"What will Lord Tamberlane do?" she asked in a whisper.
"So long as they stay on the other side of the river, he will do nothing."
"And if they cross the river?"
Marak pursed his lips. "A fair question, but one for which I have no answer. He can be a moody fellow at times, and does not take kindly to armed men trespassing on his land. By the same token, he is known to be a moody fellow and few would approach without first stating their purpose."
"If that purpose was to demand the return of a runaway wife?"
"At the moment, he could say quite truthfully that he has no knowledge of any such person within his walls."
Amie held her breath. "Are you suggesting I lie to him?"
"Absolutely not! If he asks you a direct question, give him a truthful and direct answer or he will tie a ribbon around your neck before making a gift of you to your husband." He paused to restore his voice to an even level then added, "All I would venture to suggest is that you wait until he does ask."
Amie nibbled on her lip. Was he testing her, testing her character, seeing if she was desperate enough to deceive the man who had saved her life? Was a lie by omission not still a lie?
Marak could see the confusion and doubt in her eyes and he offered up another small wedge of cheese. "You have to start trusting someone sometime."
Yes, she thought. But in a household full of secretive strangers...who do I dare trust?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Inaya had assumed the bulk of Amie's care once her shoulder was on the mend. Initially wary, the tiny dark-eyed woman conducted all of her duties in utter silence, moving on small, soundless feet, seemingly able to anticipate any request Amie might make before the thought was formed. The faintest rumble of hunger was met by steaming bowls of stew and broth. A licking of the lips brought forth an ewer of water or wine. A hand raised restlessly to push a stray hair out of the way resulted in the appearance of a horsehair brush and a strip of colored silk to bind it into a long plait.
The boy, Jibril, who shadowed his mother wherever she went, ran instantly to crouch in a corner farthest away from where Amie happened to be. His constant companion was the carved wooden horse, which he clutched to his breast and whispered to as if it was a live pet.
By the next day, Amie could stand without the floor sliding out from beneath her. By the day after that, she could walk the length and breadth of her chamber several times in a row, and she could feel herself growing stronger with each attempt. She did the exercises Marak prescribed for her arm and she forced herself to eat whatever Inaya put in front of her, whether she was hungry or not. The healer still came to check on her several times each day, beginning early in the morning when he brought a mulled brew of honey, wine, and herbs that sent the blood surging through her veins like liquid fire.
On the eleventh morning, when Marak arrived with her morning libation, Amie was already out of bed and dressed. Inaya had provided her with a simple blue tunic with long belled sleeves. Her hair had been brushed into a soft, wavy curtain that fell halfway down her back. She was standing by the window embrasure, her face turned to the outside even though Jibril had hopped up and closed the wooden shutters moments before. A single, muted thread of sunlight came through a crack in the panel, the stream of light dancing with motes of dust.
“I have to leave this place,” she said, not even turning to look at him when she heard the telltale rustle of long robes dragging across the floor. “I have imposed on Lord Tamberlane’s hospitality far too long as it is.”
“To my knowledge, he has not remarked on any imposition.”
“Nevertheless,” she turned her face slightly, revealing a determined set to her jaw that Marak had not seen before, “you know why I must leave.”
“You have been here ten days and thus far no one has come beating on the castle doors."
“My husband will not stop searching for me. He will have discovered that I did not die in the village and he will send more hunters to find me, more killers, and yes, after they have searched the forests and villages, they will eventually come here.”
“Perhaps you credit him with more perseverance than he deserves.”
“He does not give up easily. Especially not when...” Her voice faltered and Marak waited, but whatever she might have added was dismissed on a small shake of her head.
Marak approached the window. The same thread of light touched on the shadows inside his hood and for a moment, before he drew back, Amie caught a glimpse of pale gray-white flesh, colorless lips, pink-rimmed eyes. His features were sharp and angular. Waves of snow white hair trailed to his shoulders and spilled out the sides of his hood, yet Amie sensed the healer was not much above the age of his overlord. Despite his affliction—or perhaps because of it—he had a kind face with eyes that had seen and known much sorrow, and had his skin been naturally dark, there would be no mistaking his Saracen bloodlines.
