by Louisa Trent
Sage smiled back. “Feeling better?"
“Much."
“Good,” he said gruffly. “Your pets need you strong and healthy to tend to their needs."
“Sheep are not my pets,” she weakly replied. “They are my occupation."
“Forgive my mistake.” He clutched her hand.
“No need to speak the words,” she whispered.
And then her eyes closed and she drifted back to sleep, a restful slumber this time.
Had she read his mind? Did she understand that he was trying to tell her he was wrong about more than the blasted sheep?
He had brought her sheep, given her a hut, both payment for the use of her body. That was the bargain.
Love was not part of the bargain.
Aeschine said she loved him. And he had realized the day of his return that what he felt for her far surpassed any mere bargain. He needed her. He needed her more than he thought it possible to need another person. The all-encompassing extent of that need frightened him.
“Forgive me, milady,” he pleaded again.
But Aeschine slept on, oblivious.
* * * *
“Oh, Ellen, do hurry!” Aeschine cried. “Sage promised to take me outside for a walk today."
“Do not think to hurry a woman with a belly the size of mine,” her maid grumbled and continued combing her mistress’ hair, which hung free to Aeschine's hips. “Remember, himself said you are not to overexert the first day out of sickbed."
“Taking a walk is hardly overexerting!"
“Tell that to your man, not me."
“He is not my man. I am his whore and he is my captor."
Ellen clucked her tongue. “I should have such a captor! He would let no hands but his touch you when you took to sickbed. He is a man obsessed."
“Aye. By guilt, by revenge, by jealousy—he is obsessed!"
“Nay, by you,” Ellen said. “Never have I seen such constancy."
“After his hovering in the sickroom, I would prefer some inconstancy. One would think the overlord of Cheviot Hills had naught better to do than spoon gruel down my throat. He will not leave me be. He goes so far as to hold my head up over the chamber pot when I am sick. Why will he not quit?"
“He loves you."
Aeschine shook her head free of the ivory comb. “He loves only his dead wife.” She stared at her feet. “He does not come to my bed."
Ellen twittered. “You were ill! He will come to you soon enough, now that you are restored to health. Look at those bonnie roses blooming in your cheeks! He will not stay away."
“Ah, but he has Lady Yseult to entertain him now. Her cheeks are plenty rosy enough..."
“What a bitch that lady is!"
“Ellen, have a care,” Aeschine reprimanded her maid. “Your language!
“Talk about the kettle calling the caldron black! You swore oath after oath at the warlord when he bathed you. But I tell you this in plain tongue: that brother and sister need watching. Both roll in the gutter. That lady, and I use the term loosely, spends her days in the stables with the grooms, and her brother has veritable orgies in his chamber each night. Two, three peasant women at a time he summons to his bed. They are not even whores. ‘Tis a disgrace to use servants that way when this fortress is crawling with prostitutes."
“Has he bothered you?"
“What! With my big belly and Will always at my side? D'Aubrienne would not dare."
“I have not met either D'Aubrienne yet. Mayhap, I should avoid the introduction,” Aeschine commented.
“Mayhap you should. They are trouble, the both of them."
Aeschine wandered to the arrow loop. During her lengthy recuperation, the warlord had ordered the window uncovered so that sunlight might freely stream inside the chamber, and now as she looked out onto the courtyard she worried about her place in her lover's life.
Sage had always held himself back from her, had always kept a part of himself at a distance, even when making love. Since her illness, the distance between them had widened. The warlord was solicitous, kind, considerate—a sure indicator that his lusty feelings for her had mellowed to a tepid fond regard.
Who needs tepid? She needed heat, fire, a roaring blaze. Nothing less than making Sage's blood boil would do. She would never gain his love if she could not even keep his man's passions burning bright.
Sage was virile. A powerful warlord. Now that he had forsaken celibacy, he might bed any woman he chose. He made no secret of his want of a child. Lady Yseult could give him that heir. For all she knew, Sage had already planted his seed very conveniently in his guest's eminently suitable belly.
