication and refusal of ecclesiastical burial to those killed at tournament was well known, but rather than enforce their prohibitions against tourney victims, they preferred, instead, to excommunicate living tourneyers. Like Gabriel, it seemed.
"Sir Erec was also excommunicated?"
"Had he not put coin to a certain bishop's palm he would have been."
How familiar that sounded, Juliana mused bitterly. The church considered tourneying an evil pursuit, yet pardoned a knight of past and future sins providing he had enough coin to pay for absolution. And it was not as if the money went to the poor or financed the construction of a house of God. More likely it added to the bishop's personal coffers.
"Your soul is not worth a few coins, Lord De Vere?" Sir Morris asked.
"If coin is all it takes to buy my soul out of perdition, then it can hardly be worth holding on to."
"I see your point," Sir Morris conceded.
Gabriel had had enough of idle talk, something he disliked intensely. He stepped into the hall behind Juliana. As she hastened toward the dais, he followed her with his gaze and watched as she lowered herself into the chair beside the lord's high seat—a seat conspicuously vacant. Bernart must have gone directly to the battlefield. Would that he could do the same. But he needed food to counter the effects of too much drink. He strode to the table where Sir Erec was seated and lowered himself to the bench.
One look at Gabriel and Erec winced. "I take it you did not sleep well."
Gabriel pulled the platter of viands to him, chose a chunk of cheese, and broke a piece of bread. "I did not." Though he had slept after sating himself with the wench, his rest had been fitful. Too much accursed wine. " 'Twas a most unsettled night."
"And I am to pity you?" Erec's mouth quirked. "You who had not only a bed to warm you, but a wench?"
A wench. Gabriel looked around the hall. None of the serving wenches seemed to fit the impression he'd gained of the woman who'd come to him last eve. His remembering hands touched skin as silken as the finest cloth, turned around full breasts, slid over a narrow waist, carried gently flared hips to his. A kitchen wench, then? A chambermaid?
A tankard of ale appeared before him. He looked up and saw it was Nesta who brought it to him. Though she was undoubtedly more experienced than the one who had come to him last eve, he suddenly found her far less appealing. Perhaps she knew who the other woman was, mayhap had sent her to him. He immediately dismissed that last thought. Even had another man enticed Nesta to his bed, he could not imagine her sending someone in her stead.
She leaned forward. "This eve, sire?" Her husky whisper feigned privacy.
"You did not come last night," he reminded her, hoping she might shed light on who had come.
Regret clouded her face. "I could not, but I promise ye will not be alone again this eve. I should come?"
It was that other wench Gabriel hoped would return. "Mayhap." He lifted his tankard.
Nesta blinked. Then, eyes flashing, she turned and flounced across the hall.
"Best watch what she pours you in future," Erec murmured.
The other knights, eager to begin the preparations for the day's melee, quickly finished their simple meals and rose from the benches.
Knowing it would be hours before the first clash, Gabriel was in no hurry himself, especially as his head was a league from being right. He washed down his bread with ale.
"Careful lest you addle your senses further," Erec warned. He nodded to the tankard. " 'Tis a tourney day. I would not wish to be relieved of my horse and armor."
Gabriel looked sideways at him. "I shall watch your back. Just be sure you have a care for mine."
Erec grinned. "Of course."
Gabriel's face was streaked with rust where the sweat wrung of battle had come into contact with his helm. "Me-thinks 'tis my death you seek, old friend," he said between clenched teeth.
Flat on his back, harsh breath echoing inside his skewed helm, Bernart stared up at him. At that moment, Gabriel looked like the devil himself. "Your death?" he repeated. "Why would I wish to kill you?"
Gabriel bent and retrieved Bernart's long sword that had missed its mark by inches. He fingered the sharp blade. "Why, indeed." He thrust the weapon to the ground beside Bernart.
Beneath the chain mail that suddenly seemed tenfold heavier, Bernart struggled to a sitting position. He straightened his helm, then turned his hand around the hilt of his honed sword. Though he had decreed that only arms of peace were to be used during the tournament—blunted weapons that could scarcely cut butter—it was an instrument of death he'd brought onto the battlefield. If not for Sir Erec's shout of warning and Gabriel's quick reflexes, Gabriel would now be gasping his last. Instead, he had countered with a blow that had knocked Bernart from his horse. As during their younger years when Gabriel had more often than not bettered Bernart, he'd won again.
Damn him to hell! Bernart trembled with anger and self-loathing as he gained his feet. "What price my horse and armor?"
