Dragon Tree

by Canham, Marsha

  The sheer weight of so much hair had always kept it smooth and flat to her head, but now that the bulk was removed, the shorter lengths had tightened into a cloud of reddish curls. Her fingers plucked self-consciously at the ends and her gaze instinctively sought a mirror, but there were only bare, utilitarian walls, of course, no unnecessary vanities of any kind.

  Had she been able to see Tamberlane's eyes, she would have had no need for a mirror to know the effect the change had wrought. He had not made his presence known until now because his tongue had been all but frozen to the roof of his mouth. He could not recall any time since reaching the age of majority when he had been alone in a candlelit bedchamber with a beautiful woman. His years of study and training for the priesthood had kept him away from any possible temptations, and after taking his vows, he had presumed he was safely immune to such worldly distractions.

  Distracted he was, however. By the smoothness of her skin where it was painted with the firelight, the curve of her cheek and throat in silhouette. While the length and volume of her hair had been strikingly lovely, especially when it was fanned out across a pillow or trailing over her shoulder, the shorter curls only drew attention to the size and color of her eyes, the soft pout of her mouth, the delicate turn of her chin. When she raised her fingers to touch those curls, his own blunt, calloused fingertips tingled. His whole body, in fact, had grown strangely tight and heavy, as if all the blood was draining from his upper torso and pooling in his belly.

  "Your husband claims great devotion," he said quietly.

  Amaranth glanced up from the fire. "Odo de Langois is a great liar."

  "He says the same of you."

  "And you do not know which of us to believe?"

  Tamberlane moved out of the shadows and took a seat in a plain, straight-backed chair by the fire. "Do you have such a low opinion of all men?"

  "Most, yes," she answered bluntly. "Few have given me cause to think otherwise."

  Tamberlane reached down and took her wrist in his hand, raising it and angling it to the light so that the faint shine from ages-old rope burns showed. He extended his own wrist and turned it to the fire so she could see similar smooth scars on his skin.

  "I know what it feels like to be held captive.'

  She waited for him to elaborate, but that was all he said.

  “There were times he had to tie me down,” she admitted. “Although I believe he enjoyed it more when I tried to fight him."

  Tamberlane continued to hold her wrist. The tingling in his fingertips had spread and was rising up his arm, sliding down his spine.

  “You told Marak you lived with your uncle?"

  "My mother's brother. After my father died, he tried to do his best by me, but when Odo de Langois appeared at the gates bearing a writ from Prince John sanctioning the marriage, there was little he could do."

  There was the smallest change in the pressure of his fingertips before they released her wrist. “Tell me more about him.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Something more than what I know already. He is the prince’s man, that much is as obvious as his lack of concern in showing it. His ambitions are etched boldly in his contempt when he speaks of King Richard.”

  Amie clasped her hands together around her knees. “The prince has been a guest at Belmane many times and I know Odo has been promised a barony as well as several large estates in the Marches in exchange for his support. My uncle has no other heirs which also means Odo will acquire all of his lands and holdings upon his death.”

  “Marak also told me that you ran away with the intent to seek sanctuary at a convent? Which convent?”

  “The Holy Sisters of Mary Magdalene in Exeter. Father Guilford knows the prioress there—they are brother and sister. He assured me she would welcome me and guard my anonymity with her dying breath.”

  “A family trait, it would seem,” he murmured. Too late he saw the violet eyes widen and it was left to him to confirm her worst suspicions. “It happened to fall, in the tedium of conversations I had with your husband today, that the priest who helped his wife escape... held up well right to the end.”

  Amie covered her mouth with her hand. She had suspected as much, of course, but to hear it put into words... “I did not think he would dare kill a holy father.”

  “I am under the clear impression there is not much he would not dare. The very fact he is here, that his men are sneaking about the castle searching behind curtains and under rugs tells me he has a surfeit of arrogance."

  "He is searching the castle? And you are letting him do so?"

