Jonathan took Sibelle's delicate little hand from Yves's and placed it in Stephan's. Jane watched, her joy mixed with curiosity as the wedding proceeded. It was very different from the ceremony she thought of as a wedding. First, Yves read the marriage agreement aloud. During the recitation, someone, she thought it was Hugh of Lilydrake, kept hawking and spitting on the flagstones.
Then Jonathan listened as the couple exchanged vows. He blessed them as Stephan then put not one,
but three rings on the fingers of Sibelle's right hand. The last and largest ring was slipped onto her ring finger while Jonathan murmured a benediction.
When Sibelle knelt and prostrated herself before Stephan, Jane stiffened all over with shock. She felt herself staring, a shudder going through her. She was a historian, and medieval history was her specialty;
she knew as much about these people's customs as had been recorded. She'd read about this bridal submission. Witnessing the gesture Sibelle made so easily shocked her to the core of her being.
I really am an alien here, she thought. I could never do that. I. want out.
Stephan helped the girl to her feet, smiling lovingly into her adoring eyes. The crowd cheered, and they kissed while Jonathan's prayers rolled over them, good Church Latin sealing the happy couple as man and wife in the eyes of God and man. Jonathan eventually had to tap Stephan hard on the shoulder to keep the kiss from turning into a more erotic spectacle on the castle steps.
"You should be ashamed," he whispered jokingly to the young knight.
Stephan delicately touched a lovebite showing on his long throat. "Me?" Sibelle rested her head on his chest, shoulders quivering with unabashed laughter. "Come, love," Stephan said to her. "Let's lead these good people into the feast."
Her eyes sparked up at him. "Soonest begun, soonest done," she told him.
"My thoughts exactly," he agreed. He put his arm around her shoulder. Holding his wife close to his side. Sir Stephan led the way into his hall.
Sir Daffyd arrived just as everyone was seated at the tables. The man did know how to make an entrance, Jane thought, watching him as he stood poised in the screen doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the faces in the hall. He gave the faintest of nods in Lilydrake's direction, and kept his left hand resting easily on his sword hilt. For once he wasn't dressed in armor, but for a party. Jane found herself gazing, mesmerized, at the strong sure hand, fingers curled loosely on his weapon. A shiver raced up her spine, and she forced herself to look elsewhere. She still couldn't take her eyes off Daffyd.
He was wearing a tight-sleeved black undertunic, which emphasized his long, strong arms. It was covered with a long, belted tunic of rich scarlet. Metallic gold embroidery trimmed the slit front, the short, belled sleeves, and the hem swinging around his calves. His long hair glistened cleanly to well below his shoulders, its thick texture and natural curl enough to make even Sibelle jealous.
He certainly cleaned up well, Jane conceded, as if by making flippant mental comments, she could ignore her racing heart.
After making his greetings to the bride and groom, Daffyd's eyes found hers. She was seated to Sir Stephan's right, between Jonathan and Osbeorn. She signaled for another chair to be brought. She didn't mean for Michael to squeeze the seat between her and the gently soused Osbeorn. Once it was done, she couldn't very well order the man be placed anywhere besides next to her. He came around the table and
slid onto the chair.
"You're looking well, lady," he said in greeting. "Much better than when we last met."
She gave the Welshman a nod. His size and
masculine presence made her nervous. Vivid memories assailed her. The way he'd stroked her bruised cheek. His rich voice teasing her with a bet. His eyes roaming boldly over her while he stood naked before her. The smile as he killed her would-be rapist. Her flesh went hot, then cold. She turned her attention to the safe presence of the priest.
His blue eyes smiled gently into hers. She had to take a sip of wine to clear her dry throat before she spoke. "Citrom? It doesn't sound like a Norman name."
"It's not," he answered. "It's what I've been called since I was a lad."
"Oh," she encouraged.
"My family holds a stronghold on Sicily; I was born there. There are citrus orchards on the estate. Citrom is a pet name a Magyar slave gave me when I was young." His smile held fond remembrance. "I think it means 'lemon' in his rough language."
