The king stood. "Come to me, Lady Jehane."
She jumped and backed up, into the solid wall of Daffyd's chest. "S-sire," she stammered. Daffyd prodded her in the spine with a finger. It loosened her tongue. "There are men here who plot to kill you. Please believe me," she pleaded with the king. His expression had gone cold as she spoke.
"Assassins?" he asked, voice deadly soft. He pointed to his breast. "People trying to kill me? Where did you hear this rumor, woman?"
"I heard it from the men trying to kill you," she told him. "When the conspirators met at the tower in the woods near here. I was in the tower." She heard
DeBourne's gasp. She hoped the king did also. "The men are plotting with a pretender, a man claiming to be Arthur of Brittany."
The king looked her over slowly, carefully. The room was dead silent. Even the boisterous fighters in the lower hall had stilled. The silence had spread out from the high table like a shock wave. She could feel Daffyd's heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breathing, from where she was pressed against him. The warmth and size of him at her back was comforting. She wanted to look up at him, but her eyes were caught by the king's harsh scrutiny.
Please, she prayed, let him believe her. Don't let Daffyd be wrong.
"Who?" the king asked. There was death in his voice.
She swallowed hard. Words seemed to be stuck in her throat. She caught sight of Hugh of Lilydrake. The man was fingering the hilt of a dagger. Two large men were flanking DeBourne, one of them between him and the king.
"FitzWilliam, DeBourne, and Hugh of Lilydrake," she said as loudly and as clearly as she could. The silence thickened dangerously. Eyes flashed to the men she'd accused.
The king threw back his head and laughed.
Oh, God, he doesn't believe me!
"Sire—" Daffyd began.
The king wiped a tear off his cheek. He spoke as though lecturing a class. "DeBourne I knew about. And FitzWilliam. But it was the local lord in it with them I couldn't decide on." He laughed again, a little, wheezing sound. Jane gaped in astonishment.
"DuVrai seemed to have the most to gain," the king went on as the people around him began to shuffle and look at each other questioningly. "Osbeorn's more Saxon than Norman. Sturry's claim to the throne might be popular with the English." He spread his hands out before him, tilting his head with the air of a much puzzled man. "Which one, I thought? So many choices. So hard to decide. Perhaps it was all of them, I thought. But no. There were no meetings where all of them were present. Not before the lad's wedding. And I knew about the conspiracy long before then."
DeBourne lunged forward, but the men flanking him already had him in their grasp. He shouted profanely, at her and at King John. Someone knocked him over the head. He sagged forward, blood streaming onto his white tabard.
"Lilydrake, of course," John continued, "is the worst fool of the lot. Of course it had to be Lilydrake."
No guards were next to Hugh yet. His response was with his dagger. It was out of its sheath and speeding through the air as quick as light. A deadly missile aimed straight at Jane's heart.
Daffyd moved as swiftly as the dagger, throwing her to the floor, covering her with his own body. She heard the swish of air as the blade passed over their heads. Then Daffyd was up, his arm thrown back.
Jane saw it clearly from where she crouched in the rushes just below the dais. It was framed in her vision with crystal clarity, even through the thin film of smoke that obscured the air with a dreamlike haze. It happened swiftly, but she saw it slowly. She saw Daffyd's blade poised on his fingertips. She saw the graceful play of muscle as the dagger left his
hand. She saw it sail, a spinning mote of silver, the aim true and deadly. She saw Hugh of Lilydrake's head thrown back by the force of entry. She saw the hilt buried deep in the base of the man's exposed throat. She heard the gurgle of blood as he died. She saw the slow, crumpling fall.
She recognized the dagger as her own. She remembered David Wolfe taking it from her.
There was a great deal of shouting. A sea of feet and legs surrounded her. Hands hauled her upright. She was cold. So very cold. A mantle was placed around her shoulders. The hands straightening it were David's..How had he known she was cold? How could he know her so well when she didn't know him at all?
