“Get away!” she screamed. She reached up to claw his face.
He twisted from her attack, brutally squeezing her arm. Then he laughed.
Nicola went still. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone. After a moment he released her, dumping her against the bed. “Ugh.” He backed away. “You smell like a well-used harlot. I soil my hands by touching you.” He started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Nicola whispered. Despite her dread, she wanted to know his plans.
“To London. I can’t delay any longer.” His blue eyes flicked over her. “If I were you, madam, I would get down on my knees and pray my lover was successful in his plowing. If your belly is still flat when I return, I vow I will find a raven-haired serf to finish the task.”
The door thudded as he left. Nicola sat on edge of the bed feeling stunned. In the space of half an hour, one man had taken her to heaven, another to hell. Even now, her body thrummed with the echoes of her climax. She could feel Fawkes’ seed dribbling down her thighs.
The thought of him made her wince. She imagined the young man lying dead beside the road to London. Anger rose inside her, hot and choking. How she hated Mortimer! She would do anything to thwart him. One way would be to have Old Emma to go to the healer and fetch a potion to kill Fawkes’ seed. She could make certain Mortimer never had the heir he so desired.
In the weeks while Mortimer was in London she could try to gain allies. If the men of the garrison knew how cruelly her husband treated her, what a perverted beast he was, some of them might agree to defy him when he returned. Nay, she thought with disgust. The garrison had sworn their allegiance to Mortimer, and they would not go back on it. Even for her. The most she could hope for was that they would help her escape Valmar.
But where could she go? As soon as he returned, Mortimer would hunt her down. No one would give her shelter. No one would risk his wrath.
Her anger turned to despair. There was no way out. Unless Mortimer died. For a moment, she imagined Fawkes riding down Mortimer and killing him. She could see Fawkes’s face, proud and defiant, as he thrust his sword into Mortimer’s belly. “This is for Nicola,” he would say.
But there would never be such a meeting. Mortimer would pay someone to murder Fawkes. To spill his blood quickly and quietly before they reached London. Nicola touched her belly. If Fawkes had gotten her with a babe, the child would be all that was left of him in this world. How could she kill it?
She wrenched her fingers from her body and clutched her hands together. Such thoughts were soft and womanly. To defeat Mortimer, she must be as ruthless as he was.
Hurrying to the door, Nicola leaned down the stairs and called for Old Emma to attend her.
Chapter Two
“Have you lost your wits, Fawkes? Sir Alan will be back from gaming at any moment. If you don’t have his armor finished, he’ll flay you alive!”
Fawkes looked up from the soiled helm in his lap to see his fellow squire regarding him with a mixture of aggravation and dread.
“I mean it, Fawkes.” Reynard raked a hand through his thick hair, making it stand up even more. In the firelight outside Sir Alan Wazelin’s tent, Reynard’s tresses gleamed a fox-like red. “I don’t know what ails you these days. I thought you’d be thrilled to go to London and see the king. But ever since we left Valmar, you’ve walked around like a man in a daze.”
“I’ve much on my mind.” Fawkes grabbed a handful of wet sand and rubbed it over the helm.
“Seems to me you scarce have a mind left,” Reynard said. “Did you get hit during quintain practice?”
Fawkes scrubbed harder. “Nay, I am well. And I’m pleased to see London, ’tis only that…” He’d spent less than an hour with Nicola, but the experience had changed his life forever.
“Well, you might think of the rest of us,” Reynard muttered. “If you anger Sir Alan, he’ll grumble to Mortimer, and Lord Walter is already foul-tempered. I don’t understand. If he’s in such a hurry to see the king before he sails, why did he wait so long to go to London? I admit that being barely wed and all, he had to spend some time with his new wife. Get her with child, if possible, so his claim to the lands is secured.” Reynard rubbed his face. “But even bedding a woman night and day does not assure a babe will come of it. Not that I think Mortimer was very diligent in his efforts. The woman must be a toothless harridan the way he keeps her hidden away.”
“Jesu, Reynard, will you shut your flapping mouth!” Fawkes lobbed the helmet in his direction. “I’m sick of all this crude talk of Lady Nicola. As if she was a broken-down mare Mortimer kept for breeding stock!”
