Nicola took a drink of the water and thanked Agelwulf. She got to her feet. The pages had returned to their duties and were filling baskets with dried cheat bread to be used as trenchers. After smoothing her veil and skirts, Nicola left the kitchen.
****
Fawkes gazed around the great hall of Valmar with satisfaction. The whitewashed walls were hung with bright weavings of hunting scenes and religious vignettes. Snowy linen cloths covered all the trestle tables, and the high table was set with jeweled plates, cups, bowls, and candlesticks
Reynard came up beside him. His admiring words echoed Fawkes’s thoughts. “I’ve not seen such splendor since King Richard’s coronation banquet in London. Certainly when we served as squires here, Mortimer never put on such a spread. This must be Lady Nicola’s doing.”
“I have no complaint about how the keep is run,” Fawkes said.
“Ah, but skill in managing a castle is not the reason you wed Lady Nicola.” Reynard poked him playfully in the ribs. “How do you bear it, to know you must endure a tedious formal banquet before taking her to bed?”
“It would be good of me to talk to her a little first, don’t you think? It may be my right to bed her, but I’d like to share at least a few pleasantries before I pursue such intimacy.”
Reynard shrugged. “You sound more patient than I would be. If you’d slaked your lust with a whore or serving wench once in a while, I could better understand. But you’ve gone years without—”
“There are other ways to relieve lust,” Fawkes interrupted. “The Church may abhor onanism, but most men have done it under some circumstances.”
Reynard shook his head. “I don’t see the point, if there is a willing woman available.”
“You don’t understand. I didn’t want any woman, I only wanted Nicola.”
“Of course, there was the one dancing girl…” Reynard smirked.
“Yea, there was.” Fawkes had not bedded her either, but he wouldn’t tell Reynard that.
“At last your long wait is over,” Reynard said. “Here she comes.”
Nicola entered the hall. She looked even paler than during the wedding, but her spine was as straight as an arrow. Indeed, her whole bearing was so queenly and composed it took Fawkes’s breath away. He could hardly believe that soon he would have the right to touch such perfection. To hold her exquisite body in his arms and kiss those rose-petal lips.
He told himself he must get over being awestruck by this woman. He was now a lord, and Lady Nicola’s equal. And this night he almost looked the part in his court tunic.
****
Nicola let Fawkes help her take her seat at the raised table. He sat beside her in the lord’s chair. The carved back bore the silhouette of a hawk, the device of Valmar castle. She thought how fitting it was that Fawkes had earned the right to carry that bold symbol on a banner. He reminded her of a fierce, unpredictable bird of prey.
She perused him from under her lashes, observing the way his hair shone like polished ebony and the hard shape of his freshly shaven jaw. He wore a tunic of deep blue velvet banded with gold, but even the sumptuous fabric failed to soften the hard lines of his body. Like a wild animal, his lean form mixed grace with deadliness.
Potent emotions churned inside her. Her body remembered this man. It recalled the feel of his mouth, the touch of his callused fingers, the fullness of his shaft inside her. The memory made her flesh sing with longing.
But even if her body desired this man, she could not let those thrilling memories muddle her wits. Her thoughts went back to what she’d heard in the kitchen. A man capable of killing dozens of people would clearly do whatever else he thought necessary to maintain his position and power. If Fawkes discovered Simon and thought the boy was his enemy’s son, he might decide to eliminate his potential rival’s claim. Nicola swallowed a sip of wine, then took a deep breath to keep it down.
The servants brought out the food: whole boar’s head, roast duck and capon, platters of trout and eel in sauce, trays of cheeses, baskets of freshly baked bread, berry tarts and spiced pasties. They poured more wine, the finest vintage in Valmar’s cellars. A warm, lazy murmur filled the hall, the sounds of people eating and drinking, smacking their lips and making contented comments to their companions.
Nicola ate carefully, all her concentration on the man beside her. As her husband, Fawkes had complete power over her. He could beat her or imprison her, as Mortimer had done. She had endured that and would do so again if she had to. Anything to keep Simon safe.
