by Sandra Lee
She smoothed the skirts of her blue tunic. At least her dearest friend’s husband, the Baron of Cyning, would be attending the king’s tourney five weeks hence. By coincidence, the tourney would be held at Atherbrook on the Isle of Wynt, a mere half-day’s ride by horse from Skyenvic. Lady Roscelyn’s husband would fetch Golde when the festivities concluded, and see her home.
Everything was perfect, Golde told herself firmly. Her uneasiness was no more than a result of her ridiculous sentimentality over leaving home. She would have her fifty pieces of gold and return to Cyning a rich woman, a woman who would never have to beg, a woman who would never be dependent on anyone, least of all a husband—
“Do your shoulders always slump thus?” Sir Sperville interrupted her internal diatribe as he rose to sit beside her. “You appear to be malformed.”
“Malformed!” Golde squared her shoulders and sat straighter. “What would you call your spindly shanks?” The chamberlain’s nose twitched as if there was a bothersome gnat flying about his face. “Must you always scowl? His lordship will find it most unbecoming.”
“His lordship is blind,” Golde sneered. “Once I heal him, his joy will be such that he will not care if I am a toothless dragon.”
“All the same,” Sperville sniffed, “your bearing is a reflection upon me. I’ll not have the good folk of Skyenvic questioning my choice of healers.”
Golde cast him a disbelieving look. “Ungrateful cur. You are recovered from your ceaseless retching by my good hand, yet you dare to insult me. Doubtless, your master is just as thankless, and my time will be wasted restoring his sight. I may as well order the boat about and return home.”
Her tone belied the true sentiments behind her words, for the closer they drew to Skyenvic, the greater grew her discomfort. She would return home in an instant if Sperville agreed.
But Spindleshanks, as Golde decided then and there to think of him, demurred. “Think of me as you will. My shortcomings are indeed great. Unlike me,” he continued, “Sir Gavarnie e’er places the needs of others before his own. Since his wife’s premature death, none at Skyenvic go hungry, nor cold in winter. He is praised by Church and serf alike for his generosity, while wisdom tempers his judgment and manner so that he is never cruel or cross. Wishes for his long life and good health follow him wherever he goes.”
Golde envisioned an elderly, white-haired man, a widower. A saint, no less, if one believed Spindleshanks. “It strikes me that your Gavarnie Delamaure is trying to assure himself a place in heaven by atoning for his sins here on earth. Thus, he’s brought blindness upon himself that he will appear more worthy in God’s eyes.”
She waited for an enraged response from Sperville. Instead, his owlish eyes appeared fixated upon her, while his mouth hung slightly open.
Then he blinked and turned his head that she could not see his countenance. “I am no healer and cannot say what stole my liege’s sight. I can only say that Sir Gavarnie will never be whole until he is able to see.” Golde’s breath caught. ’Twas respect she’d seen in the chamberlain’s eyes; respect for her. She was right in her assumptions about Delamaure bringing blindness upon himself.
Well, not exactly her assumptions, she admitted. ’Twas Mimskin who’d determined the cause of Delamaure’s ailment, before she’d brought Sperville to Golde’s cottage that day.
“Can’t abide them snufflers wot inflicts hurts on themselves to gain God’s favor,” Mimskin had said later, after Sperville had taken himself off to dine. “No reason why ye shouldn’t profit from the man’s stupidity. All ye need do is make the man believe in yer magic, and his eyes will heal themselves.”
Golde’s gaze slid now to the chest that contained her clothing and medicines. Not that the medicines would be useful in curing aught but the most common of illnesses. Rather, Mimskin had instructed her to mix several potions together until they stank “worse than a buzzard’s supper.” Then she was to convince this Gavarnie Delamaure that the concoction would heal his eyes.
Which should not be difficult. Had she not spent the past four years of her life convincing people of her prophesies? Did any amongst her culls doubt her word?
Yet, she was unable to completely reassure herself, and her spirits tumbled further when the rudderman called, “Port, ho!”
In short order, they had docked in the town of New Market, loaded their belongings on a cart, and set off for Castle Skyenvic where Golde would collect her fortune.
