“You saw what you were supposed to see,” she said, smiling to Marak to assure him she was all right. “And if I were, indeed, an insolent boy you would have had every right to clout me for speaking to you thus.”
"But... why the ruse?" Roland was staring at her hair, at the dirt on her face, the dung streaking her jerkin. Even as Marak watched and counted off the seconds that would bring Roland into a further dawning of the light, the squire’s expression changed, his eyes grew rounder and slowly flicked from one conspirator to the other.
“At the draw," he said slowly, "Odo de Langois said they had come in search of his runaway wife. But the name he gave was Elizabeth. Lady Elizabeth de Langois.”
“Amaranth is a pet name,” she explained softly. “Given me by my father.”
Roland opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “He claims his wife ran away with a lover.”
“I had no lover and my marriage was a prison. I was helped to escape by a priest. A gentle, sweet man who, I fear, has paid dearly for his folly."
“He showed a wound on his head, where a murder was attempted while he slept.”
"The wound in Amaranth's shoulder was put there by one of her husband's mercenaries," Marak said evenly.
Roland gasped. "The attack on the village?"
"Ordered by her husband."
Roland clenched his fists. “Lord Tamberlane knows all of this?”
“He does,” Marak said. “He has also seen the scars she bears on her back and legs, proof of the treatment she bore at her husband's hands. If you take a moment of cool thought, you would also realize that the men who attacked the village were not sent there merely to find Lady Amaranth, but to hunt her down and kill her. And to do it in a most brutal, painful way."
Roland held the seneschal's gaze for a long moment. His memory of the raid was clear and vivid, as was the image of the Lord Tamberlane emerging from the woods with the half-dead girl in his arms.
He expelled a hot breath and put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "He will not leave these walls alive."
Marak moved quickly to block the squire's path to the stairs. "No! No, that is not the way! He is the prince's man. What manner of hell do you think would descend upon this castle, upon Lord Tamberlane if he were murdered here?"
"But he slaughtered an entire village!"
"We... may be confident in the knowledge that it was his doing, but have you the absolute, irrefutable proof to show the justiciar? And even if you had it, think you Prince John would not retaliate against the man who slew one of his most valuable allies?"
"We cannot just let him ride away!"
"That is exactly what we must do... for now. He must be seen to ride away from here, pennons flying, all limbs and orifices intact, convinced his wife is not within a hundred miles of Taniere. What happens afterward... " Marak raised an eyebrow and made a conspiratory gesture with his hands.
Roland looked from one taut face to the other. His fist relented its grip around the sword hilt but his teeth remained set, his expression grim. “What can I do to help?”
“Keep a close eye on de Langois' men. He will likely send them sniffing into every corner of the castle and they must be allowed to do so to avert suspicion. Take Amie to the keep, as you intended, and make no attempt to hide her behind a curtain or under a table for they will be so busy looking in shadows and behind closed doors they will not take notice of anyone standing in plain sight.
"Furthermore, she is, according to the description he gave Lord Tamberlane, a rare beauty with long, flowing hair the color of sunlight and eyes like circles of the sky.”
Roland took a further moment to digest everything before he pursed his lips. “Long flowing hair the color of sunlight? I have not seen anyone hereabout who would fit that description.”
Marak nodded. “And I would hope that others, if asked the same question, would respond with a similar answer."
"I will take all necessary steps to ensure they do," Roland assured him.
"Well then," Marak turned, "I present you with young Jonathan, son of Harold the miller." And to Amie he said, "Go with Roland and he will see you safely to turning the spits by the fire, in plain view, yet invisible. Odo's men can search under every clod of dung, through every hidden mouse-hole and they will find nothing for their trouble. Does this sit well with you? Can you do it?"
Amie could see the logic in hiding in plain sight, but neither Marak nor Roland were the ones doing the hiding. She would have preferred to lock herself in a cupboard, or stow away in a dark corner somewhere in the catacombs beneath the castle, but knew that was the coward's way out and she was determined not to feel helpless any longer.