  "If I stopped him, would he not then suspect I was keeping something hidden?"

  "Yes, but..." she sighed for it was the same reasoning Marak used to defuse Roland's outrage. "If he is searching, then he suspects already."

  "He will find nothing," he said firmly. "I have keen eyes watching them."

  She seemed hardly reassured and Ciaran felt the knot in his gut twist tighter. He had prided himself on not needing anything or anyone in his life these past three years of self-imposed exile... not even the God to whom he had once vowed his life in service. He had turned his back on that God, just as God had turned his back on the innocents who screamed His name when swords were being hacked and slashed into their flesh.

  Perhaps that was what he had seen in Amaranth’s eyes that day in the forest. She had forsaken her God too, begging Tamberlane to end it, end the pain, end the disillusionment. How many times had he walked the ramparts willing up the courage to do exactly the same thing?

  The full measure of her despair and loneliness was there in her eyes despite the stoic front she tried to put forward. Watching the firelight play havoc with her hair, her skin, the soft contours of her body so ill-concealed by the coarse clothing, Tamberlane had a sudden and thoroughly unexpected urge to take her into his arms and offer her more than just his protection.

  He had consumed a vast quantity of ale and wine throughout the day, trying to temper his dislike of Odo de Langois, and he blamed this for the almost involuntary way his hand trembled and might even have reached out to brush a lock of hair back from Amie’s cheek had not a noise from the doorway diverted his attention.

  Inaya was back, leading two lackeys burdened under heavy buckets of hot water. A third rolled a barrel-shaped tub into the room and at the command of a pointed finger, settled it in front of the fire.

  Ciaran stood and clasped his hands together behind his back. “Since even your husband’s boldness would not extend to searching my chambers for his errant wife, Marak thought it safest if you remain sequestered here for the night, and indeed, until our guests depart on the morrow. Inaya will stay with you. She will help you bathe as well, and if there is anything else you need or require for your comfort...?”

  “You have been more than overly generous already, my lord. I would have been content with a crust of bread and a bed on the rushes.”

  Tamberlane felt a vein throb in his temple and turned away with an unintelligible murmur. He was halfway to the door when the sound of boots on the landing outside stopped him. He could hear Roland’s voice protesting the uninvited interruption and, in the split second before he whirled and met Amie’s horrified gaze, he heard Odo de Langois’ unmistakeable bark of laughter.

  “Unless your master is wenching, I see no reason why he would not take a last sup of wine with me.”

  “Good my lord—!”

  “Out of the way, pup.” The door was shoved open and Odo strode into the chamber, his fist clutched around the neck of an ewer, his other hand holding two richly tooled silver goblets.

  “There you are, Dragonslayer! My oaf of a squire was finally able to locate the ass that carried my personal service and look you here... a small token of my appreciation for your hospitality.”

  He brandished the goblets before setting them down, the glare from the fire sending pinpoints of light off the silverwork.

  Odo's eyes swept around the chamb
er, probing into every shadowed corner.

  “I am not interrupting anything, I trust?”

  Tamberlane looked behind him, seeing nothing but the fire, the empty bed with its undisturbed coverings, the barrel of water steaming lazily before the fire. His hand uncurled from the hilt of the dagger he wore at his waist, but it did not stray far.

  “I was just about to bathe.”

  “Ah yes, I’d heard you monks were fastidious with regards to cleanliness and godliness. Do not let me disturb you,” he added, waving the hand with the ewer. “Partake while the water is hot. I will sit here and regale you with tales of my errant boyhood while your squire stands over me with a sword to ensure I do not stare too long or hard at your bare buttocks.”

  The crude jest was punctuated with another coarse bark of laughter. It ended on a broken chuckle as Odo spied the chair by the fire and the stool beside it, and the platter of victuals on the table.

  He filled both goblets to the brim and passed one to Tamberlane, his dark eyes narrowed. “Your continued good health, sirrah.”