Fawkes turned toward her. “The food is delicious. My compliments to you and to your cook.”
“Thank you, milord.”
“Valmar seems like a prosperous, well-defended keep. I’m pleased with what I’ve seen here.” He put down the goblet with a thud, despite the linen tablecloth. “Now Mordeaux—I have to say that Valmar’s sister castle appears much less secure. In fact, I was thinking of sending some of my men back there in a day or two.”
Nicola tensed. Why did he mention Mordeaux? Had the garrison resisted him in some way? Ridiculous. Gilbert de Vescy, the Mordeaux seneschal, would not be so foolish as to defy a man like Fawkes, who had an army of crusader-trained knights at his back.
She told herself to relax. As long as no one knew who he was, Simon was in no danger. And who would betray her son? Not Gilbert’s wife, Hilary, who was raising him as her own. Not Old Emma. The serving woman had been with Nicola ever since she could remember. Although meddlesome and outspoken, Old Emma was utterly loyal.
“In a few days, I’ll tour all the lands attached to the two castles,” Fawkes said. “As well as the castles themselves. Although the defenses look solid, you never can tell. I want to find out how deep the main wells are, if we could survive a siege.”
“Do you expect Mordeaux to be attacked?”
“A good commander always expects attack. I’m always prepared for treachery.”
Nicola recalled the conversation she’d had with Father FitzAlan over six months ago. If Prince John had decided to act upon her hints that Mordeaux and Valmar were ripe for the taking, surely he would have done so by now. Instead it was this man, one of Richard’s supporters, who’d seized control. John would have spies; he would soon learn her lands were now controlled by an experienced Crusader knight, a man who had the skill and the fortitude to hold on to what he’d seized.
She dared a glance at Fawkes. He seemed restless. Why? There was no reason for him to be uneasy. He had all the power. She was the one who must walk a narrow parapet, carefully weighing everything she said, everything she did.
****
He was bungling things. Bungling them badly. Here he was at their wedding banquet, talking about defenses and battle tactics. She probably thought him a crude fighting man, little different than her first husband. When had he lost the skill of cosseting a woman? He’d once done it a half dozen times a day. Cajoling the kitchen wenches to give him a fresh loaf or a drink of buttermilk. Stealing a kiss from one of the dairymaids. Enticing a village girl into a hay mound for a quick, exuberant tumble.
But none of them had been anything like Nicola, a lady, born and bred, with the manners and the aloofness of a queen. Only in the bedchamber had he known what to do with Nicola, how to win her over. He didn’t want to wait until then. Or rely on lovemaking to thaw the ice between them. He must find a way to reach out to her now.
“I apologize for the abruptness of our wedding,” he said. “I had to wed you quickly to seal my claim. In all the haste, I forgot to give you this.” He reached for the gilt money pouch on his belt and withdrew the ring he’d carried all the way from Jaffa. Although she didn’t know it, he’d had it made especially for her, guessing at the size.
He motioned and she held out her right hand. “Nay, the other one.” He took her left hand in his and slid the ring onto the third finger. “They say that the blood in this hand flows directly to the heart.”
The ring fit perfectly, gold filigree and rubies glinting
in the candlelight. Fawkes stared at her hand resting in his. The hand of a lady. Smooth, unblemished skin. Long slender fingers. Perfect fingernails. The contrast with his tanned and battle-scarred hand was startling.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Fawkes took a deep draught of wine, feeling better. She liked the ring. He’d seen surprise and pleasure flare in her eyes. For a moment, he’d almost thought he’d glimpsed a hint of the passion he knew was behind the demure mask. He would arouse that passion once again. But first, he must find a garderobe. He rose. “Pray, excuse me, madam. I will return anon.”
There was a spring in his step as he started toward the back of the hall, and he had to quell the urge to grin like a fool. Then he encountered Reynard, and the troubled look on his captain’s face instantly soured his cheerful mood. “What’s wrong?”
Reynard shook his head before shooting a glance at the high table. “Let’s go out in the bailey.”
“God’s teeth, spit it out!” Fawkes said, as soon as they were away from the hall.