Roland misread the reason for her hesitation. “In truth, my lady, I did not glance at you twice and would not have suspected you were aught but what you appear to be: a young urchin with a dirty face. What is more, whilst in the great hall, Lord Tamberlane's men outnumber the mercenaries ten to one and I, myself, will never be more than a sword's length from your side.”
“Then you must not err in addressing me as my lady,” she said, nodding with more confidence than she felt. “Thenceforth I am simply Jonathan.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Despite a fierce resolve—bolstered by two cups of strong ale—Amaranth experienced several harrowing moments through the long, seemingly endless, afternoon and evening. The first came the instant she set foot inside the gloomy vault of the great hall. She was certain all eyes in the room would turn to stare at her as she followed Roland down the stairs and along the length of the room. A step, two at the most, and she expected to hear the shout that would bring her husband raging toward her, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the promise of all black things in hell gleaming in his eyes.
Not one single glance was squandered in her direction, however. At intervals as they walked toward the rear screen, Roland pretended to cuff her, as if she had been caught shirking her duties. But true to Marak’s prediction, no one gave a thought to a scruffy, ill smelling stable boy. Even the trio of rotund women who were skewering hens and setting them to roast over the cooking fires did little more than point at the nearest spit that wanted turning. A word from Roland, whispered in their ears, had them placing Amie where the smoke was thickest and the duties kept her head down.
From her vantage point at the rear of the hall she had a clear view of the dais. Odo’s bright red hair made him stand out on the brightly lit platform. He was eating, drinking, talking, laughing with Lord Tamberlane who, by contrast, sat quiet for the most part, his smiles as scarce as snow in summer. Odo’s brother Rolf sat on his right and picked at morsels of food with the point of his eating knife, trying to make it appear casual as he studied the faces of everyone in the hall.
Amaranth kept her head bowed whenever Rolf’s dark eyes roved the room. Odo was a brute with his contempt and his fists, but Rolf was sly, cunning, and dangerous. He had followed her into the gardens one day at Belmane and, with his men standing guard, had attempted to rape her. Whether by design or happenstance, Odo had come searching for her and found them twisted together on the ground, her skirts above her waist, Rolf's cock poised to plunge between her thighs.
Rolf had neatly twisted the story to make it sound as if she had instigated the tryst and nothing Amie said or did could convince Odo otherwise. It gave him free rein to treat her like a whore, to justify his beatings, his rants, his disgusting demands.
Rolf, free of all blame, continued to watch her like a big lethal cat, his gaze promising to finish what he started.
Like his brother, Rolf had the instincts of a fox and would not hesitate to act upon them if he felt something was amiss.
The rest of the men who had accompanied Odo de Langois into the keep, including Sigurd the Oaf, sat above the salt but still much closer to where Amaranth worked over the spit than was comfortable. Once, when she looked up, two of their squires had left their seats and were walking casually around the great hall, pausing here and there to exchan
ge a seemingly friendly word with a resident.
Amaranth’s blood turned as cold as ice. One of the squires was working his way down one side of the hall, the other was coming down the opposite side and eventually they would have to meet in the middle, right beside the cooking fire. Every step that brought them closer sent another rush of chills down her spine and she while kept one hand turning the spit, the other did not stray far from the dagger concealed under her jerkin.
Eventually a pair of heavy, wooden-soled bootsteps stopped not two feet from where Amie stood. The squire—a man she had seen at Belmane countless times—reached out and plucked a crispy curl of chicken skin off the nearest hen being turned on the spit. He was so close she could hear the crunch between his teeth.
"Delicious," he said, complimenting the red-faced woman who was standing next to the fire. "A meal well fit for a lord and his lady."
The woman dipped a sprig of thyme into some melted lard and slathered it over the roasting chicken. "Aye, an' if my lord had a lady, she would thank ye fer sayin' so."
