Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  she'd felt how muscular he was when she rode with him back to the castle. It just hadn't occurred to her working mind that the hard-muscled body would be this beautiful. His flesh was so, so perfect, the lines perfectly proportioned. Her fingers began itching to trace the outline of his upper arms and pectoral mus­cles. To follow the curve of his chest down to ...

  She gave a hard swallow and cleared her throat.

  He didn't seem particularly embarrassed. He was, in fact, smirking in an insufferably self-satisfied way. He was perfectly aware he was gorgeous. It made her want to kick him.

  Annoyance helped her recall her dignity. "What,"

  she demanded a bit belatedly, "are you doing here?" "I was going to take a bath," he replied instantly. "How did you get in here?"

  He glanced at a pile of clothing in a comer. It sud­denly occurred to her that he'd been the soldier who'd come in during the night. Of course, it couldn't have been anyone else. She'd heard chain mail. No mere man-at-arms was equipped with such expensive armor.

  "Why did Berthild let you in here?"

  He shrugged. She really wished he would cover himself. She really wished she could take her eyes off him.

  "I always sleep here when I visit Passfair. Actual­ly"—he put his hands on his narrow waist and looked her up and down—"I've always taken the bed in the alcove before."

  Her skin went hot all over again. It was a heat that began and concentrated most fiercely in the deep core of her. The look in his eyes was enough to start a sensual prickling along her nerve endings. She gripped the fur tighter around her body. She sudden­ly felt vulnerable and far too much alone. She was a giantess to all the others, but near Daffyd ap Bleddyn she felt small and vulnerable. If he took a step toward her, she didn't know what she'd do. She didn't know what she wanted to do.

  "Get out," she said, her voice ragged with tension.

  The smirk turned into a full-fledged leer. "The water's nice and warm." He gestured to the tub. "Care to join me?"

  "Get out!" she repeated, louder this time. "You have no business being in my quarters. Sir Daffyd."

  "You didn't seem to mind a few moments ago." He took the step forward she'd been fearing. "What's wrong now?"

  She stood her ground, though she wanted to duck around him and run down to the hall. She'd be safe there, surrounded by people who listened to her when she gave them an order.

  "I'm not interested in any dalliance," she told him fiercely. "Not with you!"

  "Who do you have in mind?" his deep, chocolate voice rumbled sarcastically. "With the lad gone there's not much else of interest available." The leer turned into a very seductive smile. "I'm available."

  "I'm not," she snapped angrily. "I'm going to be a nun."

  "You weren't looking at me like any nun I've known." The superior smirk returned. "At least not at first."

  "I'm a widow," she pointed out hastily, refusing to show just how much he was both embarrassing and infuriating her. "I know what a man's for and how to look at one. I was comparing you to my dear, late lord." She drew herself up haughtily. "And believe me. Sir Daffyd, I found you wanting."

  He shrugged again. "Suit yourself, lady." He turned toward the bath. And climbed in while she stood sputtering in indignation. As he sank into the water, he added, "I thought you were the one who was wanting."

  He then proceeded nonchalantly to scrub himself while she fled back into the alcove. She dressed hur­riedly, then marched through the storeroom, head held high, eyes averted. His deep laughter followed her all the way to the hall.

  She was barely calm enough to face him by the

  time he came sauntering down the stairs, fully clothed at last. She finished her conversation with the cook while the Welshman grabbed himself a break­fast of bread and cheese. Even though he was at the table, and she was half a room away from him at the hearth, she was far too aware of his every move. After the cook went back to his duties. Sir Daffyd approached her.

  "You are leaving this morning, aren't you, Sir Daffyd?" she inquired with chilly politeness as he came to the hearth.

  His hazel-green eyes were bright with wicked amusement. "After I speak with Lady Sibelle, yes."

  "Lady Sibelle is indisposed. I'm afraid she won't be able to see you. In fact," she added, "Lady Sibelle is going to be too busy to see anyone for some time to come."

  He crossed his arms, the amusement in his expres­sion turning to skepticism. "Busy? Doing what?"