Nay, Ellen was wrong. Aeschine thought, gazing out on the flurry of activity in the courtyard. Sage would never visit her bed again...
Aeschine frowned. What went on down there in the courtyard?
“Ellen!” she shrieked, never lifting her sights from a man in chains. He was fair of skin and hair, neither too tall, nor too short, and dressed in the simple and sturdy garb of a shepherd. “There is a prisoner newly arrived to the keep."
The maid wobbled over. “So?"
“I think I know him!” She squinted. “Aye! ‘Tis Peter. Peter is here from my village in Scotland! However did he get here?” Her tone changed quickly from excitement to fretful. “And why is he manacled?"
Aeschine picked up her skirts and raced for the portal. “I must see what this is all about. Peter does not belong in chains..."
“What do I tell himself?” Ellen called after her mistress. “The warlord thought to take you for a walk!"
“Tell milord that I must postpone our walk as my dearest friend in all the world has arrived!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sage embraced John Tuttrell. “I am gladdened by your safe return, my friend! But tell me, who is that man in chains? And why is my leman embracing him?"
“In answer to your first question: He is called Peter the Fair and he is a shepherd. As it so happens he is also a thief. I caught him stealing my leather sack. Nothing of value was inside, only foodstuffs. The man was obviously starving, but when I took off after him, I saw him give the food away to a family member. Having no choice, as we had witnesses, I declared him my prisoner, and put him in chains. When I heard of his shepherding skills, I took him with me when I left Aeschine's village."
“What!"
“ ‘Twas either that or whip the poor starving beggar and leave him there to die. He was damnably weak, too frail to survive a whipping."
“He does not look starved to me..."
“I should hope not! He has been wolfing down my share of meat every night."
So like John to give his food away! His friend's empathy was not the romantic kind so oft portrayed in the colorful and grand songs of chivalrous knights. Sage detested those flowery portrayals. No one would ever sing the praises of John's philanthropy, but his quiet championship of the poor is the reason why he was, and would always remain, his good friend—this, despite a background of noble rank and privilege that differed greatly from Sage's own more humble beginnings.
“And the starving family the noble prisoner stole for? What of them?” Sage asked dryly, knowing his friend's big heart only too well
“He has but a small family. One sister, actually. Fair of face and form, now that she has some food in her belly too. She will be along directly.” He turned. “Ah, and here she is now."
A peasant woman in a neat wren-brown kirtle and black shawl walked at the rear of John's traveling party. Though her hair was covered, her features subdued, anyone who cared to look would recognize her quiet beauty.
“I blame you not at all for bringing her along. She is fetching,” Sage imparted.
“True. But she is also an unworldly virgin. Not at all my tankard of ale.” John sighed and brushed a bit of dirt from his fashionable sleeve. “Now as to your second query: Why the shepherd is hugging your leman is anybody's guess."
Sage guessed that Peter the Shepherd was one of Aesc
hine's past lovers. He well understood the attraction between the two. They were much the same age. The peasant, Peter, was handsome of face and possessed a lean unscarred body. He was also arrogant enough to have taken up with a female far above his own station in life...
As Sage looked on, the prisoner twirled his leman around his courtyard, as though he owned both. Peasant stock thickened his blood, but this Peter had the necessary self-importance to take him someplace...
And Aeschine was laughing up into the sod's face in carefree delight.
Sage had never made her laugh like that! A smile. A giggle. A small chuckle. He had never managed more. Never had she succumbed to whooping laughter and mindless mirth in his company. Those two were acting like neither of them had a care in the world. Damnably irritating.
Sage started forward to break the lovers apart.
John caught his arm. “Let your jealousy show and you will lose her for sure."
“Me, jealous? Never! I am merely concerned about the lady's health. She has been sickly of late..."
John smiled. “Indeed."
To give the interloper some credit, Peter took great pains with Aeschine. He held her reverently, as though she might break, as he twirled her.
