by Stuart, Anne
“What are you doing, Alys?” He’d turned to watch her, and his expression was disbelieving.
She’d emerged from the winding staircase to stand out in the open, but she hadn’t yet been able to make her feet move further. “Facing my fears,” she said in a wobbly voice.
“Courting death?”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“The lightning might.”
“Are you going to kill me?” she persisted, flinching when the thunder rumbled again.
“Would you ride a horse for me?” he countered.
“Yes.”
“Would you walk across this parapet to come to me?”
“Yes.” And she started forward, shivering, as the rain lashed down around them.
He watched her with the quiet intensity of a man watching an acrobat walk across a narrow wire. He said nothing, made no gesture, as she slowly came toward him. She halted just out of reach, lifting her head and throwing back her shoulders with quiet determination.
“Would you come to me?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. And he crossed the last few feet of parapet and pulled her into his arms, kissing her mouth.
He was wet, and his shirt clung as she pulled it off him. He tasted of rain and the night, and he ripped the laces in her gown as he stripped it from her, throwing it on the hard stone floor to make a pallet. He lowered her down onto it with surprising care, tearing at her thin chemise, and then she was lying naked beneath the rain and the storm, the angry heavens and Simon of Navarre’s golden eyes.
She wanted him to take her quickly, so that she could remember, but he moved slowly, almost in a trance, as his scarred hand moved across her body, touching her, and everywhere he touched she was warm, blazing. He kissed her mouth, using his tongue, and she kissed him back, sliding her arms around his waist and holding him, reveling in the feel of his rain-slick flesh, the sinew and muscle and the terrible tapestry of scars. He kissed her throat, the tips of her breasts, and she arched up with an inarticulate cry, needing more. He put his hand between her legs, and she was frightened, but she parted them willingly enough, letting him touch her, stroke her, leaning back and closing her eyes to the rain as he moved down and put his mouth where his hand had been, put his tongue where his fingers had been.
She wanted to cry out, but she didn’t dare. She was speechless, voiceless, lost in a liquid haze of frantic desire that was beyond her understanding. The lightning sizzled across the sky, and reaction sizzled across her body in perfect harmony, a spiking, shattering clash of feeling that made her stiffen and cry out.
The thunder rumbled and roared, and her heart pounded, drowning it out. She was panting, weeping, and she wanted him to stop his wickedness, but it was too glorious, and she arched off the scattered clothes, searching for something that she couldn’t understand.
He slid his fingers deep inside her as he touched her with his tongue, and she convulsed into a sudden darkness that felt like death. All around her demons beat their wings, or were they angels? She didn’t know or care, lost in a torrent that tore her apart.
She had barely caught her breath when he was moving up, over her, resting between her legs where he’d kissed her. He caught her hands in his, the right hand so terribly scarred, the left smooth and elegant, and she watched him, watched his eyes drift closed as he pushed deep inside her, filling her.
There was no pain this time, no resistance. She was sleek and wet and ready for him. Damp, she’d been told. Gloriously damp. And she was.
Her body already knew the rhythms, even if her mind had forgotten. She arched her hips willingly, taking all of him, and his thrusts were deep, steady, rocking her back against the discarded clothing.
She wanted more. She wanted him to open his eyes and look down at her, to know who he was with. His wet hair hung down and tangled with hers, the rain beat down on their naked bodies, but there was heat everywhere, her body was on fire, and she wanted more.
He knew. He opened his eyes and looked at her as the pace increased, and she was caught in the tangle of his eyes, staring up at him as her body received him, faster now, harder, deeper, and she still wanted more. She was crying, she wasn’t sure why, but he licked the tears from her face and kissed her with them. She wanted to hold him, but her hands were trapped beneath his, and all she could do was absorb him, take him, as he was taking her, steal his soul and make it her own.
She wanted more. She wanted his love, she wanted his child. She was greedy now, and wanted everything. Her skin felt hot and prickly, her breath was fighting against her pounding heart, and she knew she would die. She didn’t care. She wanted more.
“Now,” he said. It was a whisper, a mere breath of sound, his mouth at her ear. And she was the one who gave, everything in that very moment, convulsing around him, lost and given, death and rebirth, body and soul.
And he was with her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Simon wrapped his wife in her discarded dress, lifting her limp body from the stone floor of the turret with ease. She laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes as the water sluiced down over her, but she was too drained to do more than simply breathe.
He carried her down the winding stairs to the bedroom. The fire was blazing, filling the room with light and warmth, and he laid her down on the bed with exquisite gentleness, tossing the ruined clothes on the floor, and covering her with soft fur throws. He pushed the wet hair away from her face, framing her cheeks with his two hands, and looked down into her eyes. He wasn’t sure what he would see there. Regret, condemnation, confusion.
She reached up and covered his hands with hers. Their hands, pressed together, seemed almost painfully intimate, but she wouldn’t let him escape. “You are mine,” she said in a fierce little voice.
The words startled him, but he didn’t move. She was a woman who claimed very little, who sacrificed all that mattered to her for the sake of others.
