by Sandra Lee
If given a choice at this moment, he would kill Isabelle all over again. Only this time he would not do it for her infidelity.
Nay. She deserved to die for allowing him to love Nicolette those first three years of her life, a crime far greater than adultery, because it was doubly painful to then find out she wasn’t his.
Why had the realization been so long in coming?
Despite the fact that Nicolette wasn’t his daughter, he loved her as if she were. He’d been a fool to fight his feelings for her these two years past. He’d brought naught but misery upon himself, and the child.
God bwess Papa. He grimaced as his eyes stung. When was the last time he’d cried?
Isabelle was doubtless laughing at him from the bowels of hell.
THREE
NICOLETTE’S CRAMPED bedchamber sweltered from heated stones that had been dropped in pails of water. Golde swiped sweat from her brow and scraped sticky hair from her temples. Faith, she needed to bathe. Her best blue tunic looked as if it had been used to muck the sheep pen, and her gray chainse felt like a scratchy second layer of skin.
“’Tis important you continue steaming the room,” she instructed the matronly servant, Hesper. “Once the child tolerates honey-water, then you may begin feeding her broth.”
Golde snatched up her medicine jars and fair threw them into her chest. How could she, the mistress of deception, have been so duped by the blunderheaded chamberlain? Oh, but his eyes had appeared so properly heartsick when he’d wakened her in the undercroft. “I have need of your aid,” he’d whispered urgently.
She slammed the lid on the chest. What had become of her vow to not involve herself in the affairs of her culls?
But nay. She’d had to await the morn to begin her journey home. And Spindleshanks had taken full advantage of the delay, pleading with her in the middle of the night to save Delamaure’s daughter from death.
As if her thoughts had conjured the wheedling snake, Sperville hurried into the child’s bedchamber. “Mistress, let us get you gone.”
Before Golde could reply, Hesper cried, “She cannot leave.” The older woman wrung the folds of her tunic while her second chin quivered pinkly above the red coals in the brazier. “Ye must convince her to stay, at least until Nicolette is healed.”
Convince her to stay, indeed, Golde thought. There was not enough gold in all England to make her do so. She opened her mouth to say just that, but Spindleshanks spoke first. “Nay, Hesper. She has done enough. I would not repay her kindness by subjecting her to the baron’s foul temper any longer.”
Golde curled her lip. “’Tis a bit late—”
“I know not how to care for sick folk,” Hesper interrupted. “What if Nicolette should worsen again?”
“I have told you—” Golde began.
Hesper allowed her no chance to finish. “What if the baron forbids me to care for her? I dare not gainsay him.”
“There is naught we can do about the matter, should it come to pass,” Sperville intoned gravely.
Golde frowned. The evil baron had seemed most willing to allow his daughter to die. And but moments ago, just before Spindleshanks had appeared, the lord’s blustering threat to cut out someone’s heart had fair rattled the castle timbers.
“’Tis no concern of this great lady’s,” Sperville was saying. “She has worked a miracle this night and we must pray for the best.”
Golde raised a black brow. “Seek you to convince me to stay with sweet words of praise?”
Sir Sperville’s features hardened, lending his visage a strength she would never have imagined. “I would not allow you to remain, even were it your greatest desire. Despite your skill and knowledge, you are . . .” A sheepish look overcame the chamberlain.
Golde inclined her head and stared pointedly.
“It matters not. You must away.” He beckoned her with his hand.
Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I am what?”
“Truly, you are everything I have said.” Spindleshanks was clearly hedging. “Now let us get you gone.”
Golde narrowed her eyes. “I will hear this great lack you have discovered in my nature. Why, of a sudden, must you spirit me off where before you did all in your power to keep me here?”
Spindleshanks glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice and stammered, “I had hoped . . . You appeared to be most—”
“By Saint Cuthbert! Cease your spluttering and speak.”
The chamberlain’s gaze darted away from her face and he bowed his head. “You lack naught. Few, if any, have the courage to betake themselves unto dealing with the baron’s personal affairs. I had hoped to secure your great-grandmother’s services, for I had heard of her wisdom and strength. When she refused, I grew desperate. His lordship will never know peace until he recovers his sight.”
