A Kingdom of Dreams wds-1

by Джудит Макнот

  Thinking he meant that she might not be safe in the village after what happened yesterday, Jenny made an airy motion with her hand. "Oh, but I don't intend to go further than yon trees and-"

  "I'm sorry. My lord's orders were specific."

  "I see," Jenny said, but she didn't see at all, and she didn't like the feeling of being a prisoner one bit. She started to turn away, then she rounded on the hapless sergeant. "Tell me something," she said in a low, ominous voice. "Is this… restriction… against anyone leaving the castle, or only me."

  His gaze shifted to the horizon. "Only you, my lady. And your lady aunt."

  Angry and humiliated, Jenny turned away, and then it occurred to her that Royce had undoubtedly sent Arik with Aunt Elinor-not as her escort but her guard.

  "I know another place," Friar Gregory suggested mildly, taking her arm and guiding her back across the wide bailey.

  "I can't believe this!" Jenny whispered angrily. "I'm a prisoner here."

  Friar Gregory made a sweeping gesture with his hand that encompassed everything in the enormous bailey. "Ah, but what a glorious prison it is," he commented with an appreciative smile. "Beautiful beyond any castle I've seen."

  "A prison," Jenny informed him darkly, "is a prison!"

  "It's possible," the priest said without arguing her valid point, "that your husband has reasons, other than those which you think, for wanting to keep you within the bounds of his complete protection." Without realizing where he was taking her, she'd followed him to the chapel. He opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

  "What sort of reasons?" she asked as soon as they were within the dim, cool confines of the chapel.

  Friar Gregory gestured to a polished oak chair and Jenny sat down. "I don't know, of course," he said. "But his grace does not strike me as a man who ever acts without good reason."

  Startled, Jenny stared hard at him. "You like him, don't you, Friar?"

  "Yes, but more importantly, do you like him?"

  Jenny threw up her hands. "Until a few minutes ago, when I discovered I cannot leave the bailey, I'd have answered yes."

  Friar Gregory crossed his arms, his hands and wrists concealed by the full white sleeves of his robe. "And now?" he asked, cocking one blond eyebrow, "after you've discovered it-do you still like him?"

  Jennifer shot him a rueful smile and nodded helplessly.

  "I'd say that answers that," he said drolly, sliding into the chair beside her. "Now then, what did you wish to speak to me about in such secret?"

  Jenny bit her lip, trying to think how to explain it. "Have you noticed anything-well-odd about everyone's attitude? Not to me, but to my husband?"

  "Odd in what respect?"

  Jenny told him of seeing the maids cross themselves whenever Royce was near, and also mentioned she'd thought it strange when no one cheered their returning master in the village yesterday. She finished with the story of the maids' amusement when she inadvertently confirmed the rumor about damaging his clothes and blankets.

  Instead of being scandalized by Jenny's destructiveness, Friar Gregory eyed her with something akin to amused admiration. "Did you really-cut up their blankets?"

  She nodded uneasily.

  "You're a female of amazing courage, Jennifer, and I sense you're going to need it in future dealings with your husband."

  " 'Twasn't courageous at all," she admitted with a wry laugh. "I'd no idea I'd be there to see his reaction, since Brenna and I were planning to escape the very next morning."

  "You shouldn't have destroyed the blankets they needed for warmth in any case, but I'm certain you realize that," he added. "Now, shall I attempt to answer your question about the villagers 'odd' reaction to their new lord?"

  "Yes, please. Am I imagining all this?"

  Friar Gregory abruptly stood up, wandering over to a bank of candles before an elaborate cross, and idly righted a candle that had fallen over. "You're not imagining anything. I've been here only a day, but the people here have been without a priest for more than a year, so they've been only too eager to talk to me." Frowning, he turned to her. "Are you aware that your husband laid siege to this very place eight years past?"

  When Jennifer nodded, he looked relieved.

  "Yes, well, have you ever seen a siege? Seen what happens?"

  "No."

