by Grace Ingram
Geoffrey, shuddering with shock, lifted his stricken face from the hands that had covered his eyes against Odo’s death throes, and pushed between Red Adam and the rest. “No, no! There’s no question… no intent…” He blenched from his distraught glare, stammered a little and then propounded his idiotically untenable idea of reason. “K-kinsman, if—if you will only peaceably acknowledge the—the righteousness of my accession, I swear no harm will be done you.”
“A man lays a righteous cause before the King, addle-wit! He doesn’t ally it with treason.”
Gerald of Flackness thrust the lad aside and drove his fist thrice into Red Adam’s face, beating him to his knees. “Raked from the midden, was I?” he growled, and took to kicking him in the belly. He crowed raspingly for breath, and Julitta winced herself, straining against the hold on her arms.
“Be warned, sweet friend,” Humphrey’s amused voice murmured in her ear. “An edged tongue provokes resentments, and Gerald cherishes his grievances.”
“Stop him!”
“Why, haven’t you a grievance or two yourself it’s a pleasure to see avenged?” He squeezed her breast again and chuckled. The boy was screeching, clutching at Gerald’s tunic. The disgusted guards had let Red Adam fall on his face as a measure of protection; the soldiers were muttering resentment, the huddle of peasants gathered to the noise whispered in dismay at this exemplary start to their new lord’s rule. Gerald threw off the frantic lad and yelled at the men to hold up his victim again; Julitta looked with loathing on the brute who might have wedded her, and prayed desperately to God and the Lord Jesus and His Mother to aid her husband, and give her strength to take the way her enemy had suggested.
It was Lord William who barked, “Have done, Gerald!”
“I’ve not finished with the whoreson knave—”
“He’s a Lorismond and a knight, not one of your serfs. Also he’s my kinsman by marriage—”
“Have you not forgotten that?” Julitta demanded icily.
“He had his chance, and this was his own choice. In with you!”
Red Adam was already struggling to his knees, no easy achievement with his hands fast behind him. Crouched in the grass, he breathed in retching sobs through a mask of mud and blood. The soldiers helped him up and steadied him until he could straighten himself and lift his head. He looked once round the ring of faces in the thickening darkness, once at Odo’s body turning slightly on the rope, and then fixed his desperate gaze on Julitta.
“My fault—sorry” he croaked.
Her inwards churning with pity and rage and fear, she stared coldly at him, her resolution stiffened by pride in the man who made her that apology out of his own anguish. “Your folly indeed,” she answered harshly, and felt his flinching in her own flesh.
Humphrey of Crossthwaite laughed aloud. “Have you forgotten he’s your husband?” he jibed.
“By no choice of mine!” she retorted, her wits suddenly alive. His hold eased in surprise, and she jabbed an elbow backward. “Nor am I your whore!”
He hooted. “My sweet Julitta! Marriage or nothing, eh? Still laughing, he loosed her and caught her hand to lead her in behind Lord William, leaving the guards to bring Red Adam after them. She grimly restrained herself from looking back, but she was aware in all her body of his stumbling progress through the rain that now slashed before the wind, striking through her garments to shrinking skin. She heard the soldiers’ muttered encouragements; they respected courage if little else, and she knew when some measure of recovery steadied him and their help was not needed.
William of Chivingham, self-appointed master of Brentborough, took command in the hall with all the arrogance Julitta expected of him. The scared servants and disarmed, depleted garrison were menaced by a score of men-at-arms who herded them against the walls; on the dais half-blind Bertram towered upright, his wife at his side, and Giles sat weaponless and three parts drunk on a bench, glowering at his own feet. William gestured to Red Adam’s chair.
“Take your rightful place, Lord Geoffrey.”
“I am true Lord of Brentborough,” the boy announced with pride, and his head flamed against the high back as, a few hours ago, Red Adam’s had done. Bertram turned on him a smile of thankful joy that lighted his brooding face. Lord William planted himself in Julitta’s seat, and as Humphrey drew her on to the dais she heard behind her the collective moan of indignant pity as Red Adam was marched in.