“I must leave this place,” she said again, turning to the window.
“If your husband is as determined as you say, where would you go that he would not simply follow and find you?”
“Friar Guilford was taking me to a convent—the Holy Sisters of Mary Magdalene. He deemed it far enough away in Exeter that I would be safe, where even my lord husband—” she spat the words out like pits from a melon— "would not dare violate the holy laws of sanctuary.”
“I strongly doubt he would dare violate the walls of Taniere Castle... if, indeed, he could reach them.” At her frown he smiled. “The castle sits upon an island, surrounded entirely by deep water. The only access is by a narrow draw that can be raised or lowered at a moment’s notice.”
Amie shook her head. “Walls do not deter him, neither do narrow draws or moats, or locked and bolted doors. If he suspected I was here, he would find a way inside, then he would burn the castle down and slaughter everyone within it.”
“That would seem excessive even for a man smitten through the heart with devotion—a condition I gather your husband did not suffer from?”
She chewed a moment on her lip before looking up. “He was smitten with the promises my uncle made—promises of influence and wealth.” She hesitated and drew a deep breath. “I have not been entirely truthful with you, Healer. I did not simply run away from my husband. I... I attempted to kill him. I thought I had, in fact, and as God bears witness, it might well have been better for all if I had aimed better with the candlestick."
"You hit him with a candlestick?"
"I attempted to crush his skull. It proved to be thicker than expected."
Marak tried not to smile. “Murder with a candlestick would be a heavy sin to bear. You would have carried the burden with you the rest of your days.”
“The burden would have been a small one,” she assured him with yet another surprising show of intensity. “Easily managed.”
“I see.”
His response bore neither condemnation nor revulsion. A faint hint of curiosity, perhaps, and Amie bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“It was not a marriage I sought, nor was any attempt made to make it so. After my father died, my uncle became my guardian. He was a kind man but weak and in poor health. When Odo de Langois petitioned for my hand in marriage, with the full blessing of the Prince Regent behind him, Uncle had little choice but to agree. He had no idea what kind of man Odo was. I... had no idea such animals even existed," she added quietly. "He expected me to... to see to his every disgusting pleasure and when I refused or would not obey upon the instant, he beat me. The first time he did so, I attempted to leave, but was caught and dragged back before him. After that, the cruelty grew worse, and more often than not, he bound me hand and foot and took what he wanted despite my screams and pleas." She paused again and shook her head, making a delicate coil of hair bounce against her cheek. “I could not bear it. I simply could not have endured another moment. Nay, I would have drawn a blade across my own wrists had the candlestick not been handier. It was in my fist before I k
new it and in the next instant, he was lying in a pool of blood beside me. He will not forgive the insult to his pride or to his person. He will keep hunting me. Stone walls and battlements will not stay his hand.”
“Lord Tamberlane might.”
“I doubt his generosity would extend so far as to risk losing his castle, his life to protect me.”
At that, Marak laughed softly. “It might surprise you to know what he has risked and lost for far less.” After another pensive moment, he said, “Come. If you are feeling strong enough, perhaps you would care to venture outside your room and see for yourself what lies beyond these dreary four walls?”
Amie glanced at the door. The notion was tempting, for she was beginning to feel like a bird trapped in a cage. On the other hand, she felt safe here. For the first time since her marriage vows had set her on a long, dark path into hell, she almost felt safe.
Safe. With perfect strangers. One an albino who did not even react to the confession that she had tried to murder her husband; the other an enigmatic knight who slew dragons and blushed at the sight of a woman weeping.
“Come,” Marak said again, shifting to one side and stretching out his arm by way of further invitation.