  " 'Tis not a pretty sight to be sure. There's a saying that 'when two nobles quarrel, the poor man's thatch goes up in flames,' and 'tis true. It's not only the castle and its owners who suffer, 'tis also the villeins and serfs. Their crops are filched by defenders and attackers alike, their children are killed in the fray, and their homes are destroyed. It's not unusual for an attacker to deliberately set fire to the countryside about the castle, to destroy the fields and orchards, and even to murder the laborers, to prevent them from being enlisted by the defenders."

  Although none of this was completely new to Jenny, she'd never before been at the site of a siege during it or immediately afterward. Now, however, as she sat in the peaceful little chapel that stood on land that Royce had once laid siege to, the picture took on an unpleasant clarity.

  "There's no doubt that some of these things were done by your husband when he laid siege to Claymore, and, while I'm certain his motives were impersonal and that he acted in the best interest of the Crown, the peasantry cares little for noble motives when they've been impoverished by a battle in which they have nothing to gain and everything to lose."

  Jenny thought of the clans in the highlands who fought and fought, without complaint about the deprivations, and shook her head in bewilderment. "It's different here."

  "Unlike the members of your clans, especially the highlanders, the English peasantry does not share in the spoils of victory," Friar Gregory said, understanding her dilemma and trying to explain. "Under English law, all the land actually belongs to the king. The king then bestows parcels of this land upon his favored nobles as rewards for loyalty or special service. The nobles choose the sites they wish for their own demesne and then they grant the peasant a measure of land for himself, in return for which the vassal is expected to work two or three days a week on the lord's fields or to give manorial service at the castle. Naturally, they are also expected to contribute a measure of grain or produce from time to time.

  "In times of war or famine, the lord is morally-but not legally-obliged to protect the interests of his serfs and villeins. Sometimes they do protect them, but usually only if it's of benefit to themselves."

  When Friar Gregory fell silent, Jenny said slowly, "Do you mean they fear my husband won't protect them? Or do you mean they hate him for laying siege to Claymore and burning the fields?"

  "Neither." Ruefully, Friar Gregory said, "The peasantry is a philosophical lot, and they expect to have their fields burned every generation or so when their lord is embroiled in a battle with one of his peers. But in the case of your husband, it's different."

  "Different?" Jenny repeated. "In what way?"

  "He has made a life of battles, and they fear that all his enemies will begin descending on Claymore one after another to exact revenge. Or that he will invite them here to feed his love of war."

  'That's ridiculous," Jenny said.

  "True, but it will take time before they realize it."

  "And I thought they'd be proud because he's-he's a hero to the English."

  "They are proud. And they're relieved and confident that he, unlike his predecessor, will be willing and able to defend them if the need arises. His strength, his might, is greatly to his advantage in this instance. Actually, they're completely in awe of him."

  "Terrified of him, it would seem," Jenny said unhappily, recalling the way the maids reacted to his presence.

  "That, too, and for good reason."

  "They have no good reason to be terrified of him that I can see," Jenny replied with great conviction.

  "Ah, but they do. Put yourself in their minds: their new lord is a man who's called the Wolf-named for a vicious,
rapacious animal who attacks and devours its victims. Moreover, legend-not fact, but legend-has it that he's ruthless to anyone who crosses him. As their new lord, he also has the right to decide what taxes to levy upon them, and he will naturally sit in judgment on disputes and mete out punishment to wrongdoers, as is his right. Now then," Friar Gregory said with a pointed look, "given his reputation for mercilessness and viciousness, is he the sort of man you'd want deciding all this for you?"

  Jenny was irate. "Oh, but he isn't merciless or vicious. If he were half so bad as that, my sister and I would have suffered a fate far worse than we did at his hands."

  "True," the priest agreed, smiling proudly at her. "Now all that's left is for your husband to spend time with his people so that they can draw their own conclusions."

  "You make it sound very simple," Jenny said, standing up and shaking out her skirts. "And I suppose it is. Hopefully, it won't take the people long to realize he-"

  The door being flung open made them both turn around in time to see an expression of relief cross Royce's angry features. "No one knew where you were," he said, stalking toward Jennifer, his booted footsteps ringing ominously on the polished wooden floor of the chapel. "In future, do not disappear without letting someone know where you've gone."