But she wouldn’t sacrifice him. She held his hands against her face and stared up at him with calm determination. He was hers, she said. And she was right.
“Go to sleep, Alys,” he said gently, letting his thumb caress her swollen mouth. He’d kissed her too hard, and he should regret it. Regret the marks his loving had made on her body.
But he didn’t. Instead he reveled in them. She was his, he was hers, for however long fate granted them, and that was enough.
He tried to pull away, determined to let her rest, but she caught his arm, and she was strong. “Not without you,” she said.
He looked down at her. Her wet hair was spread out beneath her, her face was pale and dreamy. She looked well-loved, and that was the unbearable truth. He had loved her. He did love her. And that would be his downfall.
He should move away, kiss her lightly and dismiss her. He’d entered into this marriage knowing it would only last as long as it suited him, as long as this life suited him. When things became tricky he would disappear, abandoning his young wife and whatever he had earned, and take only Godfrey and what wealth was easily transportable.
And Alys of Summersedge, Alys of Navarre, was not easily transportable. She was afraid of horses, she couldn’t ride, and as fate would have it, speed would be an important part of his escape. She would hold him back and destroy him, and the sooner he pulled away from her, the better.
Her hands were light against his, insistent. He could break free with no trouble at all. “I won’t leave you.” he said. And he lay down on the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.
When Alys awoke the tower room was deserted. She lay naked in the bed, alone, the fur throw pulled tight around her. The gown she’d worn lay in a sodden heap on the floor, the fire had burned low, and cool sunlight pierced the windows, sending bright shadows across the floor. The storm had passed, and she should have been relieved.
“I won’t leave you,” he’d said, and he’d come to bed with her, and the night had been endless and shatteringly beautiful. He had done things
she couldn’t imagine, coaxed her into touching him, tasting him, taking him until she was weeping and shaking, lost in some strange world where only the two of them existed.
But he was gone, and she was alone.
She sat up, trying to still the sense of uneasiness that washed over her. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong. She scrambled out of bed, searching for something to cover herself with. None of her clothes were there, and she settled for one of Simon’s plain black tunics. It was so long it trailed on the floor, and the sleeves draped halfway to her knees, but at least she was decently covered when the soldiers burst through the door.
“You’ll come with me, my lady.” She didn’t recognize the knight in charge of them, nor would it have done her any good. Her questions were ignored, her protests stifled, and she was dragged from the tower room with uncaring force.
She screamed for Simon, but someone clapped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. She kicked, but it was useless against the heavy leather boots of the soldiers. She bit, and an arm caught her along the side of her head, and everything went black.
She awoke in blackness, in a darkness so thick it was like death. She was freezing cold, lying on something hard and unforgiving, and she could hear the soft, scuffling noises that could only be rodents’ feet.
She didn’t scream. Much as she wanted to, she clamped her teeth shut, stilling the panic that threatened to break forth. She was afraid that if she started screaming she would never stop, and the stone walls would echo with her madness.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, summoning calm in the midst of her panic. She knew where she was. Even though she’d never seen them in her life, the knowledge was immutable. She was locked in the dungeons of Summersedge Keep.
Who had put her there? Only Richard had the power to command such a titling, but why in God’s name would he do so? She had done him no harm, except to protect her sister from his twisted urges.
There was another, far more sinister possibility, one she shied away from even as it sprang into her mind. Had he locked her away at the request of his favored advisor? Had his wizard told him to dispose of an unwanted wife? With the marriage and the bedding her political worth had been exhausted. Perhaps she had no more value and was simply being put away, to be forgotten until decades from now when someone came across her bones?
She sat up, shivering in the damp chill, and peered into the darkness surrounding her. A faint light emanated from the far wall, and she rose, moving toward it, toward the iron grille that kept her prisoner. Beyond lay another room, dimly lit, though this one looked more like a crypt man a dungeon. A woman lay stretched on the stone slab floor, but Alys had little hope she was alive. The form was too stocky to be Claire, and for that she breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
One bar of the grille obscured her vision, and she rose on tiptoes to get a closer look, peering at the face of the dead woman. She fell back with a cry of horror.
Lady Hedwiga would give no more misguided lectures on comportment in the marriage bed. She was well and truly dead.
“It’s quite simple,” Richard said smoothly. He was dressed in full mourning, and he’d wept, openly and fulsomely, as he’d accepted the condolences of his people. His eyes were still red-rimmed as he closeted himself with his wizard, but his mask of mourning had transformed into smug glee.
“Simple, my lord?” Simon echoed. He knew when to be wary, when life had taken a particularly dangerous turn. As it had this morning, when he’d come down to the news that Richard the Fair’s lady had died in her sleep.
“You shouldn’t underestimate me, Grendel,” Richard said, smoothing his beer-dewed mustache with a stubby finger. “I can be just as clever as you can, in my own way. Hedwiga has always been burdensome. The sleeping draught needed to be tested. Unfortunately my lady wife proved frailer than I expected.”
“You murdered her,” Simon said, keeping his voice calm. It should have come as no surprise. Richard was capable of that and more. If Simon hadn’t been so besotted by his wife he would have seen it coming. Not that he would necessarily have stopped him, but he had a dislike of surprises.