Steeling herself, Amaranth moved slowly ahead of the robed seneschal and walked toward the door. It opened onto a stone landing, which led down a corkscrew staircase to the floor below. Her feet were bare, as would befit a peasant girl, for only noble ladies were accorded shoes. The stone was rough beneath her soles, not to mention cold, but it was a small discomfort compared to the anticipation of seeing what lay at the bottom of the winding steps.
There was only one way to exit the tower and she followed the narrow corridor until it led through a stone arch that opened into the great hall. The latter was an enormous, cavernous chamber, fully a hundred broad paces long and fifty wide. The ceiling rose three storeys above and disappeared into a gloomy realm of crossbeams and stone arches, misted gray from the smoke that came from the two large fires that smoldered at either end of the room.
Black iron cressets were hung on the walls at regular intervals, but where one torch was lit, the flame crackling and snapping up the stone wall, the three between that and the next were dark, adding to the murkiness of the shadows. Tall multi-branched candelabra stood at either end of a dais which ran nearly the width of the hall, their thick pillars of tallow candles almost succeeding in overpowering the earthy stench of a century worth of dampness and smoke embedded in the stone walls.
The only windows were the archery slits carved high up on the walls and useful only as nesting places for the birds that fluttered from beam to beam. The rushes scattered on the floor looked and smelled as though they had not been changed in months. Chickens pecked around in the debris searching for crumbs while two enormous wolfhounds sprawled below the dais crunching on well-cleaned bones.
Seated alone on the dais, his head leaning against the tall back of his chair, was Lord Tamberlane. He had his eyes closed and one leg hooked over a wooden arm. He looked asleep... or drunk... his dark hair fallen over his brow like strokes of black paint. Amie would gladly have whirled right around and gone back to her room if Marak’s hand had not been firm on her elbow steering her down the three wide steps that led into the belly of the hall.
The hem of Amie’s borrowed gown caught on a rough edge of stone... a sound she thought only she could hear... yet no sooner had the snag released than Tamberlane’s eyes opened and his head came upright.
His first reaction was a scowl. It stayed in place for several moments until his eyes widened with recognition.
“See who I have brought with me this morning?” Marak said casually. His hand dropped away from Amie’s elbow and retreated into his long sleeves as they stood before the dais. “Amaranth expressed a wish to explore her new surroundings, and to thank you for your generous hospitality.”
Tamberlane unhooked his leg from the chair and straightened. The creases on his brow deepened and he raked his long fingers through his hair, pushing it back in blue-black waves as he scratched his scalp to hasten his senses into returning.
“There is no need to thank me,” he mumbled.
Amie stared at the knight. She judged that she had been right with her second guess, for his eyes were underscored and puffy, the whites marred by spidery veins, the lids red and polished. His voice was rusty, his movements stiff, as if he had spent the night sleeping in the chair.
He also looked decidedly uncomfortable beneath Amie’s scrutiny. She had no idea why he should feel thus. He was the overlord, the master. He could do as he wished when he wished. He could sleep here or in the middle of the drawbridge if it took his fancy.
“Good my lord,” she began, speaking softly but clearly. “It is indeed necessary for me to thank you once again. You saved my life. You have given me shelter, you—”
“More wine!” Tamberlane said abruptly, beckoning behind him to where a lackey stood in attendance.
A subtle lift of Marak’s hand stopped the young man from coming forward.
“Amaranth would also beg to demonstrate her gratitude in other ways,” he said, nudging Amie gently on the arm. When she looked up, startled, a thin finger crooked in the direction of the flagon sitting across the board from Tamberlane. “She has recovered much of her strength, enough so that she would ask the chance to make herself useful in the household.”
Amie did not need to be struck over her own head with a candlestick to realize what Marak was attempting to do. If she proved herself capable of blending in with the regular castle servants, Tamberlane would be less likely to regard her as a burden or an intruder. It was generous of Marak, and undoubtedly intended to make her feel the need to leave was less urgent. At the same time, if she balked, it would have the opposite effect of making her look like a sullen ingrate.