  Father Gregory took one look at Jennifer's indignant face and politely excused himself. As soon as the door closed behind him, Jenny snapped back, "I wasn't aware I'm to be a prisoner here."

  "Why did you attempt to leave the castle?" Royce demanded, not bothering to pretend he didn't understand what she meant.

  "Because I wanted to talk privately with Friar Gregory without having every serf in the bailey watching us and overhearing," Jenny informed him darkly. "Now, it's your turn to answer my question. Why am I forbidden to leave this place? Is this my home or my prison? I will not-"

  "Your home," he interrupted, and to her complete confusion, he grinned suddenly. "You have the bluest eyes on earth," he added with a low, appreciative chuckle. "When you're angry, they're the color of wet blue velvet."

  Jenny rolled her eyes in disgust, momentarily pacified by his answer that this was her home. "Wet velvet?" she repeated wryly, wrinkling her nose. "Wet velvet."

  His white teeth flashed in a devastating grin. "No? What should I have said?"

  His smile was irresistible, and Jenny fell in with his teasing mood, "Well, you might have said they're the color of-" she glanced at the large sapphire in the center of the crucifix "-of sapphires," she provided. "That has a nice ring to it."

  "Ah, but sapphires are cold, and your eyes are warm and expressive. Am I doing better?" he chuckled when she voiced no further argument to wet velvet.

  "Much," she agreed readily. "Would you care to go on?"

  "Fetching for compliments?"

  "Certainly."

  His lips twitched with laughter. "Very well. Your eyelashes remind me of a sooty broom."

  Jenny's mirth exploded in a peal of musical laughter. "A broom!" she chuckled merrily, shaking her head at him.

  "Exactly. And your skin is white and soft and smooth. It reminds me of…"

  "Yes?" she prompted, chuckling.

  "An egg. Shall I go on?"

  "Oh, please no," she muttered, laughing.

  "I didn't do very well, I take it?" he asked, grinning.

  "I would have thought," she admonished breathlessly, "that even the English court required a certain level of courtly behavior. Did you never spend any time at court?"

  "As little as possible," he said softly, but his attention had shifted to her generous smiling lips, and without warning he gathered her into his arms, his mouth hungry and urgent on hers.

  Jenny felt herself sinking into the sweet, sensual whirlpool of his desire, and with an effort she pulled her mouth from his. His eyes, already darkened with passion, gazed deeply into hers.

  "You didn't tell me why," she whispered shakily, "I'm forbidden to leave the castle."

  Royce's hands shifted slowly up and down her arms as he bent his head to hers again. "It's only for a few days…" he answered, kissing her between each sentence, "until I'm certain there'll be no trouble…" he pulled her tightly to him "… from the outside."

  Satisfied, Jenny gave herself up to the incredible pleasure of kissing him and feeling his big body harden with desire.

  The sun was already starting its descent as they crossed the bailey toward the great hall. "I wonder what Aunt Elinor has in mind for supper," she said, smiling up at him.

  "At the moment," Royce replied with a meaningful look, "I find my appetite whetted for something other than food. However, while we're on the subject, is your aunt as skilled in kitchen matters as she sounded?"

  Jenny sent him a hesitant, sidewise look. "To tell you truly, I can't recall any of my family ever singing her praises in that regard. She was always praised for her curatives-wise women from all over Scotland used to go to her for ointments and preparations of all sorts. Aunt Elinor believes that proper food, properly prepared, wards off all sorts of sicknesses, and that certain foods have special curative powers."

  Royce wrinkled his nose. "Medicine with meals? 'Twas not at all what I had in mind." He cast her an appraising glance, as if something had suddenly occurred to him: "Are you skilled in kitchen matters?"

  "Not a bit," she replied cheerfully. "Scissors are my specialty."

  Royce let out a sharp bark of laughter, but the sight of Sir Albert marching toward them across the bailey, his face even sterner than usual, put an end to Jenny's gaiety. The steward's cold eyes, gaunt body, and thin lips gave him a look of arrogant cruelty that made Jenny instantly uneasy. "Your grace," he said to Royce, "the perpetrator of the mud-throwing incident yesterday has been brought here." He gestured to the smithy at the far end of the bailey where two guards were holding a white-faced lad between them, and a crowd of serfs had gathered. "Shall I handle this?"