Sage cocked his ear when the ridiculous spinning ceased. “What are they saying? I can hear nothing with you jawing at me, John."
Ignoring his friend's warning glance, Sage took a menacing step. “You there! Shepherd! Aye, you. Take care with her. The lady is not as strong as she appears."
Peter shot Sage a look of unspoken challenge.
Sage, just in the mood, accepted it with a challenge of his own.
Aeschine, oblivious to the undercurrents, cried guilelessly, “'Tis my friend Peter, milord! From my village."
Friend?
Ha! Anyone with eyes in his skull could see more than friendship connected those two.
Sage had two good eyes, and a peasant would not cuckold him within his own gates!
“Come along now, Aeschine.” Sage held out a hand to his leman.
“Come along where?"
“Our walk. Remember? I promised I would take you today."
“Oh, you must have more important things to do..."
More important than seeing to Aeschine's care? There was naught more important than that! He did have pursuits that required his attention, but Aeschine had needed a breath of fresh air and so he had put everything else aside for the day just so that he might accompany her. Obviously, some people did not appreciate the sacrifice.
“You need exercise, puss."
She turned a dazzling smile not upon him, but upon the shepherd. “Will you not take me for a walk, Peter?"
Peter bowed at the waist, looking and acting very much the nobleman in his faded shepherd's garb and rusted prisoner chains. “If you will permit it, milord?"
Sage's mouth twisted. “She was recently ill..."
“Ill?” Peter asked, interrupting Sage's explanation. “Are you well now, milady?"
“The overlord has a tendency to exaggeration.” Aeschine patted the shepherd's hand. “I feel much better now that you are here."
John came up behind Sage and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Let them go. You and I really do have important matters to discuss."
“What of Peter's chains?” Aeschine looked from John to Sage. “Peter tells me that he is to help me with the sheep. He cannot act as a shepherd if he is in manacles."
“As Peter is not shepherding today, the manacles stay,” Sage replied, not giving into Aeschine's blatant bargaining.
“Fine, leave the chains, but please to keep in mind that should I swoon, I shall lie in a heap until Peter limps to the guard for help."
The thought of Aeschine lying prone and helpless in a ditch somewhere until a guard came to her assistance made his heart drop to his boot soles.
“Is the shepherd dangerous?” Sage swiftly asked John.
“Nay. He stole bread, not a life."
Sage gave the order: “Undo the man."
While the shepherd's ankles were freed, Sage said, “A guard will follow close behind on horseback. Should my lady feel faint, you shepherd, will run and get him. You will not touch her yourself. Are you listening, sheep man?"
“Aye, milord.
“Good. Make sure you return her well before dark. I am not nearly as charitable as the noble you stole from."
Sage was still following the shepherd's shuffling gait and Aeschine's happy bounce as the two crossed the drawbridge.
John nudged him to get his attention. “I found it, and just where you told me I would."
“Found what?” Sage asked, distracted.
A signet ring was placed in his palm.
“There's something else too.” John handed him a bloodstained glove. “Recognize the initials?"
Sage's fingers trembled at the contact; disgust thinned his voice. “These are LaTourne's gloves! Where did you find them?"
“Among the charred ruins of your in-laws keep."
Sage stared at the glove. “Here is the proof I have needed. And now that I see it, it sickens me. My own kinsman was responsible for Joan's death. My own cousin is the traitor instigating unrest on the borderlands. John, you must ride to court at once and show the glove to the King. There is tyranny in this glove."
“It would appear the blasphemous redhead is surrounded by those who would unseat him."
“According to DuFont, the landed nobility is becoming increasingly vocal in their opposition to the dues Rufus extracts. The henchman believes my kinsman leads the most virulent opposition."
John looked concerned. “The King gains much of his wealth from the collection of dues. He will not look favorably upon those opposed to the practice."
“Rufus does like his purse kept fat."
“That he does, which is why your cousin's ambitions will lose him his head, even if his murderous ways do not. But what of you? How will this impact you?"