Gabriel swept his gaze over Bernart's fine hauberk, then turned and strode to the lathered destrier that grazed nearby. He ran a hand over the horse's veined neck. "A worthy animal," he pronounced, and named a price that made Bernart swallow hard.
"Done," Bernart said, suddenly and violently pained by a burning need to urinate.
"And your armor..." Gabriel named a price no less fantastic.
Bernart snapped his teeth. "I shall pay it."
With a nod, Gabriel strode to where he'd thrown off his helm
. He retrieved it, settled it on his head, continued to where his destrier awaited him.
"Next time 'twill be you paying me," Bernart called after him.
Gabriel swung into the saddle. Though he gave no reply, his eyes glittered dangerously. He would yield naught to Bernart.
Naught but a son—a malevolent voice reminded him of that of which he had lost sight.
With a snap of the reins, Gabriel turned his mount toward the melee.
Bernart berated himself for being a thousand times a fool. He had let what had happened last eve gnaw at him until the only thing that mattered was Gabriel's blood upon his sword. But it was not. He needed a son, one made of Gabriel's loins.
He gripped the hilt so tightly all blood fled his hand. He had to control his emotions, put aside this jealousy that had no place in what he required of Juliana. Forget his passion for a woman he could never possess as Gabriel had possessed her. A son. That was all that mattered.
Telling himself the moisture that stung his eyes was only sweat rolling off his brow, he strode toward the wood, where he could relieve himself without fear of being seen.
"See if you can figure this," Juliana said. "Had I sixteen apples and ate four, how many would I have left?"
Alaiz's brow furrowed. "But if you ate so m-many, you would be sick."
Inwardly, Juliana sighed. Though it was a struggle to reteach Alaiz those things lost in her fall, and all said it was a waste of time, she persisted. The rewards were few, but she was certain it made a difference. "All right, then.
If I had sixteen apples and lost four, how many would I have?"
Alaiz's eyes strayed to the sticks she'd earlier used for computing.
"Uh-uh," Juliana reproved. "In your head."
"Sixteen... less four." After a long struggle, Alaiz's face lit. 'Twelve apples! You would have twelve!"
"I knew you could do it!"
Alaiz beamed, but only for a moment before sorrow took the light from her eyes. "But I shall never be as I was."
Once more afforded a glimpse of the sister lost to her— lucid and thoughtful—Juliana could only stare.
Alaiz pressed a hand to her temple. " 'Tis as if... as if I have all the keys but know not which locks to fit them to." The hand alongside her head curled into a fist. "I know my letters and numbers and so much more! I just do not know where I have put them."
Juliana lowered her eyes so her sister would not see her tears. "We will find them."
"Will we? I do not think so."
When Juliana looked up, she saw the mist in Alaiz's eyes. Though they seldom discussed the years previous to her accident, from time to time a light came on inside Alaiz, reminding her of all she'd lost. But always she slid back inside her child's mind, just as she did now.
Juliana glanced at the sky. It was beginning to darken. Though commotion beyond the garden walls had earlier announced the return of the tourneyers, she'd ignored it. But she could no longer. She had duties to attend to before the evening festivities began. Fortunately Cook had the meal in hand. " 'Tis time to go abovestairs and change," she said.
Alaiz plucked at her soiled gown. "B-Bernart does not wish me in the hall. He is angry."
"With me, not you." Juliana patted her sister's arm. "Now hurry along."
Alaiz stood and hastened toward the donjon.
Only when she was gone from sight did Juliana let her shoulders sink. Why Alaiz? Why one as kind and sharp-witted as she? She would have made a wonderful abbess, could have given so much to this angry world. Instead she was the pawn by which Bernart would get a child.
A tear, then another, slipped from beneath Juliana's lashes. How cruel life was. It was almost enough to make one question God's existence. She tried to hold the sob that rose in her throat, but it escaped. At least there was no one to—
"The last time we were in a garden together, the tears you shed were for yourself."
Certain her heart had stopped, fearing it might never beat again, Juliana swept her gaze down the path Alaiz had taken. Twenty feet out—now fifteen—Gabriel De Vere advanced. The seams of his tunic straining against his muscular build, his dark hair bound at his nape, and a livid bruise coloring his cheekbone, he looked dangerous.
When had he come into the garden? Did he know it was she who'd visited him on the night past? He must. For what other reason would he seek her out? If he sought her out. Lord, let it be only chance that brought him here. 'The... the last time?" She dashed away her tears and averted her gaze for fear he might glimpse something in her eyes that would reveal her.
He halted. " 'Twas in the gardens of your father's castle."
Of course she remembered—and not for the first time.