  She had to tell somebody. She was dying to tell somebody. This arrogant Welshman would just have to do. "She will be busy being turned into the sort of bride Sir Stephan wishes. It's a lady's duty to please her lord, after all," she added in justification of her plan. "My duty is to help her."

  "Help her what? I hear the girl's a witless, fat lump."

  "Not witless. And lumps can be rearranged. It just takes a little work."

  "I doubt it can be done."

  "How do you know? You've never even met the girl."

  "I would if you'd give me the chance."

  She discovered she and Sir Daffyd were standing nose to nose, their hands-on-hips stances mirroring each other. She took a step back. "The lady is indis­posed," she repeated.

  He gave a frustrated growl, but before they could resume the argument, DeCorte and two men in black surcoats similar to Sir Daffyd's came hurrying into the hall.

  "Sir Daffyd," DeCorte boomed out. "News of Sikes."

  Sir Daffyd deserted the hearth to speak to the men. "Where?"

  "A group of merchants were attacked on the Can­terbury road. Five miles west of the town. Two dead."

  "Damn! I thought the outlaws were holed up in Blean; instead they've circled around behind us. How many men did you bring from Reculver?"

  "Ten."

  "Fine. Let's ride." He glanced at DeCorte. "Have someone saddle my horse."

  "Lady Jehane already ordered your horse saddled."

  "I see." He threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Out," he ordered his men. He waited a moment after they'd gone. "Lady Jehane?" His voice dripped with honey.

  "Yes?"

  "I'll offer you a wager about the girl."

  "Oh? What is there to wager about?" Somehow she felt up to any challenge the man could offer.

  "I'll wager there's no improving the girl," he dared her. "I'll give you two months to prove to me I'm wrong. What say you?"

  Jehane remembered her bags full of silks and gems and spices. They made her a very rich woman. She was thoroughly annoyed by his com-

  placent certainty. "All right," she agreed.

  He fingered the heavy gold hoop in his right ear. "This might look well on you."

  As if anyone would ever see her earlobes. Still, it was very nice. More important, she'd know she'd won it from the disdainful Sir Daffyd. Fair and square. "I can match its value," she confirmed.

  He shook his head slowly, his face taking on a sul­try expression as his eyes caressed her from head to foot. His voice was a seductive purr when he told her, "I don't want your gold."

  He didn't want gold? "Silk or spices?" she ques­tioned.

  Another negative shake of his head. His eyes caught hers, and Sir Daffyd smiled. It wasn't the smirk she'd seen before; this was a sensual curving of the lips. His gold-flecked eyes glowed heatedly. It set Jane's blood racing. "I'll have you, lady," he told her.

  Jane's breath caught in her throat. For a moment she was frozen, half in surprise, half in hope. Then he laughed softly, and outrage took over from other stunned senses.

  He turned on his heel and was out of the hall before she could find anything to throw at him.

  Just as well she hadn't tried to kill him, she fumed after he was gone. The man was too dangerous to provoke physically. She would never, ever give him an excuse to touch her. Besides, she added, more angry at herself than the Welshman, she should have seen that coming.

  It was just a joke, wasn't it? He wouldn't. . .want to . . . you know . . . bed me, as they say in these parts
.

  She had two months to find out. Two months. But it wasn't Sir Daffyd she should be worrying about. Who knew how long it would be before Stephan returned? She had to have results by then.

  She grabbed her cape and hurried to the village to talk to Switha.

  10

  As Jane expected, she found Sibelle in the bedroom, on her knees, head bent in deep prayer. Nei­ther Marguerite nor Alais had hassled her about com­ing into the bower this time. In fact, the women seemed happy to see her. After poking her head briefly into the bedroom to check on the girl, Jane drew the older women aside.

  "Do you want your mistress to be happy?" she asked.

  "Oh, yes," Alais answered fervently.

  "More than anything!" Marguerite echoed her senti­ment with a decisive nod.

  "Good. So do I."

  "Why?" Marguerite asked suspiciously, very much the dragon ready to defend her young.

  Jane knew she could just order the women back to Sturry if they balked at her plans. She'd rather have their help. They'd probably been with Sibelle all her life. She seemed fond of them and they of her. It would be much better to have them encouraging and support­ive over the next few months. There wasn't any overnight cure to Sibelle's problems. The more peo­ple she had around her to help, the easier it would be for her.