’Twas the only thought that held her still upon reaching the castle’s great hall several hours later. Despite the activity in the bailey that surrounded her—the shouts of men practicing with weapons, the servants wrestling with squawking chickens and clanging milk pails, the flash of guards’ swords from the wallwalk overhead—she felt isolated.
Fifty pieces of gold. A fortune. The answer to her prayers. Golde repeated it over and again in her head as she stared heavenward at the great hall’s massive, weatherbeaten timbers. ’Twas absurd that she should feel so intimidated. And cold. Despite the afternoon warmth, a shiver threatened to climb her back.
A brush against her sleeve redirected her thoughts. “Touch me again, Sperville,” she threatened, “and you will draw back a stump.”
The chamberlain’s hand halted its quest to remove yet another imaginary piece of lint from her best blue tunic. Sniffing, he opened the massive oak portal, and ushered her into the great hall.
Golde squinted through the cavernous gloom. At the far end of the enormous trabeated room, a shadowed figure rose to stand before a table atop a dais. Again, a shiver threatened. Was this the saintly lord of whom the chamberlain spoke with such reverence?
Nay. This man had seen them. The Baron of Skyenvic, Golde reminded herself, was blind.
Sperville made a grab for her arm and she jerked it out of his reach. “I need not your assistance,” she hissed. Did the chamberlain think her incapable of correctly placing one foot before the other?
Her lip curled as she moved to keep pace with his stately gait. Doubtless, Spindleshanks would split hairs over the length of a proper stride. And at the moment, she desired nothing so much as to meet this quintessential Gavarnie Delamaure, empty his coffers, and be gone. ’Twas hardly imperative that she wait five weeks for Sir Varin and Amulf to collect her.
“Who have you there?” The cordial man queried as she and Sperville reached the foot of the dais. Fair-featured, he appeared to be kind in spirit and, were she interested, not bad to look upon. So why did she feel such discomfort?
A dry, coughing fit suddenly seized Spindleshanks.
His eyes widened, while his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously to the twitching rhythm of his nose.
Golde’s uneasy feeling intensified.
“Christ’s blood, Sperville. Speak or remove your scrawny hide from my presence.”
Golde started, and her gaze jerked to the spot from whence the new voice had emanated. ’Twas little wonder she felt such disquiet. How had she not noticed the man sitting in the huge dragon-carved chair at the far end of the long table? He fair exuded rancor. Dressed in black, he looked much like a great scorch mark that had been seared into the wood.
Sir Sperville cleared his throat. “Mistress Golde.” He bowed toward her, then extended his hand to the dark-visaged man. “His Lordship, Sir Gavarnie Delamaure, Baron of Skyenvic.”
Upon learning that this man was the baron, she understood nothing else the chamberlain said, so captivated was she by the lord’s face. Swarthy and pox-scarred, ’twas as arrogant as ’twas bitter, forbidding as the sheer cliffs that rose defiantly above the English Channel. And like the battered cliffs that fought the sea’s merciless onslaught, it was a face that knew not how to compromise. It would break before yielding.
A chill raced over her shoulders and down her spine.
In the next instant, heated anger prickled her flesh.
He is praised by serf and Church alike. Wisdom tempers his judgment and manner so that he is never cruel or cross.
&n
bsp; A pox on Spindleshanks. He should be boiled in oil for the falsehoods he’d spouted.
Delamaure was no elderly saint hoping to reach heaven. Nor was he some bumbling lord with whom to trifle. The spells and potions that so becharmed her usual culls would have no effect on this man. He would recognize her mummery for what it was.
His teeth flashed white against his dark skin, and she marveled at how the pockmarks did naught to detract from his compelling looks. Indeed, they lent an irresistible, sinister quality to his features.
Inexplicably, a yearning deep within her pulsed for release. Like a flame to the moth.
A sharp kick to her shin interrupted her disturbed musings, and she realized the lord was speaking.
“. . . brought some stupid wench who knows not the language?”
Stupid wench? She glanced around. Of whom did he speak?