The squire turned and seemed to study the vast hall. "There does appear to be a dearth of ladies present."
"No need," the woman said, splashing more fat over the carcass. She looked side to side to see if anyone was paying any heed, then beckoned the squire forward with a conspiratory whisper. "My lord keeps to his monkish ways. We 'aven't seen a proper lady 'ere in... oy... longer than I can recall offhand. Like as not he wouldn't know what to say or do with one even if she was sat right there beside 'im. Probably turn red as raw meat and melt into the boards."
She cackled as she leaned away and splattered the chicken with more fat. It dripped and sizzled on the hot coals, sending a fresh cloud of smoke up into the squire's face. He backed up a pace, scowling at some oily drops of fat that had splashed on his tunic. But he did reach out and steal another crispy layer of skin before he moved along.
Amie, who had been holding her breath the entire time, peeked from the corner of her eye and watched his boots moving away. When he was gone, she raised her chin a notch and caught the eye of the cook, who only winked and continued basting the hens with oil.
When both squires had completed their circuit of the great hall, Amaranth saw one of them give a barely perceptible shake of his head in Rolf’s direction. She was not the only one who caught the exchange. Seated beside Tamberlane on the dais, Marak’s face was completely enveloped in shadow, but she sensed movement beneath the hood as he followed the two squires, who were now discreetly slipping out of the hall.
Amie should have felt relieved, but there were still knots in her belly. If they searched the tower rooms, would they find anything that might give her away?
Her hand flew to her throat on a sudden thought. She had meant to ask Marak about the crucifix. It had belonged to her mother, a gift presented by a royal lover. Amie vaguely recalled that the knight who had pursued her into the forest had parted her bodice with the tip of his sword and for a moment had smiled at the glint of silver resting over her breasts, as if he had used it to confirm her identity. But then the pain had blurred what happened next; she knew only that the sword had moved lower and she had felt the edge of the blade cutting slivers in her flesh. Had he taken the cross as a trophy? Or had she lost it somewhere between the village and Taniere Castle?
She had no time to ponder the loss further as the roasted chickens along with an enormous haunch of beef were removed from the spit and slid onto large wooden platters. Bowls of venison stew were ladled out of the big black caldron and carried to the tables along with plates of turnips and cabbage and fresh baked bread.
When Amie’s turn at the spit ended, she was given a shovel and told to haul away ashes, then to bring more wood to keep the fires stoked.
She was surprised, yet not surprised, to see Odo linger at the board so long Tamberlane had no choice but to invite him to remain the night. Only then did Odo and Rolf belch heartily and excuse themselves to indulge in hot baths.
By that time, her shoulder was aching, she was light-headed from the smoke and the strain. When, at length, the hall was cleared of Belmane men, she found a quiet corner and curled up on the stone floor, too tired to contemplate more than the flames rippling along the logs.
~~
She was not even aware of falling asleep until she felt a hand on her shoulder. The touch was gentle; even so she sat upright with a start, the gleaming blade of her dagger reflecting points of light from the fire.
It was Inaya, her dark eyes rounding with surprise at the sight of the knife. She tipped her head to indicate that Amaranth should follow her and, with a swish of silken robes, moved away as silently as she had approached.
Inaya kept to the deeper shadows that hugged the wall, stopping only once when she was on the landing that led up into the east tower. Amie followed close behind, her breath hot and dry in her throat when she realized where Inaya was taking her.
The east tower was the largest of the four that formed the corners of the keep, and it housed Lord Tamberlane's private chambers. The stairs were wider, the landings broader, marked by torches at every turn, and she felt more than a little apprehension as she mounted each step. Men were unpredictable, volatile, and—in her experience anyway—indifferent to tender mercies. She knew she had surprised and angered him that morning. She knew also that he was taking an enormous risk upon himself by concealing her from Odo de Langois. He likely wanted answers, explanations... perhaps even repayment for his largesse.