She pulled it tight around her as David Wolfe led her to the stairs, helped her to sit. She looked up at him, this stranger who had just killed, acting so quickly his motions had to be reaction driven by instinct. Where had he learned to do it? He was David Wolfe. David Wolfe was a physicist. A researcher. A soft-handed man of the twenty-first century. When had he become a savage?
She remembered him smiling as Pwyll died. How many more men had he killed? What else had he done?
She didn't want him near her.
"You're not hurt, are you?" he asked. He cupped her face in his hands. "Please say you're all right."
"I'm not hurt," she answered. She wanted him to go away. She didn't know him and she didn't like him and she didn't want to deal with him.
His smile was as bright as a nova. "Good. Don't worry," he soothed. "I swear nothing like that will happen to you again. I'll take care of you," he swore. "Forever and ever. I'll protect you, Jehane. Hugh was a mean, spiteful fool. He knew he was dead. He wanted to take someone he hated with him. It's over now."
She stood abruptly and backed up two steps. They now stood eye to eye. "Over. It won't happen again. No more violence," she concurred. She'd made up her mind. It had been the plan all along, hadn't it? "I'm not staying here," she told him. "I'm not going to be part of this world."
"It's all right. You don't have to stay here. I'll take you—"
"I'm leaving with Jonathan," she said. The words were adamant, etched in stone. "I'm going to Fontrevault and taking my vows."
"The devil you are!" he shouted.
He opened his mouth to yell again, but the king's voice cut through the air. "Wolf! To me!"
"Damn!" David grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him to the king. "Sire!" he acknowledged tightly.
The king was grinning happily. Jane noticed he was missing at least three bottom teeth. The room was full of people, but none was DeBourne. Hugh's body was nowhere in sight.
King John clapped David on the shoulder. "That was the best sport I've had since we came here. Magnificent throw."
David bent his head in a humble nod. "Thank you, my lord."
How could the man be such a good actor? Jane wondered. How could he live the role so easily?
"Lilydrake's yours," the king told David. David looked up, face clouded with puzzlement. "Hugh's
lands go to you," John clarified. "Been meaning to give you something for your service. An estate . . ." John peered at Jane. "And a rich widow. Not bad pickings for a landless Welsh mercenary."
A look of sly triumph lit David's face. It was the look of a man with a cunning plan. "No, my lord, not bad at all. You have all my thanks." Still holding Jane's wrist hard, David dropped to one knee. She was dragged down with him. "One more boon, my lord?" he requested, kneeling before the king.
The king's eyes narrowed with suspicious caution. "Yes?"
"Stand witness to my marriage. Right now. At dawn's first light."
Laughter broke out around them. Laughter and shouts of ribald humor. The king looked confused for a moment, his fat chin resting thoughtfully on his upraised hand. "If that's all you wish," he said as the noise once more turned into a riotous din. "All right." He raised his voice above the routiers' noise. "Somebody fetch that priest!"
Jane turned a poisoned look on David. She planned to open her mouth in protest, but David just shook his head. Light danced in his greenish eyes. His smirk was one of pure triumph.
Jane could find no words. There was nothing she could do. Once again David Wolfe was in control of her life. Once again he was giving her no choice.
29
Jane was so tired she could barely stand. Her eyes were burni
ng from exhaustion. She thought she'd lost what was left of her wits some time ago, probably around the time Sibelle appeared, pushing her way through the crowd of routiers, Stephan a tall shadow in her wake. She was staring her hatred into David Wolfe's eyes when Sibelle arrived. It seemed a perfectly logical thing to be doing: kneeling in front of a fat, smelly man and trying to burn holes in the back of David's head with the strength of her will.
She didn't have any will at all when Sibelle hustled her off. A great deal of talking went on around her, to her, at and about her. Things happened. She was bathed by hands not her own, dressed and veiled in royal-blue silk and white linen, and led back down stairs she didn't remember climbing.
Stephan took charge of her hand and led her out here, to the castle steps. The world was lit by the first pale rays of dawn. The sky was pinky blue with
clouds like puffs of artillery smoke high overhead. She looked around. Where'd all those people in the courtyard come from? Where was Daffyd?