He cast her a penitent look, then lowered his gaze again. “Though I am certain you could heal him, you are far too young and inexperienced to deal with the baron’s temper. I can do naught but ask your forgiveness.”
Golde sneered. “You tell me I have worked miracles, then speak of me as if I were a cowering, snot-nosed whelp too thickwitted to come in from the rain.”
Sir Sperville’s head snapped up. “I meant no insult.” He fixed his attention on Hesper, defending himself to her, as if he feared looking at Golde. “Truly, you would not credit all mistress has accomplished. Not only did she compel Sir Gavarnie to dress himself, when I left him just now, he was holding Nicolette with a father’s tenderness. And talking to her.”
“Saints be praised,” Hesper breathed.
The woman crossed herself, and curiosity near overwhelmed Golde. The baron had forbade her to bathe Nicolette earlier. And though the child’s very life was dependent upon Golde’s knowledge, Delamaure had attempted to force her from his chamber. At the time, she’d thought it was only her person that he objected to. But after listening to Sperville and Hesper, it sounded as if the baron also objected to his daughter.
Nay. Golde caught herself as silence descended over the chamber. ’Twas none of her affair. Indeed, if she’d learned aught in her youth, ’twas that children were cruel little beasts. Ever demanding and willful, they never spared a thought for the feelings of others. They were peculiar of habit, not the least of which was their penchant for mischief and destruction, and they required such . . . devotion was the only word she could think of.
Still, her feet refused to budge at her command.
Worse, an image of the baron’s naked body wiggled its way into her thoughts.
She flapped the neck of her chainse. Imposing. Delamaure’s body bespoke strength, hostility, and arrogance. They were present in tightly coiled muscles, in his powerful broad frame, in his regal stance. Legs braced, fists on hips . . . despite its dormancy, his sex when she’d grabbed him had felt—
Faith! What was she thinking? Worse, she was flapping the neck of her chainse with the speed of a bee’s wing. She let loose of the material and glared at the chamberlain.
“’Twas you and none other who made me appear the fool. You knew full well the baron was expecting a nursemaid, not a witchwife.”
Spindleshanks’ head drooped lower. “Sir Gavarnie’s pride e’re prevents him from seeking aid of any type. I’d hoped to disguise your true purpose.”
“Why did you not explain yourself from the beginning?”
Sperville glanced up at her. “Had you known of the deception, would you have agreed to come?”
’Twas as if a worm were squirming inside her. Obviously, he thought her too honorable to be involved in trickery. She felt as if Mimskin were standing there, shaking a finger at her.
Ye destroy your swevyn with your falseness and rob those who have true need of your help. ’Tis ashamed I am to claim you as kin.
Golde piled her braid atop her head and fanned herself, cooling the flesh that prickled not from the room’s heat—or from thoughts of the baron—but from shame. Though why she should feel thus was
a mystery. In this instance, Mimskin was as guilty as Golde of deceit.
Meanwhile, Sperville had deceived Delamaure into thinking Golde was a nursemaid. Had Mimskin foreseen the baron’s foul reaction to Golde’s arrival at Skyenvic, she would never have allowed her to come. But Mimskin hadn’t consulted the runes on the question of Golde’s reception, for Spindleshanks had implied that the baron would welcome her.
And what had Delamaure said earlier about Sir Varin?
. . . the Baron of Cyning is behind this scheme.
Aye. That was it. Delamaure assumed Varin had sent her.
. . . risks losing his wits each time he empties his bowels . . .
Which she would indeed tell Varin the moment she arrived home. For, according to what Roscelyn had said before Golde left Cyning, Varin believed Delamaure to be a friend.
Golde frowned at the ache that was beginning to throb in her head. ’Twas nigh impossible to determine who was deceiving whom.
Nor did her ruminations help solve her immediate dilemma concerning Nicolette’s illness. Would the baron truly forbid Hesper to care for the child?