She was very aware of Sir Daffyd's hand reaching across the table to snatch a piece of bread, of his fingers slowly tearing the piece to bits. "Really," she said. "How interesting."
"How interesting," Sir Daffyd echoed mockingly beside her.
She kept her back half-turned to him and went on. "You've traveled far from Sicily. I was there once." She had spent a summer in college working on an archaeological dig. She hated to think the ruins of the Norman keep she'd helped painstakingly uncover might have been where the Templar priest was born. "After my husband died," she added.
"On your long journey to England?"
"Yes."
"Do you miss your husband much?" Daffyd asked, the purr of his voice very close to her ear.
She was beginning to think Sir Daffyd's caustic comments were a play for her attention. Could it be he was jealous of her talking to Father Jonathan? No. Impossible. She too clearly recalled his remarks when he'd called off their bet. His interest in her had been a "joke."
Michael appeared, holding a clay jug almost as big as he was. He refilled her cup and Jonathan's, then turned, too quickly, to Sir Daffyd. Wine splashed out on the scarlet tunic. The man jumped in surprise.
Jane put out a protective hand, placing herself between the boy and the knight. Her hand brushed against the Welshman's in passing. The warm touch of flesh to flesh sent a searing shock of desire through her. She calmed herself with the stern reminder that she had the boy's safety to worry about. "He meant no harm," she said quickly, afraid the accident might rouse the man's temper.
He calmly brushed fingers over the damp spot, looking at her as if he thought she were mad. "No harm done," he said. "No need for wine, either, lad." He gestured Michael away. "I never drink anything stronger than ale, and never much of that."
Jane couldn't help but ask, "Why?"
"Because when I drink," he told her, "I think I'm God." Old pain haunted his eyes.
"I have news," he added now that he had her attention and before she could ask any more questions. He glanced briefly down the table to where Sibelle and Stephan were sharing their plate and cup, continually touching and whispering lovingly to each other. "It can wait for a while," he decided. His eyes held hers for another long instant.
Jonathan touched her sleeve suddenly. She jumped and turned away from Daffyd. "What?"
Jonathan was looking at her thoughtfully. "Something just occurred to me, my lady. Perhaps, if you're intent on entering the convent—"
"Oh, she is," Daffyd chimed in.
Both she and Jonathan ignored him. Jonathan went on. "You could travel with me when I return to France. I could take you down to Anjou, to Fontre—"
"I've been to Anjou," Daffyd cut in again.
She threw him a sour look. "I would rather found my own order," she told Jonathan. "Though perhaps I could do it in France as easily as in England. Easier, I suppose, since the Church is there to grant its blessing."
He nodded, then added with a wicked smile, "I still think you should marry." He looked around Daffyd to Osbeorn, whose attention had been caught by the word marriage. "Lord Osbeorn has need of a wife," Jonathan went on.
She felt herself blanching. "I—"
"And Yves of Sturry asked me about you after the ceremony. Another fine man willing to share the holy sacrament of matrimony with a good, devout woman. Wouldn't it be a shame to waste her beauty in a convent, Sir Daffyd?" Jonathan inquired of the Welshman.
Daffyd's face bore no expression. His rich voice was carefully controlled. "It's nothin
g to me if the lady wishes to give herself to God, or even Hugh of Lilydrake, for that matter." His eyes raked over her coldly. "It's nothing to me," he repeated, his voice softer this time.
She didn't understand the pain stabbing through her at his repudiation. She couldn't understand what the man wanted of her, either. One moment his voice and eyes teased her with seductive promises, the next he pushed her cruelly away.
"Lilydrake?" Osbeorn said, suddenly somewhat alert. He peered at Jonathan indignantly. "I saw the woman first. Fine-looking woman. Bear fine sons. Lilydrake's got no feelings for children or anything else." He went back to his wine cup, mumbling, "Saw
her first."
Jonathan's eyes sparkled with amusement. "He's a good father, at least."
"I don't want him," she said quietly but firmly. She raised her wine cup to her lips.
"What about Yves, then?" the priest persisted.
