The why of it still nagged at Simon. Why had she given herself to him? And why in the name of all the saints was he still in her bed?
Sir Thomas provided the answer. “You took the fever,” he announced. “Lady Jocelyn, in the graciousness of her heart, gave you the use of her own bed so she and her ladies might tend to you.”
His glance swung to the woman he referred to.
“It was no more than my duty,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I would do the same for any who fell in a dead faint at my feet.”
By the saints! Was that what had happened? She must think him the veriest weakling to let a few stripes and a touch of fever bring him down.
“I thank you, lady. Now, if you will send a page to aid me, I will dress and rid you of my presence.”
He could tell by her expression that she wished him gone with all speed. She could barely disguise her reluctance as she shook her head.
“Lady Constance says you must stay abed another day, mayhap two.”
“With all respect to the lady, I will dress and be on my way.”
Huffing, Sir Thomas interrupted with a stern rebuke. “For shame, de Rhys! Would you gainsay the one who bought you out of captivity and now offers you such gracious charity? If Lady Jocelyn says you must remain abed, you will do so until she gives you leave to rise.”
Chapter Five
Whatever balms the women had spread on Simon’s back worked miracles. By the time the cocks crowed at dawn the following morning, his hurts had lessened to a dull ache and the raw cuts had closed enough for Lady Constance to bind them with a soft, clean cloth. The fever coming on top of weeks of deprivation and brutal beatings had left him pitifully weak, however.
A noontide meal of hearty fish stew brimming with onions, carrots and turnips sopped up with thick crusts of bread went far to restoring his strength. Even then the stern-eyed Lady Constance would not allow him to rise. He lay abed, grateful for her ministrations but beginning to feel the itch of restlessness while she and several other women clustered near the window to embroider an altar cloth with costly gold thread.
The other ladies gave him curious, sideways glances. Particularly a thin female with a pinched, ferretlike face. Wife to the steward, Simon gathered from her comments.
“When do you think the king will summon Jocelyn?” she mused as she plied her needle.
“I know not,” Simon’s nurse returned.
“It must needs be soon,” Lady Ferret Face said, answering her own question. “From all accounts, my husband’s cousin is most desirous of the alliance she will cement.”
Lady Constance flicked a glance in Simon’s direction and responded in a quelling tone. “Such matters are not for us to speculate on.”
The admonishment stilled the gossip but not his whirling thoughts. The king intended to use the Lady of Fortemur to cement an alliance? With whom? And when? By all that was holy, what coil had she enmeshed him in?
He got no chance to ask her. Her duties, Lady Constance informed him, kept her busy without. Aside from brief appearances to inquire stiffly how he did, he saw little sign of her.
Yet despite his best efforts to direct his thoughts in other directions, the hours of enforced idleness brought Lady Jocelyn constantly to his mind. It didn’t help that he was in her bed. Still breathing in the faint scent of her musk. The knight who’d pledged himself to the Church, the same knight who’d promised to forgo all concourse with females wrestled mightily with the man who could think of nothing but the woman he’d fornicated with.
Memories of their brief coupling bedeviled him. The mere thought of her taste, the feel of her skin and hair under his callused hands, made his rod grow hard and caused him to shift restlessly. So restlessly that Lady Constance looked up from her sewing and gave him a sharp glance.
“Do you hurt?”
He did. He most assuredly did. Yet he could hardly confess the source of his pain.
“No, lady. I am but discomforted to put you to the burden of caring for me.”
“It’s no burden.” Her shrewd eyes assessed him. “Another day, mayhap two, and you will be strong enough to sit a horse again.”
“I’ve sustained worse wounds than these,” Simon protested, “and stayed in the saddle.”
“I doubt it not. Let’s see how you do at eventide. If you have the strength, you may come down to the great hall to sup and sleep this night.”
His attentive nurse relayed this opinion to Lady Jocelyn when she returned to her bower late in that afternoon. Simon had been half dozing, but her entry brought him full awake. Every part of him, he acknowledged to his profound disgust. She had but to stride through the door and his groin went tight.