Reynard stepped back, his skin pale beneath the splatter of ruddy freckles. “Lady Nicola? How do you know her Christian name?”
Fawkes stiffened. “Sir Alan sent me with a message for Mortimer. She was in the solar, sewing.” His voice rose. “And I vow the reason her husband keeps her hidden away is not because she is ugly but because she is surpassing fair, and he has no wish for his men to besmirch her name with crude gossip!”
Fawkes felt himself flushing. Speaking of Nicola’s beauty aroused mind-numbing memories.
“I didn’t know you were ever in the upper parts of the castle,” Reynard said. “You never spoke of it.”
“Lackwit! ’Twas meant to be a secret! I don’t go babbling my lord’s private business!”
Reynard’s plain face twisted with perplexity. “I never dreamed you were so well-regarded by Sir Alan. Or Mortimer either. I’ve labored this past week thinking I must save you from their wrath. I was even going to offer to help you with Sir Alan’s armor.” He went to pick up the helm, which shone gold in the firelight. “God’s feet, Fawkes. It’s dented. How are you going to get that out?”
“You’re going to fetch me a hammer from the smith.” Fawkes grabbed his friend’s tunic sleeve and propelled him toward the opening between Sir Alan’s and another knight’s tent. “Many thanks, Reynard. I’m grateful to have such a fine, loyal friend.”
Reynard made sounds of protest but he allowed Fawkes to shove him off. As soon as he was gone, Fawkes sank down on his knees beside the pile of armor. Sweet Mary, Queen of Heaven, what was he to do! Reynard was right; he’d lost all reason. Since that day, he’d been able to think of nothing but Nicola. Of her beauty, the feel of her body close to his. And of the terrible way Lord Mortimer used her. The man was a wretch, a slimy snake, a black-hearted demon! He should be drawn and quartered for his treatment of his wife!
Fawkes’ hands clenched reflexively on the cold metal as he imagined closing them around Mortimer’s thick neck. He’d plotted a dozen ways to kill his nemesis. Poison in his food. A knife in his ribs while he slept. An arrow between his shoulder blades while he rode at the head of the army train.
None of the means he’d thought of aided his other goal—saving Lady Mortimer. Nay, not Lady Mortimer. He refused to think of her in connection with that filthy swine! The Lady of Valmar, she was. Beautiful beyond compare. With skin scented of flowers. A mouth as sweet and intoxicating as mead. A body as lithe and graceful as a willow branch. And a quim of silken fire.
He was hard again. Endlessly aching from the memory of the most perfect sex he could imagine. The only way to fight the consuming desire was to remember his anger and hatred. And his plan for revenge.
Reynard was right. He must get control of himself. Remain clear-headed. It would not be easy to kill Mortimer. But somehow he would do it. Then he would earn his spurs as a knight and seek a boon of the king. He would not ask for Valmar but only the woman herself. And her child, if there was one.
A shudder passed down his body. To think that her body and his, joined together, might have created a babe. A son or daughter. Better if it was a girl child. That way, it would be more tolerable if some believed the offspring was Mortimer’s.
He frowned. According to law, the babe would be recognized as Mortimer’s, even if everyone knew the man had never lain with his wife. Unless Mortimer died be
fore the truth of the babe were known.
But he got ahead of himself. He didn’t even know if his seed had taken. If Nicola’s womb was fertile. If she was hardy enough to bear a living child. She was so fine and delicate.
Cold fingers gripped his heart. What if she died in childbirth? What if his crude rutting killed her! He closed his eyes, praying. “Dear God, let her be well. Let her live. I’ll ask for nothing else…”
And he would not. The rest he would do himself. Somehow.
A shadow loomed large in the firelight. “Ah, the dutiful squire, working his fingers raw, polishing my armor.” Sir Alan’s voice rang out.
Fawkes stood, tense but not fearful. Sir Alan was a harsh man but generally fair. And Fawkes had never given his master cause for complaint. Until now.
“I can’t credit it, de Cressy. You’ve never been over half a fool before. What’s addled your brains? Some slut take your fancy? Pshaw! Don’t let a wench under your skin. They’re all the same. Part their legs for any man.”