He walked erect between his guards. Rain had sluiced most of the mud from his face, but his nose was still bleeding, dripping scarlet over mouth and chin and down his tunic; as he came nearer she saw, with a sick shock, that it was broken askew.
Giles glanced despondently up and started to his feet, all at once stark sober. “Lord Adam!” His face flamed. “Lord Adam, before God I’d no hand in opening the gate to the swine who mishandled you so.”
“I know the purblind Judas,” Adam answered flatly, lifting his hazel stare to his seneschal’s face.
Bertram flushed, but stiffly justified himself. “I opened the gate to my own lord’s lawful son, and you forfeited my loyalty when you dismissed me from Brentborough.”
Geoffrey leaned forward, “I am true lord of Brentborough—Lord Maurice’s own son,” he asserted. Red Adam started to speak, choked slightly and spat a mouthful of blood upon the rushes. “I’ve only claimed what’s my own,” the boy protested shrilly as his gaze, glittering with involuntary tears, transfixed him. “I am his lawful son, who else?”
“You’re his bastard out of his seneschal’s wife,” Red Adam told him brutally, jerking his head at Constance.
Half a dozen voices cried out in anger and surprise and denial, but Bertram’s roar overbore all others. “A lie—a foul lie!” He lurched towards the dais’s edge, while Constance’s white horror proclaimed her guilt to all who looked on her. “Take back that lie—”
Red Adam raised his voice, distorted by his blood-blocked nose and battered mouth, so that all might hear. “Judge whether I lie! A very fair girl named Constance was delivered of a redhaired boy who was christened Geoffrey in Saint Osburga’s nunnery near Bristol at Eastertide of ’fifty-six. I have spoken with the midwife who delivered her and the woman who swaddled the child, and they will bear witness to it at need.”
In the silence Bertram raised huge fists to crush him, his face engorged with blood and his lips strained back from snarling teeth. Then he tottered, half-turned, reached groping hands towards his wife and said thickly, “Constance—” His mouth squared into an agonized grin, a line of froth gathered along his lips, and he toppled full-length down the steps and rolled at Red Adam’s feet.
Every man on the dais scrambled to him. Julitta, standing alone, gazed over their bent backs at her husband, and he looked steadily back at her. She dared not betray the slightest pity or fondness; the loathing she felt for his enemies must be turned on him, and she prayed that he might understand. But there had been too much treachery. His eyes closed an instant in agony before he stared down at the men busy over his seneschal’s body.
Lord William straightened. “Lady Constance,” he pronounced heavily, “I regret your husband is dead.”
“It’s two years too late,” she answered indifferently, and shocked everyone speechless. She came forward, glanced down at the dead man and mechanically crossed herself. Geoffrey, gray beneath the freckles, challenged her.
“It’s not true? He’s lying—he’s lying, isn’t he? You’re not my mother? Swear to me it’s a lie!”
She had no answer to that appeal. Lord William caught him by the shoulder. “Of course he’s lying! It’s his claim to Brentborough!” he assured him. “Come, sit you down in your rightful place. Hamon! Richard! Bear Sir Bertram out and bestow him decently, and someone fetch the priest.”
Four men had hard work of it to shift the great body to the side-chamber where two nights before Red Adam had kept the death watch over Reynald. Humphrey trod back to Julitta’s side, plainly shaken, and muttered in her ear, �
�What do you know of these witnesses of his, Julitta?”
“He’s told me nothing,” she answered, which was precisely true. She thought of the two old women and the dry-stone wall a child might climb, and shivered slightly. He gripped her hand. His own was sweating.
“There’s this usurper to deal with,” Lord William prompted the boy. The three older conspirators regarded one another with grim agreement, and Julitta knew that after his disclosure they dared not leave Red Adam alive.
“Make an end,” Gerald of Flackness advocated bluntly.
“He’s my kinsman—and he inherited in good faith,” Geoffrey objected.
“You waste your pity,” Lord William growled. “He’s a ravisher and murderer that killed his comrade fighting over a serving wench.”
The boy winced. Red Adam spat out another mouthful of blood, and he shuddered. “He’s still my cousin. There’ll be no more hurt done him. He can be safely kept—”
“He must not remain here, where he ruled and may find help,” Lord William pronounced, glancing at Humphrey.