Undeniably, she was much a woman. Even with her cheeks flushed and errant strands of pale blond hair escaping its linen band. She wore a plain, unadorned gown of blue showing mud stains at the hem. He understood the reason for her disorder when Lady Constance asked if she’d just come from the mews.
“I have, indeed.”
“How goes the progress with your peregrine? Is he used to his bells yet?”
“He didn’t so much as flinch when I tied them to his leg this time. I’ll take him out tomorrow afternoon to test his wings.”
“You should have de Rhys accompany you. He frets to be back on his feet. If he’s as ready to be up and about as he says he is, a short ride would be a good test of his strength before he attempts the journey to Jerusalem.”
Simon could tell from the startled glance Jocelyn aimed at him that she’d hoped to be rid of him before tomorrow afternoon.
“I’ve told him that he might dress and come down to the great hall to sup,” Lady Constance continued. “I’ll have a pallet made up for him there.”
Once again Jocelyn’s eyes met Simon’s. He saw consternation in their brown depths, and something more. Relief? Desperation to be rid of him?
“I doubt not you will be happy to have the use of your bed again,” he said gruffly.
Her bosom rose as she sucked in a swift breath. Did she think he mocked her or made some sly reference to what had occurred within these curtains? It was obvious she did from the way her chin lifted.
“Aye,” she said coolly, “I will. Until the supper hour, then.”
Scowling, Jocelyn navigated the narrow passageway cut into the walls. A hundred tasks awaited her attention but she craved some moments to herself. Even more, she craved the feel of the stiff breeze coming off the sea on her face.
Still frowning, she pushed through the door that gave onto the ramparts. The guard serving as lookout in the south tower scrambled off his stool.
“M-milady,” he stammered, surprised and alarmed by her unexpected presence in this remote corner of the keep. “Is aught amiss?”
“No.” She waved him back to his post. “I merely wish a breath of air to clear my head.”
She got that and more. The wind whipped her hair and tugged at her sleeves as she leaned her elbows on a square-cut embrasure. Waves crashed and curled against the rock seawall far below, echoing the turbulence in Jocelyn’s breast.
What in the name of all the saints ailed her?
She wanted de Rhys gone. Needed him gone. Were it not for his wounds, she would have sent him on his way long before now. Yet the fact that he would soon leave her bed rekindled the vague dissatisfaction that had bedeviled her almost since his arrival.
It had taken her some time to trace its cause. She understood the irritating sensation now, though. It had hit again, just moments ago, when her gaze roamed the expanse of naked chest showing above his linen sheets.
What she felt was unsatiated desire, pure and simple. She knew there was more to this business of coupling than she’d experienced. Her women wouldn’t make jokes about it elsewise. Nor would the maidservants giggle and compare this one’s skill at lancing to that one’s. Moreover, Lady Constance, as the most senior ranking of Jocelyn’s ladies-in-waiting, had explained in blunt terms the rapture that could seiz
e a wife were she so fortunate as to have a husband who would take the time to stroke and fondle her breasts, belly and nether parts.
De Rhys had most certainly done that! Jocelyn’s breath shortened as she recalled how he’d stroked her intimately. She’d felt the most urgent gathering in her breasts and lower belly. No rapture, though. Only this continual, most annoying sense that she might no longer be a maid, but she was not yet a woman.
Even more maddening was the knowledge that time was fast running out. The king would summon her to Jerusalem any day now. Or come to escort her to her prospective groom. She must needs inform him of her altered state before the marriage contracts were signed and the emir’s vassals arrived to take possession of Fortemur.
The very prospect made her stomach roil. Her grandsire had wrested this keep from the infidels during the First Crusade. The idea of bringing it as dower to an unbeliever, even one who proclaimed himself friendly to the Latins, put a sour taste in her mouth.
