by Sandra Lee
“Whore’s gleet, wench,” the lord snarled.
Panting, she looked to see him push himself to sit from where he lay on his belly.
“She tripped you, Papa!” the sword-wielding brat howled.
Ignoring the boy’s accusation, Golde’s gaze swept the hall. Servants stared silently at their lord, many with hands covering their hearts. Bright sunlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the room where before she’d seen naught but fog. The bug-child struggled to remove the pot from his head, but the bar-handle kept catching beneath his chin and he began to wail.
Golde wrapped her fists in the folds of her skirt as her body trembled. Saint Blaise! What had happened here? All appeared normal, yet she could not deny what she’d just seen.
“. . . not to blame, Ronces.” Delamaure was grousing to his sword-wielding son. “’Twas God who created those great bumbling feet of hers.”
Golde attempted to muster some anger at his remark, anything to restore her bearings, but ’twas no use. Instead, she lowered her head, anxious that none see her discomposure. Was she going mad?
“Allow me to assist you, mi’lord,” Sir Nigel offered.
She watched from beneath lowered lashes as the steward hurried toward Delamaure.
“I need no aid.” The lord’s tone could grind granite. Golde glanced surreptiously at him when he made no move to rise. In opposition to his forbidding countenance, she could yet feel the solid reassurance of his body pressed against her back. The comforting beat of his heart. The gentle hush of his indrawn breath, urging her body, her soul, to awareness. Whatever had made her feel thus?
She squared her shoulders and gathered the reins of her wild imaginings. ’Twas exhaustion, and lack of food, and, and . . . And the overgrown lackwit would have crushed her to death were she a smaller person.
Her anxious feelings subsided and her breathing slowed. Who would not be stricken with thick-comings?
She tripped you, Papa. Her lip curled as she thought on the brat’s accusation. Now, she supposed, the baron would rebuke her for causing his fall. And she hoped he would, for she welcomed the opportunity to respond in kind. ’Twas his fault she’d been scared witless. Brushing bits of straw and dirt from her tunic, she anticipated his ire.
Instead, he addressed the brat, Ronces. “Collect your brother. I would have you and Alory escort me to my chambers.”
Ronces scampered to remove the pot from the bug, Alory’s, head—yet a younger, chubbier version of his lordship, Golde reflected. Then both boys raced to grab their father’s hands. They pulled him to his feet, a task not unlike two ants drawing a bear onto its hind legs.
“Where is the wench?” Sir Gavarnie demanded.
A pox on the man, Golde swore. Had he not just ordered his sons to assist him to his chambers? What need had he of her?
Ronces turned him in her direction, but before the lord could speak, the brat tugged urgently on his sleeve. Cupping his grubby little hands around his mouth, the child whispered in a voice loud enough to be heard the length of the hall, “Never oppose your opponent.”
The baron’s lips twitched as if he might laugh, then he pursed them and his features grew stern.
“Come along,” he commanded, motioning in her direction. “I now have protection from those oversized feet of yours.”
Golde searched his severe, pock-ravaged features. His comment stung and . . .
Nay. She was no longer a child. Never again would such hurtful taunts affect her.
She glanced over her shoulder at the great entrance doors. The urge to run through them and return home was so acute, her muscles twitched in anticipation.
Instead, her legs carried her straight to the baron. ’Twas impossible to deny him. Despite the macabre scene her demented thoughts had just conjured, she could not forget the comforting feel of his body atop hers. Never had she experienced such soul-snatching awareness.
Nor have you known such terror, a voice whispered in her head.
SIX
I AM NOT too slow,” Alory huffed at Ronces, his cherubic features acquiring a mulish cast.
“Papa is no baby to crawl up the stairs like you,” Ronces returned hotly.
If the baron heard aught of his sons’ squabbling, he gave no indication. Golde glared at the boys’ backs. She would not be surprised to see horns growing from their heads.
Upon gaining the head of the stairs, Delamaure paused. “Is Hesper caring for Nicolette?” he asked, his head swiveling in the direction of the girl’s chamber.
Before Golde could respond, the redhaired serving maid appeared in the doorway. “’Tis Edna, yer lordship.”
“Aye . . . Edna?” The baron appeared nonplussed.
“I be Hesper’s niece,” the girl supplied.