"King John," Daffyd spoke up over Jonathan's question, "will be arriving at Passfair with a hunting party in two days' time."
20
Jane's, cup crashed onto the table. Her eyes flew to Daffyd's face. "You're joking!"
His lips twitched up in his customary smirk. "No." He jerked his head in the bride and groom's direction. "The news can wait for them until mom-ing. But I thought you, as chatelaine, would need word sooner."
Then why hadn't he told her half an hour ago? He had her full attention now. His green-flecked eyes were full of triumphant amusement. "We have two days to prepare for the king?" she went on frantically. "What's the king doing coming here? Passfair's just a little keep, a minor holding."
"It borders on Blean Forest," Daffyd reminded her. "A royal forest where kings come to hunt."
She rubbed her temples tiredly. "Thank God the place is at least clean."
He gave a deep chuckle. "His Majesty travels with his own pavilions, so I'm told. He'll use the hall for feasting, and holding court, perhaps. He'll certainly require a great many of Passfair's provisions for himself and his attendants. Pray the harvest is a good one, Lady Jehane, if you don't want to starve after paying for the privilege of seeing a king."
He picked up his ale cup and shouted for quiet. His voice had power and authority enough to get the noisy throng's attention immediately. He used his expressive voice to make a flowery toast to the bride and groom while Jane sat in stunned worry.
"He should have been a herald," Jonathan murmured in her ear.
She didn't pay any attention to the priest. Or any attention to the toast to the happy couple Sir Daffyd offered in slyly amused, flattering words. There was a great deal of cheering. Jane stared at her hands, oblivious of the spilled wine dripping down from the table onto her pale skirts. I don't want the king to come here, she thought morosely.
She looked up and around the hall. Everyone was on their feet, laughing and shouting good wishes and hopes for many children. Switha and Cerdic were among the village folk given their own table in the hall. They had their arms tightly around each other's waists; Switha had flowers braided in her hair. Bertram was standing in his usual spot by the door, his broken teeth bared in a hearty laugh, but still alert as ever to the needs of those he served. Alais and Marguerite, and Raoul DeCorte were sharing a table with the guests' older children and retainers. Stephan and Sibelle were standing; voices urged them upstairs.
This had become her home, she thought unhappily. The king was coming here. King John. John Lackland. Why didn't he go to Sturry? A baron's castle
would be a more appropriate place to house a king.
Because the baron was slowly and painfully dying, and John had a morbid fear of death. The historian in her head reeled off facts. The last-bom and least-gifted son of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, he had been—he was! She knew too much, she thought desperately. What if she somehow, some way, did or said something around him that could change the course of history? Making small changes in a tiny corner of Kent was one thing, but anything to do with the life of a king was too risky. She had to get away.
Jonathan got to his feet, everyone else at the table following him. lane moved with them automatically, her mind both numb and racing. Sir Daffyd was at her elbow. She was aware of his nearness, his overpowering presence. She was half tempted to reach out to him for support, to beg him to ride with her away from this place. She was feeling so desperate. He'd saved her once; a part of her believed she could trust him to save her again.
They were separated as all the people in the hall tried to mount the staircase at once. It was a friendly crush, noble jostling peasant in boisterous equanimity and getting jostled back cheerfully. Jane tried to step out of it then, thinking to make a run for the stables, but Cerdic grabbed her around the waist and pulled her along as he passed. She was halfway up the steps before she was able to disentangle herself. By then it was too late to turn back.
The bawdy, laughing crowd mingled together on the narrow stair. Jane flowed along with the mass up to the second floor but hesitated in the narrow hallway as others shoved and pushed toward the staircase leading to bower and bedchamber. She was unable to squeeze out of the way until she edged over to the wall at the bottom of the second-floor staircase. She waited there, pressed against the solid stone. She was in no mood to be a part of this bawdy, classically medieval bedding scene right now.
To her surprise, a tall figure stepped out of the passing throng, joining her in the shadows. She turned her eyes up to Sir Daffyd's face, half in light, half in shadow. The lines of his face and the shadowed hollows of his cheeks were starkly outlined by the flame of the nearest torch.