Richard smiled sweetly. “Whether she was murdered or not remains to be seen.”
“Why?”
“It may have simply been a tragic accident. After all, Alys didn’t realize how strong the draught was when she gave it to my sickly wife. Or, at least, that’s what I would hope. I would hate to think my sister was a coldblooded murderer.”
“Alys?” He showed absolutely no emotion. He was beyond reaction. “Why would Alys have murdered your wife?”
“Now that part troubled me,” Richard confided. “Why would a demure, practical creature such as Alys want to murder Hedwiga? Apart from the fact that anyone who met her would want to murder Hedwiga,” he added cheerfully. “The fact remains that several of my servants and men at arms saw her enter Hedwiga’s room with a goblet and vial just before evensong. She was the last person to see her alive.”
“Alys was in my solar…”
“No one saw her, Grendel. And no one would believe you.”
“She had no reason…”
“Witchcraft, Grendel. She was invaded by demons that forced her to commit such a hideous act.” He took another leisurely sip of ale.
“Then it’s not her fault.”
“Ah, but how do you get rid of demons? Only by destroying the host. You know what they do to women convicted of murder, don’t you? They’re buried alive.”
“Where is she?” He kept the hoarse desperation from his voice by sheer willpower.
“In the dungeons. In a cell next to the body of my wife, where she may look upon her and contemplate her sins.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Simon of Navarre, I have.”
He could kill him, quite easily. Richard was thickly muscled, but he’d grown soft with age and meat and drink, and he’d be no match for Simon’s height and skill. But that wouldn’t help Alys.
If it weren’t for Alys this would all be very simple. He would kill Richard the Fair and escape.
If it weren’t for Alys he would never have been caught in this trap in the first place. Richard would have no power over him, other than his own greed.
He sat down, leaning back in the chair, surveying his lord with deceptive idleness. “So what is it you want, my lord?” he asked in a curious voice. He already knew the answer.
“What I have always wanted. Your loyalty and devotion. Your dedication to my best interests. Your assistance in helping my plans come to fruition.”
“You want me to kill the king.”
“Such bluntness!” Richard protested. “But in a word, yes.”
“What made you think I wouldn’t be willing to do it for you? Your interests are mine. I would rather serve the King of England than a second class earl.”
Richard’s face darkened for a moment. And then he laughed. “Ah, Grendel, your boldness enchants me. And I have no reason to doubt your loyalty. I merely believe in making certain that my allies are well-motivated.”
“And I’m supposed to care whether Lady Alys is judged guilty of a murder she didn’t commit, and sentenced to a brutal death?”
“Don’t you?” Richard asked, eyeing him curiously.
“Not particularly. She’s a clever enough wench, but no great beauty. Her main value is in her kinship to you, and if you choose to dispense with that kinship, and her, then she’s of no value to me. I would do as you bid, regardless.”
“Almost, dear Grendel, I believe you. But you must confess you were surprisingly laggard in your production of the sleeping draught. And you’ve been… odd, recently. Distracted. I assumed my stone-hearted demon had fallen prey to Cupid’s dart.”
Simon just looked at him, and Richard laughed.
“Foolish me,” he said. “I should have realized you would be impervious to such weaknesses. Now the other one, Claire, she’s a tidy handful. It’s easy to grow foolish
over such beauty. But you’re such an odd creature, you didn’t even want her.”
“I leave her to you, my lord,” he said in a silky voice.
“And I believe I’ll take her,” Richard said. “As soon as she recovers from the stomach grippe. Can’t abide spewing women. Hedwiga cast up her accounts before she died, you know. I was afraid she’d purged herself of the poison, but God was on my side.”
“Indeed,” Simon murmured.
Richard leaned forward across the table. “You know the truly horrifying thing about the whole affair? She became amorous!” He shuddered in ghastly remembrance.
“It does have that effect,” Simon murmured, his brain working feverishly. So Richard didn’t know that Claire had run away. That might be put to good advantage, though at the moment he couldn’t see how.
“I almost had to strangle her, which would have complicated matters, but fortunately she spewed and died.”
“Fortunately.” Simon kept his right hand twisted beneath the long sleeve of his robe. It was clenched in a tight fist of rage. “When do we leave for court, my lord?”
Richard beamed at him. “That’s my Grendel. I’m a man in mourning, but the young king and his regent will overlook that detail in my zeal to present my condolences. After all, Hedwiga was a cousin to the boy as well.”
“And what of Alys?” he asked with what sounded like no more than idle curiosity. “If you don’t intend to charge her then you might as well set her free.”
“You care so much for your plain little wife?”
“You should know me better than that. I have no need of her, and she’s an annoyance. Send her back to the convent if you like. One with a vow of silence. Then she need trouble us no longer.”
“But what if she’s with child?” Richard asked with cunning sweetness. “Or is she still a maid?”
It was a question Simon had no desire to answer. No desire even to contemplate. But he had to be extremely careful with exactly what he divulged to Richard. “She’s no longer a maid,” he said casually. “Though I doubt she’ll quicken with child.”