“Nay, mi’lord.” Spindleshanks’ tone was conciliatory. “She is well versed in Norman French.”
They were speaking of her? By the rood!
Golde summoned a practiced tone to conceal her outrage. “I speak English, and Gaelic as well.”
The lord’s black eyes shifted until it appeared he was looking directly at her, though the blankness of his gaze betrayed his inability to do so. “My offspring will not be exposed to a language fit only for grunting pigs. One word of English from your mouth and you will be dismissed.”
’Twas no easy task to maintain her placid facade as all thought of returning home flew from her head. ’Twould be a pleasure to cozen the hidebound, arrogant bastard. Meanwhile, she would be certain to teach his offspring English. And Gaelic incantations as well. Let his toadship explain that to his pious Norman priests.
For the moment she affected a humble, concerned tone. Let the dolt think her some Saxon whelp instead of the Celt she was. “Mayhap you should seek the aid of a good Norman witchwife. I would not wish to distress you, considering your obvious aversion to all things English.”
Spindleshanks kicked her shin again and she cast him a glance that promised retribution.
The lord’s hard voice recaptured her attention. “Few possess the brazen ignorance to come into Skyenvic and insult me.”
She’d thought her disdain well veiled, and redoubled her effort to sound sincere. “I meant no offense, your lordship. ’Twas my thinking you would respond more quickly—”
She gasped as pain shot through her shin, then loosed her ire on the chamberlain. “Kick me again, baseborn mucker, and I will send your puling soul straight to hell.”
Spindleshanks winced, but his voice remained level when he addressed the baron. “Mi’lord, I—”
The fair-featured man who’d greeted them cleared his throat and spoke smoothly. “Mayhap, Sperville, we should look elsewhere for a more mature woman to care for the children.”
“Children?” Golde demanded. Of what did the man speak?
“Enough!” the lord bellowed. Slamming his fist on the linen-covered tabletop, he rose, his visage thunderous.
Golde clutched her skirts, preparing to flee. Glancing over her shoulder, she judged the shadowed entrance to the hall to be several furlongs distant, though surely it could not be. Her gaze darted to the bare walls on either side of her, but she could see no doors. The windows were perhaps three times a man’s height, and even if she climbed the table trestles stacked beneath them, she would be unable to reach the openings.
Sir Sperville lightly patted her elbow as if to reassure her all was well. Obviously, the fool knew not when to fly.
“You will tell me, wench,” continued Lord Delamaure, “to what purpose you are come to Skyenvic.”
“Your forgiveness, my liege.” The chamberlain spoke before she could reply. “I see now I have made a poor choice—”
“By the throat of Christ. You will hold your tongue, Sperville, else I will cut it from your head.”
Spindleshanks responded without a trace of fear. “Yes, my liege, but—”
Golde could stand no more. “Know you what dangers your chamberlain braved to enlist my aid that you might regain your sight? For a week he traveled alone over roads thick with thieves and outlaws to reach me. You should be grateful to have a man of such courage in your service.”
Rage twisted the lord’s countenance and she took an involuntary backward step. From her lowly position, he appeared huge, both in height and breadth of chest. Indeed, he looked capable of breathing fire with the unholiest of dragons. ’Twas rattling how his black eyes honed in on her as if she were a hare and he the wolf.
“My chamberlain was instructed,” he spat, “to locate a nursemaid here on the isle for my children. He has been gone a fortnight, to where I know not. Indeed, there has been much speculation concerning his demise. And instead of a nursemaid, he has brought me a tart-tongued, arrogant wench to heal my eyes, a fruitless task already attempted by the king’s own physicians.”
He paused long enough to draw breath, and his sightless eyes shifted in Spindleshanks’ direction. “Now I discover the man not only disobeyed my orders, he is a dunderwit as well. Only an imbecile would traipse about the countryside accompanied by no more than an idiot woman.”
Golde tilted her chin upward and forced an even tone. “How fortunate Sir Sperville is to have one of such great intellect for master. I assumed his reckless actions to be a result of unyielding devotion, not witless foolery. And since your concern is so great, be comforted that we had a full escort from Cyning all the way to the Solent.”