  Tamberlane accepted the goblet, raised it to his lips, but did not do more than moisten the tip of his tongue with the bold Rhenish plonk. He doubted the wine itself would be tainted with anything, but there was always the possibility of the goblet having been rubbed with some tincture. Unwarranted suspicions? Perhaps. But Tamberlane’s instincts leaned always toward caution and had rarely led him astray.

  Odo de Langois, conversely, emptied his goblet with gusto and indicated the barrel of water with another wave of his hand. “A waste of good hot water.”

  Tamberlane smiled wanly. “I am pleased to share a sup of wine with you, my lord, but I prefer to do my bathing in private.”

  Odo grunted and walked casually across the room. “I’ll not keep you then.” He poured another measure of wine from the ewer, not troubling to disguise the fact that he was openly looking around the large chamber. “Rather plainly furnished for a lion of the desert.”

  “As I said before, my needs are few.”

  Odo pursed his lips and strolled past the foot of the bed, his eyes searching where the shadows were darkest. He was on the verge of turning back to the door when he spied movement behind a heavy panel of curtain, a shivery movement not caused by any draft in the still air of the room.

  “I have known some Templars over the years,” Odo murmured, taking a casual step toward the window. “They drape themselves in the mantle of poverty yet those mantles are of the finest silk. They drink from gold vessels, their walls are adorned with fabulous tapestries and trophies collected from the glorious battles they have fought in the name of their God. They are bigger moneylenders than the Jews and do so with full impunity, paying no scutage to the crown and believe they are bound only to the church to answer for their actions.”

  “If you are attempting to convince me to make my penance and rejoin the Order, my lord, your arguments are poorly vested.”

  “I am merely pointing out that flying in the face of the king’s law might become second nature to a man accustomed to answering only to God. The laws pertaining to chattel and marriage for instance, might be set aside in exchange for a tear and a mewling plea for sanctuary.”

  As he said the word sanctuary, he reached out and yanked the brocade panel aside. He was broad enough across the shoulders to block Tamberlane’s view, but there was no mistaking the shock in his voice as he stared at the figure huddled against the wall.

  “What manner of devilry is this?”

  Ciaran slipped his dagger out of its sheath, concealing the hilt in his palm and the blade against his forearm.

  “Come out of there,” Odo said with a snarl, his back to Tamberlane. “Come out into the light, woman.”

  Wearing urchin's clothing and with her hair sheared and darkened, Tamberlane was halfway confident Amaranth could fool a guardsman at twenty paces. But up close, with those searing violet eyes and soft, bow shaped lips, she would not deceive a bloodhawk like Odo de Langois longer than it took him to blink.

  “All the way into the light, damn you!” Odo turned at the same moment Inaya stepped out from behind the shadow of his broad frame, her sari loosened and half off one bare shoulder. Her head was bowed and her black hair spilled unbound over the side of her face that bore the scar, covering it.

  Odo gazed across the room at the former Templar monk and started to laugh. "By God, Tamberlane, you are a sly bastard. Acquired a taste for Saracen nectar while you were in the desert, did you?”

  He reached out and plucked at the silk of Inaya's sari, pulling it tight to show the outline of her breasts. "I don't suppose you would care to share a little of this?" He glanced back at Tamberlane and grinned. "No, I don't suppose you would. Ah well." He drained his goblet and slammed it down on the small table before striding back to the door.

  "I bid you good night and adieu as well. You will be relieved, I'm sure, to hear that we will be leaving at first light. I'm told a courier has arrived from the Prince Regent which demands my immediate attention. Once again, I offer my apologies for disturbing your... bath."

  He left amidst renewed gusts of laughter. A moment later Roland appeared in the doorway, his face pale, his gaze flicking between Ciaran and Inaya.

  "I could not stop him, my lord. Short of drawing a sword and running him through—which I sorely wanted to do—I could not stop him entering."