“Rufus and I were once boyhood friends, but I no longer trust the man, nor does he fully trust me. However, as King, he holds my loyalty. Take the ring and LaTourne's gloves and remind the blasphemous redhead of a warm summer's day in our childhood when I saved his life. Tell him I hold Aeschine of Scotland for ... safekeeping until I prove her innocent of my cousin's treachery. Tell him, I ask for a stay in her execution.” Sage's chin sank as he ate his pride. “Tell him, I humbly beg for this boon."
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ugly Scottish whore,” shrilled Lady Yseult d'Aubrienne, tossing a garment on the bed. “Will you never listen? I told you to bring me your red gown today, not this plain blue one! Sage told me he likes me in red. Since you are little better than a servant in this keep, and a prostitute on top of it, what use have you for finery?"
“No use,” Aeschine answered.
“Then bring the red gown here immediately, you disgusting slut! I would wear the silk tonight."
To punctuate the order, Yseult slapped Aeschine full across the face.
Not willing to give the shrew the satisfaction of touching this latest welt, Aeschine turned on her bare feet and walked to the portal, shoulders back. Her garb was gone, but never her dignity.
“Stop wench!” Yseult shouted after her. “Take off that gown you are wearing. As it so happens, it also pleases Sage to see me in green. He told me so yesterday morn in bed. And I do so endeavor to please him.” Her eyes glittered maliciously. “In every way."
“I am sure you do.” Yseult's command had stopped her flight at the portal. Her fingers rose to the ties at the neck of the green gown.
The warlord's new paramour clucked her venomous tongue. “Sage talks to me about you. Pokes fun at your pathetic attempts to make him happy on the furs. He tells me you are flat where a lady should be round, tight where a lady should give. He says I am just right. He says he would memorialize my beauty in a sonnet. Has Sage ever written a sonnet to you, skinny, ugly, Scottish whore?"
“Nay,” Aeschine replied, tig
ht-lipped.
“That is because you, homely bag of bones, left him cold in bed. He does not go to you any more, does he?” she taunted.
Not since the shepherd's hut...
“Nay,” Aeschine replied.
“You are not woman enough to hold onto such a lover. Sage is quite the animal. The bedding blazes hotter than a dozen rushlights when he visits me in my chamber. But he is romantic too. La, his kisses! He never tires of my mouth. Lovemaking and kisses and poetry—what more would any lady wish for?"
“Nothing more,” Aeschine whispered.
“Did you say a babe? Well, I will have you know that I have already quickened. And well I should, as Sage has given me enough seed to father a dynasty of little brats. The warlord does so need sons—sired off a virtuous lady!” Yseult looked down her perfect nose at Aeschine.
How well Aeschine understood that as the warlord's discarded whore, her virtue was a tattered cloak. But that was not what made a sob rise up within her. What made her want to curl up in a ball and weep was the realization that she would never bear the captor's babe. Now that Yseult carried his child, her dream was shattered. There would be no babe born of her love of the Captor.
“Now that I have conceived, our betrothal will be announced. As soon as Sage and I wed, you slut, will be cast out of the solar and placed in the dungeon where you belong! Now, off with that gown!"
Eyes downcast, Aeschine removed the gown and handed it over.
Aeschine shivered in her shift.
Yseult looked her up and down. “Hmmm That undergarb is lovely. Give it here!"
“But Lady Yseult, I must wear something back to the tower! I cannot walk the halls naked!"
“Why ever not? All the other whores do. Or, at least they do when the warlord is not around to catch them and spout his tiresome sermons at them."
“The warlord is in the keep. I just saw him,” Aeschine said quickly.
“He is?” Yseult's features sharpened. “Oh, very well! I am too merciful for my own good. Go to my brother's chamber. He usually has an extra shift or two lying about. You may swap the one you are wearing for one you find there, and then return to me, lovely shift in hand. Now go, lest I change my mind!"