At last, she addressed Spindleshanks, her tone brusque. “I will stay until the child is well, provided you confess your maneuvering to your master.”
A look of satisfaction appeared to cross the chamberlain’s features, but before she could be certain, Hesper had clutched her hand and kissed it.
When she looked back to Sperville, he’d drawn himself up and was shaking his head. “Nay. I cannot allow it. You would be less than a mouthful for the baron’s wolfish bite. As we speak, he demands your presence for no reason but to vent his spleen upon you.”
The poor lighting and vapor haze had tricked her. Far from looking satisfied, Spindleshanks’ eyes were round with fear.
Golde snorted. “If his lordship commands my presence, then so shall it be.”
She marched past Sir Sperville into the hall. ’Twould be best to instruct the ill-mannered Delamaure at once on the proper treatment of her person, now that she’d decided to stay.
FOUR
IT SEEMED TO GAVARNIE he’d just drifted off again when something wakened him. Christ’s blood. Would he never sleep this night? He started to roll from his back to his side when he left a tug on his boot. He forced himself to stillness as the evening’s events surfaced in his thoughts.
The ogress.
By the rood, she was no more than a thief. ’Twas a common fallacy amongst the Saxon peasantry that Norman lords slept with valuables tucked inside their boots. A fallacy the hag would regret.
He concentrated on the movement at his feet until he knew exactly where he’d aim his blade. In one smooth motion, he hauled his sword from beneath the pillows and shot upward to his knees.
Blessed Virgin Mother! Could it be Nicolette?
His heart thudded and he jerked the blade sideways. The sharp-honed steel tore through the heavy bed curtain and bit into the massive post at the foot of the bed.
Sperville yelped, “’Tis I!”
Gavarnie gulped air and clutched the sword’s hilt, hands shaking. “Whore’s gleet! Have you no consideration for your safety, man? Had I not thought you Nicolette at the last moment—” He yanked the blade free of the post. “What were you thinking?”
“I was removing your boots so your rest would be more comfortable.” The chamberlain’s voice carried high and thin. “Nicolette has been returned to her chamber.”
Still gripping the sword, Gavarnie sank back against the pillows. Swallowing hard, he waited for his heart to slide from his throat back down to his chest, where it belonged. Then he forced himself to speak calmly. “As ever, Sperville, your devotion to duty overrides your good sense. But I prefer you whole rather than in halves. And, if you would, please consider my sentiments before next you come creeping ’round my bed in the dead of night.”
“My apologies,” the chamberlain sniffed. “Might I remove your boots, that I may get some rest?”
Gavarnie rose again to sit. “You have yet to gain your bed? Why do you not rouse Roland to remove my boots? Or does he yet run errands at your command? And what has become of that miserable dowd I sent you to collect?” “When we returned, you were sleeping. I assumed you would rather deal with matters on the morrow than be disturbed.”
Gavarnie ran a hand over his face. “Faith, Sperville, you and Roland have much to do. De Warrenne will be arriving on the morrow. The silver plate needs counting and spices must be doled out to the kitchens.”
He paused as his thoughts came full circle. “Nicolette. Is she . . .” He could not complete the question, so sharply did his inwit stab him.
“She is recovering.”
Gavarnie’s pulse quickened. The child was recovering? Before God, he vowed, Nicolette would never want for anything again.
“You would do well to avail yourself of the witchwife’s miracles before you scare her off.”
“Humph,” Gavarnie snorted, feeling better than he had in years. “The hag is not afraid of the devil. Know you what she dared earlier? She threatened to castrate me with her bare hands. Had the audacity to clutch my—” Wheezing gasps issued from the foot of the bed. “That had best not be laughter I hear spilling from your mouth.”
The windy mirth only increased, and Gavarnie drummed his fingers on the hilt of the sword. ’Twas not at all like the staid chamberlain to find humor in such baseborn behavior.
“Your reasoning has deserted you,” he remarked sourly. “Take yourself off and get some sleep.”
Sperville cleared his throat. “The young lady is most resourceful, is she not?”