“I’ll hold him securely at Crossthwaite,” that man promptly offered.
“In—in honorable captivity?” Geoffrey asked anxiously. “Later—when my succession is assured—he can be freed, perhaps provision made—but he’s not to be harmed!”
“Trust me,” Humphrey said smoothly, and signaled someone in the body of the hall. “We’ll ride at once.”
“He’s best out of here,” Lord William agreed.
“You poor witless whelp!” Red Adam said in vast contempt, and his mouth twisted in a ghastly parody of his grin.
“There’s our cousin,” Gilbert hesitantly reminded them.
“I go with my husband,” Julitta said, and deliberately turned and smiled up at Humphrey. He gave a great shout of triumphant laughter, caught her to his side and kissed her, and with his arm about her led her from the hall. She pressed the comforting hardness of her dagger against her body and yielded shamelessly before her husband’s face.
Down in the bailey the torches hissed and spluttered as the rain lashed them, and their flames flattened sideways in gusts of wind. A wild night, a murderer’s night, Julitta thought, standing tensely beside Humphrey as grooms dragged reluctant horses out from their stables. Her hands clenched until her nails bit her palms, and she was praying over and over, the same desperate prayer for the chance she needed. Red Adam would not reach Crossthwaite alive, and this night she was the only friend he had free and armed to help him.
She called the nearest groom. “Roger! Saddle me Folie! Brunel is going lame!”
“Folie, m’ lady? But—yes, m’ lady.” He scuttled into the stable.
Folie belonged to the church as a deodand, having caused a man’s death, but Father Simon had flatly refused to receive her. She came forth squealing and tossing her head at the torches, a diversion in glossy brown hide. Humphrey started forward as she reared. “Hold the brute steady!” he yelled; he too sounded nervous and irritable, but a man did not steel himself to do murder every night of his life. At last the guards brought out Red Adam, raising his bloody face to the rain and the wind that blew his hair back like the torch flames. Julitta lifted her hand and stalked towards him, thrusting past the startled guards.
“In remembrance of our marriage night, Adam de Lorismond!” she cried for all to hear, and her left hand slapped viciously, once and twice, against his cheek. There was no pretence; she dared not pretend, and felt blood start sticky on her tingling palm. Between their bodies, unseen by any, her right hand slid the little dagger up his left sleeve, and his fingers closed convulsively on the haft. She stepped back, praising God for His mercy.
“Vixen!” he grunted, and she needed no more.
“God’s Death, vixen’s the word for you!” Humphrey exclaimed, hooting laughter. He caught her to him and she went unresisting, though her belly heaved with revulsion. “If you ever do that to me I’ll take my belt to you,” he promised.
She pushed him off, and somehow achieved a challenging smile. “And before God, you’d rue it!” she retorted, and jerked free. No yearning meekness could hold his attention, nor did she think herself capable of feigning it; this night she was all virago. She strode to her horse, and Humphrey followed grinning, leaving his men to hoist the prisoner into his saddle and lash his ankles under his mount’s belly.
He rode by her stirrup, swearing at the gusts that clawed his cloak. They took, as she had expected, the coast road; it was nearly a league further by that way, but this was no night for the river track and swollen ford. The rain scudded over, and thin moonlight reached between the clouds; a few stars blinked through the gaps.
“Urgh!” Humphrey growled, huddling his cloak about his ears. “The Foul Fiend’s own weather! But before midnight we’ll be merry between my sheets, sweet Julitta.”
“I am not your whore,” she told him, feeling much like a talking jackdaw that had learned but one phrase.
“Marriage or nothing, you virtuous wench?”
“I go with my husband.”
“Content you; when we reach Crossthwaite you’ll have another husband. You were mine from the first, my Julitta.”
He chuckled, and she marveled at the fatuous vanity that reckoned her enchanted forever by his face and smile. She had much ado not to snatch back her hand when he reached for it, and jabbed Folie with her heel so that she sidled snorting aside.