  "No!" Jenny burst out, unable to conquer her dislike of the man.

  With a thinly veiled look of dislike the steward turned from Jennifer to Royce. "Your grace?" he asked, ignoring her.

  "I've no experience with civil disciplinary measures or procedures," Royce told Jennifer, visibly hedging. They had reached the edge of the rapidly growing crowd, and Jenny turned eyes full of appeal on her husband, her mind still full of all that Friar Gregory had told her. "If you do not wish to handle it, I could do it in your stead," she volunteered anxiously. "I've seen my father sit on Judgment day times out of mind, and I know how it's done."

  Royce turned to the steward. "Handle the formalities in the customary way, and my wife will decide on the punishment."

  Sir Albert clenched his teeth so hard his cheek bones protruded further beneath his flesh, but he bowed in acceptance. "As you wish, your grace."

  The crowd parted to let them through, and Jenny noticed that everyone on Royce's side moved back much farther than necessary to let him pass-well out of his reach.

  When they reached the center of the wide circle, Sir Albert lost no time in preparing to mete out justice. With his icy gaze riveted on the stricken lad, whose outstretched arms were being held by two burly guards, Sir Albert said, "You are guilty of maliciously attacking the mistress of Claymore, a crime of the most serious nature under the laws of England-and one for which you should have received your just punishment yesterday. 'Twould have been easier on you than waiting until today to face it again," the steward finished harshly, leaving Jenny with the fleeting thought that he'd just made Royce's reprieve seem like a deliberate torment.

  Tears streamed down the boy's face, and at the edge of the circle a woman, who Jenny instantly guessed must be the boy's mother, covered her face with her hands and began to weep. Her husband stood beside her, his face frozen, his eyes glazed with pain for his son.

  "Do you deny it, boy?" Sir Albert snapped.

  His thin shoulders shaking with silent weeping, the lad dropped his head and shook it.

  "Speak up!"

  "N-" he lift
ed his shoulder to rub away the humiliating wetness from his face on his dirty tunic. "No."

  " 'Tis best you don't," the steward said almost kindly, "for to die with a lie on your soul would damn you for all time."

  At the word die, the boy's sobbing mother tore loose from her husband's restraining arm and hurtled herself at her son, wrapping her arms around him, cradling his head against her bosom. "Do it then and be done with it!" she cried brokenly, glaring at the sword-wielding guards. "Don't make him be scared," she sobbed, rocking the boy in her arms. "Can't you see he's scared-" she wept brokenly, her voice dropping to a shattered whisper. "Please… I don't want him to be… scared."

  "Get the priest," Sir Albert snapped.

  "I fail to see," Royce interrupted in an icy voice that made the boy's mother clutch her son tighter and sob harder, "why we need to have a mass said at this unlikely hour."

  "Not a mass, but a confession," the steward put in, not realizing that Royce had deliberately misunderstood his reasons for sending for Friar Gregory. Turning to the boy's mother, Sir Albert said, "I assumed that your miscreant son would naturally want to avail himself of the Church's final sacraments?" unable to speak through her tears, the woman nodded helplessly.

  "No!" Royce snapped, but the hysterical mother screamed, "Yes! 'Tis his right!-His right to have the last sacraments before he dies!"

  "If he dies," Royce drawled coldly, " 'twill be from suffocation at your hands, madam. Step back and let the boy breathe!"

  A look of tormented hope crossed her face, then wavered as she looked around at the grim faces of the crowd, and she realized no one shared her fleeting hope for a reprieve. "What are you going to do to him, milord?"

  "It's not my decision," Royce replied tightly, his anger renewed as he considered the names they'd hurtled at his wife yesterday. "Inasmuch as it was my wife who suffered at his hands, 'twill be up to her."

  Instead of being relieved, the mother clapped her hand over her mouth, her terrified eyes riveted on Jenny, and Jenny, who could no longer stand seeing the poor woman tortured with uncertainty, turned to the boy and said quickly, and not unkindly, "What is your name?"