"Where's Daffyd?" she heard her own voice ask petulantly.
"Here," the chocolate voice said. She looked to her left. He was standing right beside her.
"Not you," she said, awake enough to know she was too tired to make any sense. "I want Daffyd."
"t know," he soothed. "I'm here."
It wasn't worth arguing about. She yawned. When had she last slept? After she'd made love to Daffyd. But Daffyd wasn't here anymore. She wanted a cup of coffee.
Stephan was on her other side. Sibelle stood next to him. The king was next to David. David was back in Daffyd's red-and-black finery, his hair brushed to burnished gold. He was gorgeous. Why wasn't he Daffyd? Jonathan came out the castle door and approached them, smiling triumphantly.
You had better wake up, girl, a shrill voice in her head warned. Something very bad is about to happen.
Let it, she answered. There's nothing I can do.
Still, she'd shaken off some of the exhausted lethargy by the time Jonathan arrived before them. He unfolded a piece of parchment.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Your marriage contract," he answered. "Stephan, Daffyd, and I worked it out while you prepared for the ceremony."
An annoyance-fed shot of adrenaline brought her fully alert. "What?"
The crowd around them were staring. The king looked impatient. She kept quiet as Jonathan read, his Latin flowing and beautifully accented. The gist of the agreement was that Daffyd got all she had; she was offered an allowance; Stephan threw in the dogs as her liege's portion.
"I knew you'd hate giving them up," he answered her curious look. As he spoke Nikki was patiently licking her toes and Vince had wandered off somewhere.
"I will hear your vows," Jonathan said after he'd
finished with the contract. "Before God, the king, and
those assembled."
Stephan placed her hand in David's. David was smiling tenderly at her. "Be careful," he warned in English. "Will you marry me?"
"I don't want to."
"I know."
"Do I have a choice?"
"No. Do you want to?"
"No."
"Fine, Neither do I."
"Good."
"I do!"
"So do I!"
David looked at Jonathan and lied easily, once more speaking French: "It's the Welsh rite."
"I see. The ring?"
David brought a wide gold band out of a belt pouch. She recognized it as the gold hoop earring he always wore. "The blacksmith did some work for me while we waited," he told her as he started to place the newly made ring on her left hand, following the custom of their own time.
"Right," she corrected. He switched direction
smoothly. It fit perfectly. She thought she could feel the warmth from where the ends had been closed to form a solid ring.
David took a step back. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. She didn't understand what they were waiting for.
Sibelle finally came to her rescue, stage-whispering, "You have to kneel now."
Jane's spine straightened with stubborn anger. Oh, no. No way did she show one bit of submission to any man. Especially not David Wolfe. She gave him the most pleasant, loving smile she could fake for the crowd. To David she said in their own language, "When hell freezes over."
She heard Sibelle whispering confusedly to her husband, "It must be a dialect of Welsh Granny Rosamunde didn't know."
David took her hands, drawing her close to his side. "It's not necessary," he told the priest.
"Not part of the Welsh rite?" Jonathan suggested helpfully. David shook his head. "I approve. Prostrations should be saved for God." At King John's thunderous frown, he amended diplomatically, "And kings. I pronounce you man and wife," he ended quickly.
David grabbed her in a tight embrace and kissed her, lips slanting sensuously across hers, parting them with his tongue, their breath mingling. Much to her surprise, heat raced from her lips down to her toes and back up again. It felt wonderful. She supposed the roaring in her ears was from the crowd, but she wasn't completely positive.
When David drew his lips away from hers, he smiled knowingly into her eyes. "Smug bastard" were the first words she spoke to her husband. He winked.
He released his hold on her and turned to kneel to the king. "My thanks, my lord."
John was pulling on a pair of gloves. A groom was bringing up his horse. The soldiers were forming into ragged ranks. From the pasture beyond the castle walls came the sounds of camp being broken and sumptuary wagons being loaded.