As her gaze swept the thick walls and high ramparts, resentment teetered perilously close to outright rebellion. She wouldn’t be the first great landholder to defy the king and look to her own best interests. Many a lord and baron warred with each other as much as they did with the enemy. And hadn’t Baldwin been forced to besiege his own mother in Jerusalem before Melisande had agreed, most reluctantly, to a division of power?
Jocelyn could hold out here. After taking Fortemur so many years ago, her grandsire had added mightily to its defenses. He’d made sure the keep’s residents had planted bountiful gardens, built cisterns and dug enough wells to withstand a lengthy siege. She could order the outer gates closed. Flood the inner yard. Keep all comers at bay for a year or more.
And then what? Sooner or later, she would have to either negotiate a truce or surrender unconditionally. If it was the former, she would have caused her people to suffer the deprivation of a siege for naught. If it was the latter, her men would be put to the sword and her women given as booty to whoever the king sent to subdue his rebellious ward.
She could not do that to the people who’d served her and her grandfather so loyally. She had no choice but to bend to the king’s will in the matter of a husband. Just not this one. Pray God, not this one.
Sighing, Jocelyn leaned heavily on her elbows and stared down at the sea rolling against the rocks.
When she went to her chamber an hour later she found de Rhys already gone.
“He insisted he was strong enough to leave your chamber,” Lady Constance informed her. “I will tell my husband to keep an eye to him this night, and you may judge his fitness to sit a horse when you ride out tomorrow.”
Jocelyn nodded, but she felt oddly bereft when she glanced at her now-empty bed. She’d struck a bargain with de Rhys, she told herself sternly. She would hold to it. Yet she could not help wishing… Wondering…
No! She would not imagine his hard, muscled flanks between her thighs again. She would not grow flushed at the memory of his fierce thrusts, nor gasp at this sudden spasm low in her belly. She would not!
Dragging off her muddied gown, she told herself the morrow could not come quickly enough.
It dawned bright and cool, but a disagreement with Sir Thomas over a tax he wanted to levy on the next Assizes Day delayed Jocelyn’s proposed expedition. As a consequence, her temper hung by a thread when she strode outside and descended into the bailey.
Her barb was saddled and waiting, its reins held by the stable master. Her falconer was already mounted with the hooded peregrine perched on his leather-shielded forearm. Her escort was similarly prepared to ride. Although she would remain within sight of Fortemur’s towers, she was too rich a prize to go anywhere without suitable protection. The only one not ahorse, she saw with a frown, was Simon de Rhys.
A quick glance told her Sir Guy had provided him a sword, buckler and embossed leather shield from the castle armory. They weren’t the finest, nor yet the meanest, she noted. Guy had also assured her that he’d set the castle blacksmith to altering a hooded mail hauberk to fit de Rhys’s broad shoulders. The faint chinking sound of a hammer coming from the farrier’s shed told Jocelyn the smith was even now adding the necessary links. All that de Rhys lacked, apparently, was a mount.
“Why are you not horsed?” she asked him.
“It appears the dun-colored barb that carried me to Fortemur has gone lame.”
“The dun is not the only mount in my stables up to your weight.” Her frown deepening, she turned to her stable master. “What of the courser Sir Hugh rides betimes? The sorrel with the white blaze?”
“She’s near to foaling, lady.”
“Then saddle one of the palfreys. Surely there is one… No, wait.”
She took her lower lip between her teeth. She’d promised de Rhys a warhorse. There were a goodly number of well-trained destriers in the stables, but her knights laid claim to all but one. “Saddle Avenger.”
“My lady! You know he’ll let no one mount him.” His glance cut to de Rhys. “And I’m told Sir Simon is but recently risen from the sickbed. He has not the strength to manage Avenger.”
The knight in question stepped forward. “Is Avenger the well-muscled bay in the last stall?”
“He is,” Jocelyn replied.
“He looks to be most powerful.”
“Not just powerful, but most diligently trained. He was my grandfather’s first choice to ride in battle. He’ll lead a charge or block it with equal purpose.”