  Jane sat down on the window bench and motioned the women to be seated on the long bench next to the disused loom. She tucked her hands in her sleeves and leaned forward. Speaking in a low, confidential voice, she said, "The sooner I can enter an abbey, the happier I will be."

  Alais nodded sympathetically. "I do miss the life at Davington."

  "As do I," Marguerite chimed in, but not quite so enthusiastically.

  "But my duty is also to care for Passfair," Jane explained with wistful resignation. "And my dear, kind kinsman Stephan." The women's expressions got a bit dreamy at the mention of this paragon of chivalry.

  "He deserves a good wife," Jane continued. "One who can serve him. One who can cheerfully make his life comfortable and pleasant and give him all a man desires. Since your lady will be his wife, her duty is to serve him as he wishes to be served."

  "Of course," Alais agreed wholeheartedly.

  Marguerite nodded.

  "I think Sibelle will be happiest if she can serve him properly."

  Marguerite's nod was thoughtful this time. "Yes. That only makes sense."

  "It would be awful for her if she couldn't please him," Alais contributed. "She's a gentle thing. It would be dreadful for her to be beaten and locked away."

  "And just because she doesn't really know how to please him." Jane shook her head sadly at the perfidy of the male race. "Sir Stephan is—rightly, of course— very demanding of his womenfolk. Very strict. There's so much she needs to learn before she can truly satisfy him. So much I would like to teach her before the day comes when I can take my vows at a house of prayer."

  "Oh, do you think you can help her?" Alais asked eagerly. "My poor lamb knows nothing of the world."

  "Nothing of men," Marguerite added tartly. "The monsters."

  Jane clasped her hands together fervently. "I so want to try. Will you help me? I can't change her ways unless I have the two of you—her loving and constant companions and confidantes—to help keep her on the path that will bring her whatever joy a woman can find in this life."

  "Oh, of course. Lady Jehane!" Alais breathed rev­erently. "Anything!"

  Marguerite's reply was more fatalistic. "The rule of an order, or the rule of a husband, neither is any dif­ferent as far as obeying goes. All a woman must do is give herself up to the command of her superiors, and pray for the strength to never waver."

  "I knew you'd understand. Thank you," Jane said, rising from the bench. "We will have a long talk this afternoon. Then I will tell you what needs to be done. Now I must talk to Sibelle."

  "Of course," Alais answered, dark eyes alight with fervor and affection. "Go in to her. Hurry. We'll await your commands."

  Jane gave the women a grateful smile. She hoped her shoulders weren't shaking too much with sup­pressed laughter as she crossed the bower to the bed­room.

  Sibelle was still praying, head bent and hands clasped tightly.

  Jane considered her thoughtfully. The girl was fif­teen years old, and she'd seen how she looked at Stephan. There was more on her mind than God. Even if she didn't exactly know what it is. She said, "Lady Sibelle."

  The girl looked up immediately. "Lady Jehane." She crossed herself, then sprang up, agile despite her bulk. She stood uncertainly, all of five feet one, cov­ered in more layers of mismatched finery than Jane could count.

  Jane studied the nervously waiting girl with a dressmaker's eye. .How much bulk was there, really? Thirty pounds? Forty? Hard to say. She was fine-boned. Toning up a lot of unused muscle would help. Spring or summer coloring. Strong pastels would look good on her. The shades from modern dyes in the silks Jane had brought would suit Sibelle better than the natural fiber dyes of the period. But she wasn't going to worry about clothes yet. Attitude adjustment first, wardrobe later. A reward for good behavior.

  "Let's sit and talk," Jane said. Most of the small bedroom was taken up by the wide bed. There was a big clothes chest at the foot of the bed, a narrow win­dow seat and a short bench near the door. Jane seated herself on the chest while Sibelle chose the bench.

  "Word came from Sturry this morning," Sibelle said abruptly. "My father still lives, though he's coughing up great gouts of blood. I was praying for his recovery."

  "We will all pray for it," Jane replied. "You're a dutiful child, Sibelle."

  "My father's wish was for me to spend my life in prayer."