“Resourceful? Snakes doubtless flee at her approach. Spiders likely scramble to hide, lest she pluck them from their webs to eat.”
More gasping merriment.
Gavarnie struggled to shove the sword back under his pillows, the length of the blade making the task difficult. It kept catching in the bed linens. At last he succeeded, then bent forward to wrestle with a boot.
“Young lady,” he grumbled, and slammed one boot on the floor. “I’ll wager she has not one tooth left in her ancient head.”
“You have formed quite an image of the woman. Surely she does not frighten you.” Sperville’s voice quivered, clearly a result of his struggle to contain his mirth.
Gavarnie jerked the remaining boot from his foot and clutched the stiff leather in his fists. “Begone, imbecile, lest you find my boot between your teeth.”
“As you wish, my liege. But my inwit would allow me no respite were I to leave you with such nightmarish visions. Golde is not as you think.” The chamberlain’s tone grew earnest. “Though I will admit she is no beauty at first glance, if you could see, you would find her quite striking.”
“She is big as a horse, judging from the size of her forearm. And tall as you, according to Nicolette, with one black eye and one green. I’m not sure striking properly describes the wench. Hideous, perhaps. Ugly, of a certainty.”
“Aye, she is tall, but in the likeness of a sapling that bends with grace before the wind. Far from big, she is lean in the way of woodland creatures that depend upon agility to survive.”
Big as a tree and lean as a boar sow, he translated Sperville’s description. “Get thee gone. You are moonstruck and I will hear no more.”
He dropped the boot and plopped back on the mattress, pulling a pillow over his head. He’d never heard the chamberlain speak so warmly of a woman. Not that Sperville did not know beauty when he saw it. He’d oft remarked on serving wenches, and even a time or two on Isabelle’s appearance. But ’twas always dispassionate, in the way a jeweler might examine a particular stone.
Removing the pillow from his head, Gavarnie rolled to his side. On a whim, he squeezed the fingers of one hand around his forearm. His lips puckered.
Mayhap he’d been wrong. The hag’s arm was nowhere near the size of his. Even so, she could not be skinny, as Nicolette claimed.
He hugged the pillow to his chest. One eye gre
en, the other black. No pinch-faced sour dowd. No beauty, either. Striking. He tried to imagine her face. Oval, round, heart-shaped? Framed with black hair, by Nicolette’s account. He remembered the thick, damp tresses he’d clutched earlier.
Bats’ wings dipped in moonlight.
Her voice floated through his memory. Throaty, muted. A low murmur trailed through still water, rippling outward, caressing everything it touched. Like a woman skilled at seduction, he thought drowsily, allowing the layers of sound to drift ever lower. They lapped at his loins and laved his shaft in a resonant, husky chorus.
Abruptly lust tore for release, and he ground his hips against the pillow. It seemed an eternity had passed since he’d last—
Whore’s gleet! He bolted upright. For all he knew, Sperville could yet be standing at the foot of the bed. He stilled, straining to hear the telltale whisper of breathing.
Nothing.
Fool! he railed at himself. Had he not covered his head with the pillow, he would have heard whether or not the door closed and known if the chamberlain had left to seek his bed in the undercroft.
“Sperville?” he whispered.
No reply.
Still, it felt as if every person in the castle were watching him. ’Twas not the first time he’d felt thus, but never had he sensed it so keenly.
He threw himself back on the mattress, willing away the despair that threatened to engulf him.
He would not remain blind.
He would not!
And by all that was holy, in future he would make certain of his privacy.
FIVE
GOLDE SWATTED at the nettlesome hand that persisted in shaking her shoulder. Despite the dripping heat, she was having no difficulty sleeping on a pallet beside Nicolette’s bed. Indeed, now that the child’s cough had eased, providing a measure of quiet, Golde felt certain she could sleep a full fortnight.
Her thoughts drifted to the stream that ran behind the castle orchard back home at Cyning. An image of clear water flashed crisp invitation. She hurried toward it, stripping her clothes. Ah, to be clean and cool.