Sir Alan bent down, his hawk-like face split by a wicked-looking grin. “Tell me her name, and I’ll prove it to you. Offer her some silver and she’ll be flat on her back, faster than a fly on dung, screaming my name instead of yours.” Sir Alan straightened and guffawed, then belched loudly.
He appeared to be very drunk, which surprised Fawkes. The crusty Wazelin was not one for over-imbibing.
“Reynard went to get a hammer, sir. I found a dent in your helm.” Fawkes picked it up and turned it so the firelight shone on the flaw.
Sir Alan waved his hand impatiently. “Dented or not, if it serves to protect my balding pate, I’m satisfied. But my mail… You can’t leave it there in the mud to rust. Finish it up, boy.”
“But, sir, don’t you wish me to help you to bed first?”
Sir Alan grunted and moved toward the tent, swaying slightly. Fawkes followed, wondering how Wazelin felt about his liege, Walter Mortimer. If he meant to bring down a lord, he must enlist powerful men to aid him. “Were you meeting with Lord Mortimer?” he asked.
The knight grunted as he took a seat on a stool and raised his arms so Fawkes could pull off his surcote. Taking that for an assent, Fawkes pressed on. “I suppose all the talk is of London and the king. Have you ever met King Richard, sir?”
“Aye, but never in this country. Fought beside him in Poitou and at Chinon before Old Henry died. The Lionheart is a good soldier.”
“And Lord Mortimer,” Fawkes continued, “I hear he is well-acquainted with the king.”
Sir Alan made a snorting sound. “Mortimer knows how to flatter royalty, that’s all.”
“So, the king is off on Crusade,” Fawkes said after a moment. “I hear that freeing Jerusalem, despite Richard’s optimism, might take years. In the meantime, Prince John will stir up trouble. They say he is already looking for barons willing to sell their loyalty. I wonder if Mortimer—”
“I say, boy, your tongue is running off dangerously tonight.” Sir Alan, now freed of his surcote and gambeson, regarded Fawkes with a baleful stare. “This talk of Mortimer and the king. Prince John. ’Tis not seemly. Or healthy. Besides, it probably doesn’t matter what happens here in England. You and I will be deep in the domain of the Saracens by next Lenten. Probably die there, too.”
“What do you mean?” Fawkes asked. His mouth was suddenly dry. His heart hammering.
“We’re to go with the king. Mortimer is sending us on the Crusade. Since he can’t go himself. Since he is so busy with his new lands and wife and all.” Sir Alan’s voice dripped scorn, but Fawkes scarcely heard it.
He was to go on Crusade. He would earn his spurs and might even be knighted by the king himself. It was Richard’s dream to free Jerusalem. He had beggared England to equip his army and buy mercenaries to reach his goal and he would reward all who aided him.
Fawkes saw himself returning to England as a knight and seasoned fighting man. A hero and in the king’s debt. When Richard asked what reward he wished, there could be but one answer, the Lady of Valmar.
“They say there are fevers that make your eyes and mouth bleed,” Sir Alan said. “Deserts so hot your blood boils. Vicious Saracens who cut off your ballocks and stuff them in your mouth so you can’t scream while they torture you to death.” He sighed heavily. Fawkes did not note it.
****
December 1090, Valmar Castle
“Christ save me!” Nicola shrieked. “Oh, let me die! Let me die now, I beg you!”
The pain came in waves. Hideous, wrenching waves. Nicola felt her body being torn asunder and at this moment, she hated the man who had caused her such agony. “Damn him. Damn his wretched, black-hearted soul!”
Nay, she thought as the contraction subsided, she should not blame Fawkes. ’Twas her evil wretch of a husband she should curse. Fawkes had a least given her pleasure when he bedded her.
She sought to recall the memory, a distraction from the pain clawing her belly. His dark eyes like burning coals as he gazed at her. His tanned skin and striking features. The gentleness of his mouth as he kissed her ears, her neck, her breasts. His hands caressing her with expert care. As if he was a blind man memorizing her flesh.
The memory shattered as the pain came again. “She screamed.
“Shush, lady,” Emma crooned as she wiped Nicola’s brow. “I’ve put a knife beneath the bed to cut the pain. Your lying-in progresses well. The babe is placed right. Your womb has opened. Now, ’tis only the matter of pushing the child out into the world.”