  "I see. When did you enter Davington?" Sibelle's fingers twitched, as though she were using them to count the years. "I was seven." Her expression brightened with fond memory. "I was sent to keep my granny Rosamunde company. She was very old, and a very great lady. She had such wonder­ful stories to tell." She bent her head and sighed. "While she lived I was happy. Then there was nothing but prayer."

  "Which you're very good at," Jane commended her. "Still . . ." Sibelle's head rose in curiosity. "Still," Jane went on. "You're not under your father's com­mand anymore."

  "No." The idea seemed to take Sibelle by terrified surprise. Hand to veiled throat, she whispered hoarsely, "Sir Stephan . .."

  Jane nodded. "You must please him in all things."

  "I want to try!" The girl's big blue eyes were shin­ing with adoration.

  "I know what he wishes you to do. How he wishes you to behave when he returns."

  "You do?" The girl sprang up from her seat. Hold­ing her clasped hands out dramatically toward Jane, she vowed, "I will do anything you say!"

  Maybe this was going to be easier than she had expected, Jane thought with relief. "Good." She patted the bench. Sibelle came and sat beside her. "What do you know of courtly love? Of the rules of chivalry in courts like Eleanor of Aquitaine's? Have you heard of the Courts of Love and the songs of the troubadours?"

  "I know Granny didn't like Queen Eleanor," was Sibelle's answer.

  Jane ignored the urge to ask why. "Sir Stephan has been tutored in the ways of the Courts of Love," she said. "He will have his wife trained in all things gentle and amusing. A court lady must be knowledgeable in all the arts of pleasure."

  "Oh!" The girl's cheeks were covered in bright splashes of pink. Her naturally large eyes were so wide, Jane was afraid they were going to spill out of her head.

  She continued despite the girl's shock. "Pleasure of the senses, my dear. Not just of the flesh. You must learn to take pleasure in music." She just hoped there was somebody who knew how to play a lute at Passfair. "In the needle and the table. You must leam to manage a household so that its master is constant­ly at his ease. You must leam the pleasures of riding and the hunt. Can you use a bow? Can you ride a horse?"

  Sibelle shook her head at both questions. "I can weave. A little."

  "Good. I've
been meaning to have the loom repaired. As to riding and archery, you can learn. Raoul DeCorte and I will begin your lessons this very day." Thank God for Girl Scout Camp and Mom and the Medievalist Society.

  "But.. ."

  "Can you read? ... No. Well, I don't think we have any books at Passfair anyway. I grew up listening to the great poets who came to the court of Jerusalem. I will tell you all about Arthur, and Tristan and Isolde, and the feats of Guillaume le Marechal."

  "Granny had lots of stories about King Henry."

  Good for her, thought Jane. "And in order to start your training in running the household, I wish to ask a favor of you."

  "Yes?" Sibelle asked with eager fervor. "Whatever you wish."

  "The lady of a manor should know about nursing the sick."

  "Oh, yes," Sibelle agreed. "Easing the suffering of the ill is so important."

  "I thought you might think so. That's how I need you to help me."

  "To nurse the ill?"

  "Oh, much more than that, my dear." Jane took the girl's hands in hers and pressed them affection­ately. "Switha is very wise in the ways of herbs and cures and distilling medicines. She knows every heal­ing root and grass and flower in the area. Her apprentice died in last winter's fever. She needs someone to pass her knowledge on to. Who better to know the healing arts than the lady everyone must turn to for kindness and charity?"

  "Me?" .

  "You."

  "Do you think I could learn to be a healer?"

  She could certainly give it a shot. It would give the girl something useful to do with her life. A career rather than sitting home with an embroidery hoop while waiting for Stephan to put in an appearance. More important, Switha had already agreed to run Sibelle's buns off over every inch of hill and dale in the neighborhood. Nice, healthy, hard exercise com­bined with a practical education.

  "Of course you can do it," Jane enthused. "You must listen to Switha very carefully and do everything she tells you. Remember that she is your teacher and not just a peasant woman."

  Sibelle blinked her big eyes in wonder. It seemed the idea of doing something besides praying her life away was sinking pleasantly into her consciousness. "I will work very hard. I promise."