Reynard shook his head again. “It’s hard to believe, but I heard the same thing from two different men, and Adam FitzSaer, Mortimer’s castellan, confirmed the story. So it seems likely it’s true.”
“What is true?”
“You remember when we arrived at Mordeaux and Mortimer rode out to meet us, like he’d known we were coming? Remember when we speculated who could have warned him? Well, it was Lady Nicola. Mortimer knew by heart the message you’d sent her. He quoted it repeatedly to show what a lovesick, ball-less whelp you are.”
Fawkes fought the fury that engulfed him. Even dead, Mortimer had the power to provoke him into a murderous rage. “I’m certain Mortimer had servants who spied on her,” he said, curtly. “They probably found the message and took it to him. For that matter, the message may never have reached Nicola. If she was Mortimer’s prisoner…”
Reynard shook his head. “That’s the thing. The helpless damsel you thought to rescue does not exist. For the past three years, Lady Nicola has roamed freely about Valmar, directing the household.”
“Well, I’m pleased Mortimer finally came to his senses and released her. I was half afraid she might have lost her wits from his mistreatment.”
Reynard cocked a brow. “It seems it was Mortimer who lost his wits. There are tales that Nicola poisoned him, cursed him, or maybe both. At any rate, she did something to him to cause him to change from a strong virile man to a worthless tosspot muttering to himself in a corner of the hall.”
Fawkes recalled Mortimer from two days before, the puffiness of his face, the glazed, bloodshot eyes. “If she cursed or poisoned him, then it was with good reason. Mortimer treated her most cruelly. I have no sympathy for him.”
“Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you? The fact is, Lady Nicola is no meek, helpless victim. Mortimer may have deserved whatever fate befell him. But if she is capable of such things, you need to be aware. And the fact that she warned Mortimer makes it likely she has no fondness for you. What I’m trying to say—” Reynard put his hand on Fawkes’s arm. “You have made this woman into a saintly creature worthy of any sacrifice. But what if she is all too mortal and flawed? I don’t want to see you ruined as Mortimer was.”
“Mortimer was a corrupt, hateful bastard! He deserved the fate that befell him! “
“Yea, but you do not.”
Fawkes let out his breath. The idea that Nicola had poisoned or cursed, or otherwise done something to Mortimer didn’t distress him. But if she’d seen fit to warn his deadly enemy of his arrival at Mordeaux, that was another matter. He’d sought to block out Mortimer’s words, to believe they were lies meant to demoralize him. But someone had warned Mortimer and it was logical to think it was Nicola.
He saw pity in Reynard’s eyes, so he turned away and strode swiftly across the bailey. He found the stairs leading to the ramparts and climbed.
What if it’s true? What if she cares naught for you, even though for almost four years your every waking moment has been consumed with rescuing her? He felt like weeping. As if he were a small child who has waited for what seemed like an endless time for a precious treat and then when the time comes, is cruelly denied the promised pleasure.
Standing on the battlements, he gazed out at the landscape spread out under the purple-edged sky. Come morning, the hills would be dotted with creamy white sheep. The valley would glow green and gold with ripening grain, rich meadows and stands of beech and oak. Below the castle mound he could almost make out the village, several dozen daub-and-wattle houses, with neat vegetable gardens behind them.
There was more to Valmar than Nicola. This demesne was his now. He’d earned it. Paid for it with blood, suffering and struggle. Rising far, far higher than his poor, landless knight father could ever have imagined. Even if it turned out Mortimer’s terrible words were true, he had to remember there was more to his dream than simply rescuing Lady Nicola. He’d accomplished what he’d vowed he would accomplish. Having done so, he would not let sly, hideous rumors steal from him this night of triumph.
He leaned his head back so the evening breeze wafted soothingly over his face. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the sweet scent of summer: Hawthorn in the hedgerows. Meadowsweet and ripening grasses in the fields. A sound from the bailey below drew him back to the present. He must go down. They were probably already looking for him, and sharing ribald jests about the bedding.