That last thought made her footsteps falter. Luckily they had reached the upper landing by then and she was told to wait in the small outer apartment while Inaya first tapped on, then disappeared through another door.
Amie looked warily around. There were clothes hung on pegs and a narrow sleeping cot set against one wall. A small shelf held two books and a cap with a feather in it that she thought she had last seen on Roland's head. A large open cupboard across one wall held two full suits of mail and the various padded garments that were worn beneath.
Here then was where Lord Tamberlane's squire slept and kept watch over his master's sleeping chamber.
Inaya was back in a few moments and beckoned Amaranth through the second set of heavy oak doors that led to the warrior monk's bedchamber.
Her first glance told her it was perhaps twice the size of the room she had been occupying, yet no more lavishly furnished. The bed was plain with tall square posts at the corners hung with curtains to ward off drafts. There were three deep window embrasures set into the walls at intervals that would give him a complete view of the surrounding land. A fire crackled in the hearth. Candles flickered on the top of a large writing table, throwing light on a prayer niche that contained a small altar and reliquary.
Hung on one wall inside the niche was a tattered crusader’s mantel emblazoned with the scarlet cross. The cloth was torn in a dozen places, stained with blood that had dried to a dull brown. On the other side of the niche was hung a sword that contrasted so shockingly with the plainness of the one he had worn that morning, that it nearly took Amie’s breath away. The hilt was crusted in jewels, the quillions were wrought in silver with gold inlay. The blade was easily four feet long, the surface polished to a mirror gloss.
Here then, in the privacy of his own chamber, was the first visible indication of Tamberlane’s past association with the Templars, indeed, with the church itself. The altar was plain and, on closer examination, had a look of disuse about it; the linen cloth that covered it could use a good washing to rid it of the layer of dust that also dulled the surface of the reliquary, a sharp contrast to the care given the sword.
Inaya curled her fingers to beckon Amie forward and pointed to a low, three legged stool she had placed beside a small table laden with bread, cheese, and slices of cold meat. Amie was not especially hungry, having worked close to the smell of grease and roasting animal flesh all day, but her legs were trembling and she was grateful for the excuse to sit. A small frown and much clicking of Inaya'
s tongue halted Amie before she could reach for a scrap of meat, and a moment later, a basin of warmed water appeared on the hearth.
Despite Amaranth’s protests, Inaya used a scrap of soft linen to bathe her face, her hands, and forearms. The filthy jerkin, the smell of which had not improved overmuch throughout the day, was ordered off with a Saracen epithet, the meaning of which brought forth a low chuckle from the shadows beside the fireplace.
Amaranth gasped, for she had not seen or heard Tamberlane enter the chamber. Granted, the wall dipped and the shadows were too thick for the candlelight to penetrate, but he was an imposing figure of a man and to her mind, one not easily rendered invisible.
He said something to Inaya in her own language then chuckled again when the woman scurried away, the silken wings of her sari belling out behind in her haste. Amaranth heard the door close and had there been the strength in her legs to do so, she might have shot to her feet and bolted out of the chamber as well.
For the longest time, Tamberlane did nothing. He stood with one shoulder propped against the wall and his arms folded over his chest. Now and then she caught a faint glint of light reflected in his eyes and she knew he was studying her, wondering what to do about her now.
“Inaya will be back in a few moments with some buckets of hot water and,” he paused and made a poor attempt to conceal the wrinkle in his nose, “clean clothes.”
Amie looked down, having almost grown immune to the rank smell of dung and woodsmoke.
“Marak’s idea, no doubt,” he surmised. “And effective... to a point. But what in God’s name did he do to your hair and why did you let him do it?”
The question sent her fingers up to touch the butchered ends of her hair. “It was not Marak who cut it. I did. It was a nuisance and a hindrance and the loss is not lamentable.”
Tamberlane tilted his head to the side. “You look like a faery elf...or at least, what my impression of a faery elf would look like.”
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