The pressure of Marak’s hand on her elbow was firm and, gathering the hem of her tunic in her good hand, she stepped up onto the dais to retrieve the pewter flagon of wine. It was heavy and as she filled the knight’s cup, the ewer trembled and some of the wine splashed on the table. Amie glanced at the knight and the shock of gazing directly into those eerie green eyes rippled disconcertingly down her spine.
There had been moments, even in her weakened state, she had thought him handsome. But here, with his chin dark with unshaven beard, his shirt unlaced and gaping open over a chest that was comprised of band upon band of hard muscle... a heated sensation washed through her, catching her by surprise and making her tremble enough to set the ewer down before she dropped it.
Tamberlane noted the splashed wine and glanced over at Marak. “Are you certain she is strong enough to assume household tasks?”
“She grows stronger every day," Marak said, nodding. "She needs to use the arm now in order to restore full movement. Light duties at first, to be sure."
"Indeed, my lord, I would sooner pour wine and—” she paused to cast hastily along the board, littered as it was with the remnants of meals long passed, “and see to the condition of your table rather than lift the sacks of flour Marak has promised to burden me with.”
A dark eyebrow arched. “Sacks of flour?”
“To restore strength to the arm and shoulder,” Marak explained easily. “She must begin to use them again if she is to recover fully. She requires good, solid food as well. Broths and possets can fortify the blood, but she needs meat and bread and pottage to fill out her tunic again.”
Tamberlane’s gaze turned unwittingly to Amie’s bodice and remained there longer than was necessary, held hostage by the way her breasts swelled against the cloth. When he recovered and looked quickly up into her face, he saw that she, in turn, was staring at a particularly succulent slab of roasted venison sitting in a puddle of its own juices.
“There is more than enough here to tempt any appetite,” he said. “Roland, slice a fresh trencher and bring a chair.”
Amie looked at the knight, aghast. “Oh no, my lord, I could not possibly—�
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“Roland!” Tamberlane held up a hand to silence her protest, then crooked two fingers to bring the squire forward. “A chair, if you please. A trencher and a clean drinking cup as well, if you can find one.”
Amie glanced sidelong at Marak, but the hooded figure remained impassive. She was nervously aware of the strict proprieties adhered to in a nobleman’s house wherein the seating arrangements were dictated by the worth of one’s bloodline. Hers was impeccable, but Tamberlane was not to know that. She had just put herself forth as a servant, and servants, along with those of lower stations in life, sat well below the salt, with only a few feet of the board separating them from almoners and common beggars.
Tamberlane’s tongue should have changed to stone in his mouth before issuing such an invitation to a peasant wench, yet he had done so without a thought.
No one else in the great hall seem to pay much heed either. There were two long trestle tables flanking the room and a third stretched across the far end, but of the three or four dozen men scattered here and there about the room, most were more intent on their food than on their overlord’s social manners.
The other singular oddity was that no one shared Tamberlane’s table. No priest, no favored knights, no chatelaine or hostess, no silk-clad ladies whispering their disapproval from behind raised hands.
For that matter, there were very few women at all apart from those who turned the spits over the cooking fire or stirred the soup pot. Only one or two had cast a curious glance in her direction before going back to their tasks. It was as if they were accustomed to seeing strays taken into their midst... strays and outcasts who came to Taniere to avoid questions and ignore protocols
Amaranth’s gaze was caught and held again, this time by the large wooden carving that loomed above the massive central fireplace. A full thirty feet high and twenty wide, Amie had first mistaken it for a tree, possibly with coats of arms suspended at the end of every branch. But now, with her eyes grown accustomed to the gloom, she could see that the branches were in fact the bodies of serpents twined to form the thick trunk. And what she had thought there were branches were long necks with snarling heads and short forearms with claws extended from the paws.
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