  Tamberlane waved away the apology and resheathed his knife. "Follow him. Make sure he does not turn around on the stairs and come back, and if he does, I give you leave to hack out his liver."

  "Aye, my lord."

  Behind him, Inaya had turned away to adjust her silks and gather her hair into its usual tight twist. After casting slowly around for more hidden surprises, Ciaran crossed to the prayer niche.

  Lifting a corner of the altar cloth, he saw a large rounded eye peering back up at him. How the girl had squeezed herself so impossibly small as to fit under the altar was beyond his comprehension, but he lifted the cloth higher and moved to one side as Amie unfolded her arms and legs and inched her way out to stand trembling before him.

  In the next instant, she was in his arms. He had no clear idea if she had reached for him or he had reached for her, but she was there. Her face was pressed into his throat and her arms were around his waist.

  Ciaran’s hands flexed, the fingers curling and uncurling with a lack of steadiness that was as foreign to him as the slender warmth of a woman in his arms. Not knowing what else he was expected to do to offer comfort, he drew her closer against him. He pressed his cheek into the tousled mop of soft curls, and felt, in those few moments, as if all the burdens that had been weighing him down for the past three years, had been lifted away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Amie lay in the dark, listening to the sound of her heart beating in her ears. It was a distinct thud, now slow, now fast, dependant upon which memory of the day’s events were spinning through her mind. The fastest thuds, those over which she had no control, occurred when she thought of how close she had come to being discovered in the prayer niche. The linen had been sheer enough that she had seen Odo de Langois’ splayed legs and the firelight shining between them. She had expected at any moment to see the cloth snatched away, her arm grabbed, and her body thrown halfway across the floor.

  The thumping of her heart slowed measurably when she remembered the look of surprise on Tamberlane’s face. He had stood in the same place as Odo, only when he lifted the cloth, he did so gingerly, the disbelief and surprise etched clearly on his face. Amie could not have said what had sent her tumbling into his arms afterward, but it was this memory, this unaccustomed sense of feeling safe in his embrace that periodically slowed her heart to soft, curiously mellow thuds... thuds which quickened again when she remembered she was in his big bed, surrounded by his scent, by his most personal possessions.

  She lifted her head and searched the shadowy expanse of the chamber. The night candle was burning excruciatingly slow. She c
ould swear the wax had not melted at all the last few times she had checked and there were still several lines to burn through before the early hour of Prime. Inaya was sleeping on a pallet beside the bed and the warrior monk was seated in a wide X chair placed before the fire, one long leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.

  He had not moved since the last time Amie had looked, nor the time before that. He had his chin propped in one hand, a wine goblet in the other, and were it not for the glitter of the flames reflecting pinpoints of light in his eyes, she might have thought he was asleep.

  Beside him, within arms reach, was his sword. Roland was keeping vigil in the small antechamber outside the door. Tamberlane had assured her she would be safe here for the night and she had no reason to disbelieve him.

  “You should be trying to sleep, my lady.”

  His voice came out of nowhere, causing a pulse to jump in her throat. He hadn’t turned, hadn’t glanced in her direction, and the movement she made had been minuscule at best.

  Amie sat all the way up. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them to her chest, her gaze drawn to the bright orange flames licking across the fire log. “How can I sleep knowing he is under the same roof?”

  Tamberlane shifted just enough to ease his weight from one hip to the other. “He would not dare intrude upon my chamber again. Once, he could blame on the amount of wine he consumed; twice would be inviting a sword in his gullet."

  “Do you think he believes I am not here?”

  “We will know come morning. If he leaves without turning to look over his shoulder, then he is leaving to search elsewhere for you. If he looks back, it will mean he thinks you are here, he simply has not been able to find you yet.”

  “Either way, I... I must leave this place, Lord Tamberlane. I must. Surely you must know that now."

  He expelled a slow breath and took a sip of wine from the goblet. “I know nothing of the kind. But the choice is yours to stay or go. You are not a prisoner here."