There were moments, few though they were, when she stole inside herself to a quiet place untouched by the world around her. And sometimes that day in the garden returned to her. Amid the tears had been Gabriel, a young man she'd only ever looked upon with disdain and fear of his influence upon her beloved Bernart. That day he'd spoken her name as he'd never spoken it, looked at her as he'd never looked at her. In that moment she'd longed to go into his arms and to find comfort from the pain curling inside her, but Bernart had called to her. Without another word, Gabriel had withdrawn, leaving Bernart to plead forgiveness for his faithlessness.
"Surely you have not forgotten," Gabriel prompted.
She blinked, feeling embarrassment heat her cheeks. "I fear I know not what you speak of, Lord De Vere. Surely you have me confused with another." She stood.
He laid a staying hand to her arm. "It was you."
Her heart pounded more fiercely as she stared at the strong, tanned fingers that warmed her through the sleeve of her gown, the same fingers that would touch her again this eve. Dear God. She jerked her arm free. "I must tend to my duties." She tried to step around Gabriel. Unfortunately there was not enough room between him and the rosebushes that lined the pathway.
"How did it happen?" he asked.
Juliana did not like being so near him. It was much too hard to breathe. She took a step back. "What?"
"I speak of Alaiz. Were not your tears for her?"
Indignation shot through Juliana. "You were keeping watch on us?"
"I was on my way to the kitchens when I heard voices."
Then he had not sought her out, did not know it was she who had come to his bed. Though she was relieved, the knowledge that she'd been beneath Gabriel's regard deepened her embarrassment. "A man of honor always makes his presence known to others."
"I am a long time without honor."
And excommunicated, earning his living in a manner forbidden by the church. "As I said, I have duties—"
"You have not answered my question. What happened to Alaiz?"
Why did he care? No one else did. They stared, or else pretended Alaiz did not exist, but never inquired about her. Why Gabriel? Why this man who was not supposed to possess a heart? Though Juliana owed him no explanation, she found herself offering one. "A year ago, she was thrown from a horse. She struck her head on a rock and has not been the same since."
"I am sorry. I remember her as being wise for one so young."
He sounded as if he truly regretted Alaiz's loss. Why that should sting Juliana's eyes with tears, she didn't care to know. She looked away. " 'Tis the reason she is so wary of horses."
"And the reason you did not ride to the tournament yesterday. You care much for your sister."
Care? The word did not begin to touch the feelings she had for Alaiz, who was all Juliana had in this world. Forgetting herself, she said, "I love her. Know you anything of that emotion, Lord De Vere?"
He arched an eyebrow.
"I thought not. I would do anything for my sister. Anything." As she had done last eve and would do twice more until her debt to Bernart was paid.
"What of Bernart?" Gabriel asked. "Well I remember a girl whose eyes could not touch upon him without her heart bounding from them, but no longer. Is that the emotion of which you speak, Lady Ju
liana? That which you vowed would endure a hundred lifetimes, but has died?"
His words cut more sharply than the finest blade. How she longed to proclaim her love for Bernart, but she'd never been good at lying or concealing her emotions— ever putting her heart out for all to criticize. She lifted her chin. "You expected otherwise? You who laughed at me, scorned my notions of love and chivalry? How pleased you must be now that you are proven right."
Something flickered in his eyes. "What comes between you and him?"
Bitter laughter parted her lips. "Surely you have not forgotten Acre? Or perhaps you have."
His voice tightened. "Bernart is not enough of a man for you?"
He knew? Juliana's heart jammed in her throat a moment before realization dislodged it. It was Bernart's limp he referred to, and he implied it was the reason for the state of her marriage. That the fault was hers. Anger flooded her. How she wished she could set Gabriel right, put the blame where it belonged, but it was not her place. " 'Tis true Bernart came back a changed man"—more than Gabriel would ever know—"but it was not the injury done his leg that changed him. It was betrayal. That is something you understand, do you not?"
The only evidence her words had an impact was a slight flush of color that rose up his neck and darkened the bruise on his cheekbone. How had he come by it? He must have been felled in tournament. "Will you step aside," she asked, "or shall I go through the rosebushes?"
He let her pass.
Juliana was halfway down the path when he called to her. Though she knew she ought to continue on, she turned.
His pale eyes captured hers. "I am not the devil you think I am, Juliana." He omitted her title as if they were intimates—and they were. "I did not easily surrender my friendship with Bernart."
Something in his voice slipped past her defenses and tested the strength of her enmity. She remembered the sight of him on the battlefield yesterday, as removed from a coward as the earth was from the stars. She wavered between the desire to flee and that which longed for an answer. "Why did you not go with him?" she finally asked. "Why did you turn the others away? You were his friend."