The next bout of crushing misery. “Arghhh. Ahhhh. Ohhhh.” The babe bursting through her flesh. The pain cresting like a huge beast devouring her. She screamed again. And again.
“’Tis a boy, lady. Hear how lustily he cries!”
Nicola roused herself from the darkness of the pain. “Make him stop,” she whispered. “What if Mortimer hears?”
“Whist now, little one,” Emma cooed. The cries ceased.
Nicola felt a weight on her chest, feather-light after the soul-searing pressure of the birth. Despite her weariness, she forced her eyes open, longing to see this thing she’d fought so hard for. It lay crumpled against her breast, a reddish, swollen creature with bruised eyes and a tiny, puckering mouth.
“Oh,” she gasped, “Oh.”
The delicate mouth opened. Closed. A primeval longing swept through her, the bone-deep ache of love.
“Lady, I must take him,” Emma murmured. “Now, while he is quiet.”
The thought of it brought crushing pain, as agonizing as the labor pangs. Nicola choked on a sob. Tears stung her eyes. Her babe. All this struggle and pain and now she must give him up.
****
Acre, July 1091
Fawkes de Cressy crouched in near darkness, inching forward like a worm. The tunnel was as hot as a forge, and each time he inhaled, his lungs filled with smoke from the horn lantern. He used his pick to strike another chunk from the rocky earth ahead of him. Again. Steady. Careful.
He paused and sought to tamp down the dread that clawed at him each time he struck a blow. Nay, he refused to think about what would happen if the tunnel collapsed. Instead he would concentrate on the reward King Richard promised. To any man brave enough to dig underneath the Accursed Tower, he offered ten gold pieces. Not enough for Fawkes to fulfill his dream, but a start. And if he could acquit himself well in the fighting when the tower came down, he might acquire even greater riches. With luck, he might rise high enough in the king’s favor to ask for the ultimate prize—the demesne of Valmar and the woman who came with it.
Thinking of Lady Nicola banished his fatigue and fear, and filled him with new determination. He’d spent a bare candle hour with her, but it was enough to keep him going through all the misery and struggle of the past two years. She was a thing of dreams, a shining vision lighting the way ahead of him.
A sound interrupted his reverie. Was another sapper working parallel to him? He’d heard nothing before this. The sound came again. A slippery, whi
spery noise, followed by a shower of stones. Then a torrent. He gasped in horror as the tunnel behind him collapsed. Everything turned to darkness.
****
Valmar Castle, December, 1192
“King Richard’s ship went down at Aquileia, forcing the crusaders to travel by land. He was then taken prisoner by Duke Leopold, who blames Richard for the murder of his cousin, Conrad of Montferrat.”
Although Father FitzAlan delivered his news in an appropriately solemn voice, there could be no mistaking that edge of gloating in his expression. Seated across from the cleric, Nicola experienced a similar sense of elation. This might be it, her chance to free herself from her wretched husband. Mortimer, slumped over his wine cup, scarcely seemed to take note of FitzAlan’s words.
Nicola poked at the boiled mutton on her trencher and sought to make her voice cool and noncommital. “What will happen to Richard now?”
The cleric shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps Leopold will leave Richard to rot in his dungeon. Or mayhaps he will turn him over to one of his other enemies. Either way, it’s likely Richard will never return to England.”
Mortimer suddenly raised his blood-shot eyes and glared at FitzAlan. “Richard will find a way to get free. Mark my words.”
“Perhaps…” FitzAlan’s voice remained smooth and non-committal. “But it seems to me a wise man might reconsider his alliances. I’m certain Prince John would be willing to let you keep Valmar and your other properties if you—”
Mortimer rose, the speed of his movement belying his body’s bloated form. He pounded the table. “’Tis treason you suggest, and I’ll not have it in my hall! Cease your wicked innuendos or I’ll have you thrown out of the castle!”
Father FitzAlan’s face blanched. “My lord, I meant nothing traitorous. I’m simply pointing out the peril of the Lionheart’s situation. He’s imprisoned far from home, in the hands of his enemies.”
Mortimer twisted his features into a hideous snarl, and FitzAlan drew back, looking horrified.
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