"I wish you joy of the wench. She looks like a hot bitch" was the royal blessing for their union. "I'm off to Calais." He gave Jonathan a hard look. "Come, priest. We'll talk about your order's contribution to my treasury as we ride."
Jane looked at Jonathan unhappily. "I must go," he said, taking her hand for a moment. "May God bless you." He turned and made equally quick farewells to Sibelle and Stephan. He had to run for the horse his servant held by the reins for him. The priest and his retainer hurried after the departing king.
The people on the steps were left standing, stunned by this quick exit of so many people.
"People come and go so quickly here?" Jane suggested after a time. David gave her a sour look. She shrugged. "I always wanted to say it."
"I think," Sibelle said, waving everyone to the door, "we should break our fast and celebrate." "A wedding and our lord John's departure," Stephan agreed.
"I'm not sure there's enough left to break our fast with," Jane contributed, thinking as the chatelaine of Passfair once more.
"Oh, we'll contrive something," Sibelle said with firm assurance. She waved them all on into the hall.
Jane's steps were dragging by the time she reached
the hearth, every bit of energy she'd mustered for the ceremony dissipated. She found herself leaning on David's strong arm. She felt like a wimp. "I think I'm going to faint."
"Nonsense," he said cheerfully. "Sir Stephan," he said over her head. "My lady doesn't need food, but rest. I think we will retire."
"Now?" Stephan asked. "I wanted to hear about Lilydrake and the king. Couldn't you wa—"
"Stephan!" Sibelle hissed. "Not now!" She tugged him toward the table. "They just got married. Let them go to bed."
"Oh. Of course. Sorry," he called over his shoulder.
David urged Jane forward. She remembered setting her foot on the stair, then his lifting her onto the straw mattress in her alcove. The points in between were all covered in fuzz. The pillow felt wonderful against her cheek. She didn't have the energy to protest when he climbed in beside her.
She woke once in the middle of the day and found herself wrapped in a warm embrace. The man holding her was sleeping deeply, lids fluttering a little as he dreamed. She lay stiffly beside him for a moment, sleep trying to drag her back down.
She didn't know what was going to happen next. She knew it was better than sharing the bed with the dogs. She let sleep have its way.
>
30
Jane woke next when David got back into bed. She'd been vaguely aware of his moving around the alcove—heard him using the pot in the corner, the splash of water in the basin—but the sounds seemed so much a part of the routine of life that they didn't disturb her. It was the knowledge this was most certainly not part of the routine of her life that brought her fully awake.
She lay still, back against the wall. How long had they been asleep? The covering, if there'd been one, must have been kicked off while they slept. Yet she was anything but cool. She felt him lying close beside her, warm, unclothed flesh pressed intimately against hers. It was a small bed, and he was a big man. There was no way to scrunch over closer to the wall. She was practically inside the wall now. Any farther and the rats would be complaining of invasion of privacy.
There was no putting it off. She opened her eyes and looked at her husband in the dimness of what she thought was dusk. He was propped up on one elbow,
head resting on his palm, one leg thrown over her hip. He'd shaved before the wedding, so there was no beard stubble yet to shadow his cheeks. In this light the man seemed to be all cheekbones and nose. There were still dark marks under his eyes. He looked tired despite the hours of rest. Tired and worried.
She found she wanted to stroke his shoulder reassuringly. And might have if she didn't remember just in time how much she hated him. This was Wolfe. He was her kidnapper. Was what he'd done technically kidnapping? Was there a formal charge for what he'd done? Illegal use of a time machine probably wasn't part of any legal code this side of "Star Trek."
Still, he was gazing at her with such an air of melancholy that it bothered her. Instead of feeling like a victim, she felt almost sorry for the man. Which was the wrong attitude. Everything was his fault. She tried to harden her heart against him. Unfortunately it refused to turn to stone. She had the feeling it was actually more the consistency of hard butter, just waiting to melt. Oh, no, not for him, she vowed. Still, there was no reason to act uncivilized. Uncivilized could wait for later, after the swords and daggers were put back on.
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