"What?" he purred, edging close to her as the last of the revelers straggled up to attend the blessing of the bedded couple. "Not anxious to witness the rest of the wedding?"
She could manage only a slight shake of her head.
"You're pale," he said, though she didn't know how he could tell in the dim light. "Could it be you're reminded of your own marriage bed?" He leaned closer. He wasn't so much taller than she, six inches, maybe. Why did looking up at him give her vertigo? "Could it be you miss the pleasures of marriage?"
What pleasures of marriage? What was the man talking about? She'd never been married. Why was he standing so close? Didn't he know the king was coming and she had to get away? Why did his lips look so soft and strong at the same time? How could lavender mixed with sweat smell so wonderfully masculine? His hands touched her waist. She felt the warmth and strength of his hands, the layers of her silk clothing sliding sensuously across her skin as he drew her forward against him. She tilted her head up to look him in the eye, her mouth opened to speak.
He whispered,"Jehane."
Growing suddenly weak with desire, she found herself melting longingly against him. Then his lips covered hers and she couldn't remember what she'd started to say. Then she didn't want to say anything as her lips opened hungrily beneath the questing insistence of his tongue. It was a demanding kiss, filling her with heat and pent-up need. The air around them seemed to burst into flame as she answered his hunger with her own. He cupped the back of her head with one large palm. The grip of his other hand on her waist grew tighter, pressing her closer. She clung to him, drinking in the pleasure from his mouth and his strong, muscular body. Her fingers sifted through the luxurious, soft waves of his hair.
He was stronger, more overpoweringly masculine, than she'd ever dreamed.
Dreamed. This wasn't a dream. The realization that this was very real brought Jane jokingly back to her senses. There was only a moment's surprised resistance from Daffyd when she tensed, then broke away from him.
"What are you doing?" she demanded shrilly, slithering backward along the wall just in time to avoid his hand grazing her cheek. She continued backing, crabwise, along the wall.
"Jehane .. ." His voice followed her. "Damn."
She turned her back on him, hurrying toward her door.
Where she found Hugh of Lilydrake waiting, lounging with arms cros
sed, next to the door. She'd recovered her composure by the time she came up to him. Far from being startled at the way he ran his eyes lasciviously over her form, she responded with an annoyed "What do you want?" She found herself repeating Daffyd's gesture as she fingered the small dagger on her belt.
He didn't take the hint. He took a step closer. "I'm going to take my pleasure with you, woman," he declared. "The boy won't be wanting you tonight. No need for you to be coy."
Before he could say or do anything that would have required her shedding blood, Daffyd came sauntering nonchalantly down the hall. "Hugh," he said cheerfully, stopping by her side. "I thought you were in Normandy."
"I'm not," the lord of Lilydrake answered shortly.
"Pity. Too bad you missed the excitement of the fair. No, you must have been back by then, surely."
"No."
"Then you wouldn't have heard about the ambush at Stourford?"
"No."
"No? With the news of it running all over the countryside?"
"I'm not interested in local gossip."
Something in the way Daffyd questioned the nasty little man reminded Jane of a police detective questioning a suspect. It reminded her that Daffyd was a policeman of sorts. What was his official title? Did he report to a sheriff or directly to the king? Whoever it was, she got the impression Daffyd ap Bleddyn was a law unto himself, whatever his place in the feudal hierarchy. Right now his stalwart presence was making Hugh of Lilydrake uncomfortable as they stood hostilely, toe to toe, before her door.
"I'm going to bed," she announced as the staring
match went on. "God's blessing on you both," she added, opening the door.
When she stepped through. Sir Daffyd leaned a stout shoulder on the wood and pushed in after her. He closed the door on Hugh's frustrated exclamation. "Get out of here!" she shouted. "And let Hugh in?" he countered. He bent an ear to the solid wood, putting a finger to his lips to shush her as he listened. "He's still out there pacing like a caged jackal. You must really inflame his passions. Lady Jehane."
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