The troop’s hooves drummed hollow on the bridge. Curfew had darkened the village, and no one moved in Arnisby Street, though probably eyes enough were peering round doors and through windows to see who rode so late. But where the headland curved round the shingle-beach torches flared, streaking the shallows with gold and scarlet. Shouts came thinly across the water, and the thump of heavy oars. Her heart lifted as she saw the black hull creeping in on the full tide, dwarfing the fishing boats. Erling was back. She and her husband had one dependable friend in Arnisby.
The cavalcade climbed the slope beyond the bridge at a walk to spare the horses. Torn shreds of cloud parted to let the moon’s light shine out as they reached the top. The ground sloped away to a ragged edge, and beyond was nothing but sky and sea.
Humphrey drew rein and looked about him. “Here’s as fit a place as any,” he announced.
“For what?” she demanded sharply, her heart slamming.
“Widowing you, Julitta. An essential preliminary to our marriage.” The troop closed in and halted likewise. A horse blew noisily, and another champed its bit with a musical jingle of metal. She looked quickly to find her husband, wondering whether he had yet been able to free his arms. Folie might provide some diversion; she had chosen her with that intent. She gathered the reins. Humphrey moved off the track a few paces, towards the drop, and glanced back over his shoulder. The moonlight caught a faint glint of eyes and teeth. “It would look amiss if his corpse had its throat cut, Julitta. But if he tries to escape, and his horse bolts over the cliff, that’s a regrettable accident. Hubert, tie his reins to the saddle and drive the brute over!”
“Drive it—” a startled voice protested.
“You heard!”
“Yes, m’ lord.”
Julitta tightened her thighs. Folie sidled. The moon dimmed.
“Hey, hold up!” Among the dark mass of horsemen a head sank forward. “Prisoner’s swooning, m’ lord!”
Humphrey laughed. “Red Adam mislikes the jump? No matter—”
Julitta, knowing better, drove her heels fiercely into Folie’s sides and hauled on the bit. Up she came, squealing and flailing, swung round on her haunches and snapped vicious teeth at Humphrey’s wrist as he grabbed at her. He yelled. Another yell answered from the troop as the captive swung upright, snatched the reins from Hubert’s hand as he reached to tie them, slashed at an impeding body and hurtled at Humphrey.
“He’s loose! He’s got a knife!”
“This way, Adam!” Julitta shrieked, wrenching Folie aside.
Instead he drove straight at h
is enemy, clawing for his swordhilt. The dagger winked. They crashed together, grappling, and Humphrey yowled. The impact sent his horse reeling backward, the two men locked fast.
“Ride, Julitta! York—Brien!”
Folie danced aside from the mêlée. The kicking, squealing beasts plunged away, the men on their backs wrestling savagely. The dear fool, risking his barely-seized freedom for hers, as if she would ride without him! The moon was darkening, fresh rain spitting, and only helmet and mail distinguished one man from the other. One horse broke sideways from under its rider, and charged neighing into the troop, turning it into a turmoil. Both men toppled, and rolled threshing down the slope. Humphrey squalled. They broke apart, lunged upright against the vast glimmer of the sea, and Julitta screeched.
“Adam! Adam! The cliff!”
The wild-haired shape leaped heedlessly. A sucking, grinding sound, the rain-sodden earth shuddering from the weight, and then with a roar the cliff-edge fell away. Both men were gone. The moon went out.
16
The dark filled with clamor; men shouting, horses neighing, and far below the landslip’s diminishing rumble. Dim figures cautiously approached the cliff. Julitta, dread clutching her inwards, wrenched Folie to a stand and strained to see or hear. Then Humphrey’s voice came shakily from the void, and her senses reeled.
“Throw me your belt, Hubert—no nearer—God’s Death, you’ll take me with you if you go over! Devil burn him, he’s ruined my sword-arm!”
“He’s gone, M’ lord!”
A scrabbling, grunts of effort, careful movement, an oath or two, were followed by a triumphant, “Got you, m’ lord!” Julitta numbly looped the reins about her saddle bow, kicked her feet from the stirrups, slashed Folie with the loose ends and slid from the saddle as she reared up squealing. She flung herself down under a gorse bush and lay flat, pulling her cloak over her head. As Folie’s forehooves touched earth she shrieked resentment and bolted.