It went much against her grain to gift this ragtag knight with the destrier that had carried her grandsire in and out of battle. Such well-trained warhorses were worth their weight in gold. But Avenger sorely needed the hand of one who could control him, and she’d promised de Rhys she would outfit him.
“If you can ride him,” she said stiffly, “he’s yours.”
Satisfaction leaped into his face. “Don’t fear, lady. I can ride him.”
His utter confidence overrode her doubts. That and the wry glint that crept into his blue eyes.
“In truth, Lady Constance forced so many draughts down my throat that I must needs do something with the energy they’ve stirred. Even if it means getting tossed on my head a time or two.”
Jocelyn barely heard him. Caught by that ghost of a smile, she near gawked at the man. By all the saints! How could something that simple transform him so?
She’d seen him now wearing a half-dozen or more faces. Defiant slave. Distrustful captive. Harsh conspirator who ordered her so coldly to remove her clothes. Wan and pale and drenched in sweat as he thrashed with fever.
This smiling man was a stranger to her. One who caused her heart to flutter inside her rib cage as she nodded to the stable master.
“Saddle Avenger and bring him forth.”
The men of her escort dismounted, eager to watch the show. Her falconer kept his seat but nudged his steed some distance away so the snorting and stamping he knew was about to occur didn’t fluster the nervous peregrine.
When word spread quickly of what was to take place, other residents of the keep came out to watch as well. Kitchen maids, the lads who slept in the kennels to keep the dogs quiet, the keeper of the bees. Even the laundresses straightened from the great wooden tubs, wiped the suds from their arms and joined the crowd. They knew well that many a man had tried to mount the heavily muscled bay. Many a man had failed.
By the time the stable master led the warhorse from its stall and positioned him next to the mounting block, Jocelyn was near to regretting her impulsive decision. Despite de Rhys’s assertions that he was strong enough to mount the destrier, he’d risen from the sickbed only yesterday afternoon.
Was she so anxious to be rid of him that she would let him risk his newly restored strength? Did she feel so guilty about forcing him to her bed that she would gift him with her grandfather’s most prized warhorse? Or was it just this itchy, restless and most persistent dissatisfaction that made her half hope he would, indeed, land on his head?
Lips
set, she stood with the others while de Rhys set aside his shield and approached the destrier. It had been saddled and caparisoned with a cloth of red and black. The cloth served as both decoration and identification of friend or foe during battle. It covered a padded leather gambeson that would help deflect arrows and spears.
As de Rhys approached, Avenger’s nostrils flared. His black eyes flicked from one side to the other, then back to the man now only a few paces away.
De Rhys crooned something in too soft a voice for Jocelyn to hear. She curled her hands into nervous fists, half enthralled, half fearful of the drama she’d set in motion.
The stable master held on to the destrier’s reins but kept a respectful distance as Avenger snorted and pawed the dirt with iron-shod hooves. Still singing to him in a soft murmur, de Rhys advanced. When he was close enough, he signaled to the stable master to pass him the reins. He did so gladly and scuttled away.
Then it was only the man and the steed.
De Rhys looped the reins around one wrist and reached out with his other hand. Avenger’s head reared up. White showed around his eyes. The watching crowd held its collective breath, and Jocelyn’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it would jump out of her chest. She’d come within a breath of issuing a sharp order to cease and desist, when de Rhys stroked Avenger’s muzzle. Once. Twice. Still whispering, still crooning.
Like one entranced, she could not but stare at that strong, battle-scarred hand and remember how it had gentled her in the same manner. Shivers rippled across her skin as de Rhys swung the reins over Avenger’s arched neck and stepped onto the mounting block. In the blink of an eye, he’d settled in the saddle.
For long moments no one moved, no one spoke. Jocelyn heard not so much as a peep or a hiss as the crowd waited for the tumult to erupt. When it did not, jaws sagged and eyes popped.
As if unmindful of the gaping crowd, de Rhys signaled for his shield. He looped it over the pommel, then directed the destrier in a slow amble to where Jocelyn stood.
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