The bedding. For four years he’d dreamed of this night. For the moment when he would have the right to touch Nicola. To kiss her rosy lips and caress her silken, ivory-skinned body. Now the magic moment was here and instead of anticipation and longing, a shard of foreboding seemed lodged in his gut.
Curse Mortimer! And curse this FitzSaer fellow and the whole lot of them! Now instead of pleasuring Nicola and picking up where they’d left off, he was going to have talk to her and question her about this business of warning Mortimer. It was infuriating, to have the sublime, thrilling experience he’d anticipated so tainted. It almost made him want to forego the bedding altogether. It would be easier to deal with the rumors—and with Nicola—in the morning.
But nay, he could not. As Reynard had reminded him, he must remember his men, and what his defeat of Mortimer meant to them. They were celebrating, living through his triumph and envying him his upcoming wedding night with the beautiful Lady Nicola. He couldn’t disappoint them. And there was another consideration. It wasn’t enough to wed Nicola; to seal his claim on Valmar, he must bed her.
Or at least pretend to. Since she wasn’t a virgin, he need show no proof that he’d taken her maidenhead. All he had to do was go through the motions, and everyone would assume the deed was done.
The realization relieved him. He headed to the battlement stairs and started down.
Chapter Six
Something was wrong. Nicola realized it as soon as Fawkes returned to the hall. The harsh-miened knight who strode in wasn’t the same man who’d left earlier. That Fawkes had given her a beautiful ring, his dark eyes lit with boyish enthusiasm. The man who rejoined her on the dais was guarded and wary. He didn’t even glance her direction as he said, “Milady, if it pleases you, I think we should go up now.”
She got to her feet, unsettled by his abrupt, formal tone. What had happened while he was gone from the hall? He’d been away less than half a candle-hour. Someone had engaged him in conversation, probably one of the garrison knights. What had they told him?
Cold emptiness invaded the pit of her stomach as she followed Fawkes from the hall. The crowd began to cheer and call out ribald comments. She drew up beside her new husband and saw a muscle tense in his jaw. If only she knew why he looked so wroth.
He stopped to take a cresset torch from a wall bracket. Turning toward her, he said, “Is your bedchamber still in the east tower?”
“Aye.” Her throat was as dry as dust.
The torch illuminated the hard planes of his face and the scar near one of
his deep-set eyes. “Is that where you wish to go? Or is there another bedchamber you prefer?”
She matched his terse mood. “This way, milord.”
****
Milord. Coming from her, Fawkes found the word jarring. He was already struggling to forget the difference in their statuses. She’d been born a lady while he was the son of a landless knight. He told himself he’d earned the title of lord. Fought and struggled and suffered for the honor. Even so, deep down, there was a part of him that did not feel worthy. Of the title, or of the woman.
Or course, if she was the treacherous viper the rumors implied, it hardly mattered if he was her equal in status. If she was capable of such perfidy, he had no reason to feel overawed by her.
He should have found out if Mortimer’s words were true before he married her. Yet even if he’d known for certain she had betrayed him, what could he have done differently? He would still have had to wed her. Only a fool would fail to validate his control over such rich properties.
A fool. Is that what he’d been all these years as he focused his whole life on rescuing this woman? This woman, who if the tales were true, did not wish to be rescued.
His already gloomy mood declined further. He wanted this wretched night over. They could begin again on the morrow. Curse it! He needed more wine. Why had he not thought to bring a flacon?
He halted on the stairs. “Would you like some wine? Should I go back and ask a servant to fetch some?”
“Old Emma will be waiting in the tower. We can send her.”
Old Emma. He had a vague recollection of passing an ancient maidservant on the way down the stairs as he left Nicola’s chamber years ago. That memory brought back others. Blindingly intense ones. Instantly, he was aroused.
His treacherous body responded to this woman, even if his mind told him he must ignore all the feelings she evoked. Nay, he would not let her tempt him. He must keep his wits about him and remain in control.
He still hadn’t decided on a course of action. If he broached the subject of Nicola’s betrayal, there was every chance she would lie. She’d obviously believed her husband would prevail. Since he hadn’t, she likely feared the consequences.
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