Delamaure raised a brow. “So, the Baron of Cyning is behind this scheme.” He snorted, though when next he spoke, much of the anger had left his voice. “Sir Varin risks losing his wits each time he empties his bowels, and you may tell him I said so.” His blanks gaze swept the dais area. “Nigel?”
“Here, sir,” the fair-complexioned man answered.
“Remove this troublesome female from my presence and see she is returned to Cyning forthwith. And you, Sperville, shall remain. There is much I would say to you.”
TWO
GAVARNIE DELAMAURE, Baron of Skyenvic, confidante of the king and master of the Solent, shifted his bare rump on a hard wooden stool in his bedchamber. Though no little time had passed since Sperville’s afternoon arrival, he wondered how it could already be morn. The ale-induced thunder that cracked about his skull would require much more sleep before it dissipated.
He fixed his sour attention on the area where he could hear the quick shuffle of Sperville’s steps, followed by the spill of pouring water.
“Where is Roland?” he grumbled. “Why does the task of filling my tub fall to you?”
The chamberlain grunted. “Your squire is running errands.”
“By whose command?”
“Mine,” Sperville snapped, sounding uncommonly flustered.
Gavarnie frowned. Nothing short of death would rattle the chamberlain thus. The child, Nicolette, must have died in the night of the lung fever.
He bowed his head, anxious to betray no trace of the inexplicable sentiment that suddenly gripped him. How was it he could care so much?
Nay.
He raised his head.
He would feel naught but relief. The girl was well rid of him, was she not? As he was of her.
Yet, despite his disavowal, breath continued to leak from his chest, stealing away with part of his very soul. Worse, an image of Nicolette’s little elfin face rose to torment him. Her tremulous smiles whenever she caught him staring at her; smiles he’d pointedly ignored for nigh on two years now. The lisping prayers he’d overheard when he chanced to pass her chamber at bedtime. “God bwess Papa . . .”
He jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’d insisted she refer to him as “sir” instead of “Papa,” though she could not have understood the reason. She’d never been told what her mother, his wife, had done.
At the sound of water splashing into the bath, he tensed. Was Sperville watching him? Was he making a fool of himself in front of the chamberlain? H
e rubbed his hands over his eyes and affected a yawn, hoping to look tired rather than expose his womanish grief. His blind eyes made him appear weakling enough.
Still, he could not bring himself to ask after Nicolette. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, concentrating hard on the many offenses the chamberlain had most fecently committed.
“That tart-tongued magpie you attempted to foist upon me yestereve. She is gone?”
“The witchwife?”
“The witchwife?” Gavarnie whined, mocking the chamberlain’s nasal tone. “Do not pretend ignorance, conniving worm. I may yet kill you. That you would have the gall to bring that mean-tempered hellhag into my presence.” He scowled, continuing, “I now have no one to care for Ronces and Alory. The king’s tourney is little more than a month off. I must prepare for hordes of hungry guests, and that dunghead, de Warrenne . . .”
His words trailed away when he heard the chamber door shut.
“Sperville?”
He narrowed his eyes. Even were the chamberlain in the wardrobe or garderobe, he would respond. Obviously, he’d left the room, and without so much as a by-your-leave.
Gavarnie clenched his fists and cocked his head, listening. No footfalls. No noise filtered through the slitted windows from the bailey below his second-floor bedchamber.
Strange. Where was the clangor of servants rushing to prepare breakfast? Why did no chirping birds or crowing cocks herald the morn?
His head snapped about as a strangled noise issued from the corridor beyond his door. It sounded much like a bleating goat whose throat had been slit.
The back of his neck prickled. Plague take his blind eyes. Had an assassin slipped into Skyenvic?
He rose slowly, his muscles twitching. Whatever the noise, it was drawing nearer.
An image of the chamberlain, throat gushing blood, assailed him. His eyes rounded reflexively—a futile attempt to see.
He lurched toward the bed, sweeping his hands before him. If he could reach his sword, hidden beneath the pillows . . .