Delamaure’s face cleared. “Well, then, Edna. Keep a close watch, and should you need aught, the ha—er, the witch . . .
Golde folded her arms over her chest as the baron stammered.
“That is, mistress here,” he nodded over his shoulder, “will be in my chambers.”
With that, he nudged the boys forward, and Golde followed the threesome down the corridor.
She halted just inside the baron’s chamber door, distracted by the tapestries that hung on the walls. In one, men in flowing white robes galloped dun-colored horses across a background of swirling, cream-colored—was it sand? Faded red, blue, and gold streamers trailed from ornate headgear, which resembled nothing that English men wore. Another scene depicted whimsical buildings with round roofs perched atop columns.
She moved closer, inspecting the images. Though fresh, salty air drifted through the unshuttered chamber windows, she caught a whiff of some night-sweet, smoky scent she could not define. ’Twas obvious the wall coverings had absorbed the odor, but from what?
Suddenly the hair crawled along her nape. The tapestries appeared exactly as they had in her . . .
She’d had a vision! She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Praise the Goddess Danu. And God, too. She crossed herself. She was not mad. Mimskin would be thrilled.
Abruptly her good cheer fled and her eyes snapped open. If her swevyn was accurate, a beautiful woman had been brutally slaughtered in this very room. Who was she?
A tingle of apprehension climbed her spine. Her gaze swept past the dark lord and his children to fix on the great four-posted bed. A gold-embroidered scarlet coverlet covered the bed. The material looked to have been spun from rubies—or blood.
Her gaze leapt to the lord’s broad shoulders as the boys led him across the room. She studied his thick black hair, unfashionably long where it fell to his shoulders. With a few braids, he would resemble exactly a barbarian chieftan of yore.
Could he have committed such savagery against a female? He appeared most capable. Or was the woman from some other time, an image from the distant past, or mayhap, the future?
Again she recalled the feel of the man as he’d lain atop her, his hearbeat pulsing through her body. She’d felt so protected.
Nay. She blinked. It could not have been a vision. She had seen the tapestries last night and been too busy ogling the naked Delamaure to note them. After that, her attention had been so focused on Nicolette, she’d noticed little more than the tub.
The dead woman was no more than a figment of her imagination, brought on by exhaustion and hunger. She would think on her no more.
“Sperville!” Delamaure roared as his sons drew up at the foot of the bed.
A dull thud issued from the wardrobe, followed by the chamberlain’s appearance. “Your lordship?” He hurried forward.
Delamaure released his hold on his sons. Balling his hands into fists, he planted them on his hips. “I would hear your description of my attire.”
Spindleshanks frowned and squinted, then his red-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes rounded. His jaw worked, but no sound was forthcoming.
“I see you, too, are speechless,” the baron gritted.
“Milord, I—”
“The great Baron of Skyenvic,” Delamaure mocked, sounding exactly like the chamberlain. “Poor blind bastard wanders about dressed like a court jester, yet the king continues to honor him with a fief. How charitable. What think you, Sperville? Will my appearance frighten away Vikings? Mayhap they will drown in gales of laughter.”
Spindleshanks winced. “Forgive me, sir. There is no excuse for my lack of attention.”
Guilt gnawed at Golde’s inwit. Delamaure had done his best to dress himself. ’Twas no fault of his he could not see. “Mayhap Sir Sperville could arrange your garments in a manner that would not require sight,” she suggested.
The baron turned in her direction, his nose wrinkled with distaste. “I need not direction from a woman who smells worse than dead fish. Mayhap Sir Sperville could arrange a bath for you.”
Golde sucked in her breath. The baseborn mucker. And here she’d felt guilty for bringing his poor choice of garments to everyone’s attention. Once again, she’d forgotten her vow to avoid emotional entanglements with her culls.
“My delicious aroma,” she responded evenly, “is a result of confining myself to a steam-drenched bedchamber on your daughter’s behalf. Doubtless, Satan has made similar heated arrangements on your behalf in anticipation of your demise.”
Dropping his fists to his sides, Delamaure’s jaw knotted. “Sperville, I will not tolerate this. You will get that magpie gone this instant.”
Golde leveled an icy stare at the baron. She’d be strung up and gutted before she’d spend another moment in his company. And a pox on the senseless disappointment that crept over her promiscuous body at the thought of leaving. “I need not Spindleshanks’ assistance to take leave. Indeed, I am capable—”
Abruptly the lord hooted. “Spindleshanks!”
Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I fail to find amusement—”
“Spindleshanks!” he gasped, clutching a bedpost. “A more appropriate name I have never heard. Mayhap you were right, Sperville. I begin to see some merit in the woman.”
At the indignant expression on the chamberlain’s face, Golde was unable to keep a smile from her lips. Sir Sperville glared at her as if she’d just forced him to eat a toad.
Sniffing, the chamberlain spun about. Heels clomping on the wooden floor, he strode to the wardrobe, where he snapped his fingers over his head. “Roland. Fetch his lordship some suitable attire.”
Listening to the sounds of the unseen Roland rummaging about in the anteroom, Golde struggled to contain her merriment. Unable to resist pricking the chamberlain further, she begged sweetly, “My apologies, Sir Sperville. I meant no insult. Your figure is most dashing.”
“Your rude sobriquet does not disturb me in the least,” he sniffed.
Golde pretended concern. “Come, sir, you appear much like a hen whose egg has been pronounced rotten.”
The baron clutched his belly and doubled over while his sons giggled. Sperville cast a disdainful look in their direction, and raising his nose, disappeared into the wardrobe.
Without warning, Ronces screeched, “To arms!”
Golde near jumped from her skin. Grimacing, she watched the boys launch themselves atop the bed.
Faith! Was the baron deaf as well as blind? His demon sons made racket enough to raise the dead.
Her eyes widened. The brat and the bug were tunneling beneath the scarlet bedcover. Did none care that the boys were ruining such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship? The spread would be black by the time the little beasts were finished. Were they her children, she would . . .
She near choked. Heaven forbid! Death would be preferable to having such unruly offspring. ’Twas not hard to imagine their mother clinging to the ceiling by her fingernails and toenails from their unexpected outbursts. The unfortunate woman had doubtless gone to her premature death, gray and wrinkled.
Abruptly Golde chastised herself. ’Twas indecent to think irreverently of the dead.
Still, she wondered what had happened to the baron’s wife. She must ask Sperville what he’d meant when he’d said the woman had died prematurely.
A dark-haired youth bearing noble raiment appeared from the wardrobe. Sporting a frown, the youth approached Sir Gavarnie, and Golde was distracted by the curious manner in which his hair was slicked to his scalp with oil. Was this some new hair fashion?
The squire waited for the baron’s laughter to subside, then lowered his head. ’Twas as if he were presenting himself to the headsman for execution. “Mi’lord, I am to blame for your attire. When I served you in the hall this morn, I assumed you had reason for dressing thus.”
“Nay, Roland.” Delamaure grinned and raised his voice. “’Tis that fool Spindleshanks’ fault. Were you not running errands at his direction, you would have been available to see me properly clothed.”
A clattering crash issued from the wardrobe, and the baron smiled broadly. “Sir Sperville! Have a care with my plate.”
“Shall I see about him?” Roland queried, a confused, wary expression on his face. Judging from his look, he knew not whether he was about to be kicked or congratulated.
The lord chuckled and shook his head. “Methinks yon chamberlain needs to stew in his own piquant sauce for a spell.”
Golde contemplated Delamaure’s relaxed stance. At the moment, he did not appear forbidding. Indeed, he exuded a warmth that would thaw the deepest winter freeze; a humor that invited mischief.
What evil elf had made her think him capable of some woman’s murder?
Again she was struck by the sensation of reassuring comfort he’d engendered in her earlier. And just now, he’d made certain of his daughter’s welfare. So he was not the ogre he’d seemed last night.
The lord sidled away from the bedpost, and the squire hastily tossed the garments he carried to one arm. Clutching the baron’s elbow, he made to steer him when, suddenly, Delamaure halted.
“I no longer need assistance to move about my own chamber.” He removed the young man’s hand from his arm. “Indeed, you may sleep outside the chamber door in future. However, I would that you make certain there are no impediments left lying about.”
Pleased astonishment replaced the squire’s discomfited look. “You may depend upon it, sir.” Still, the youth hovered near the baron’s side as the lord seated himself on the bed with slow consideration.
Roland carefully lay the black and gray garments next to him, then knelt at the lord’s feet and tapped his knee.
Oblivious to his sons, who wallowed beneath the fine bedcover like two grunting piglets, Delamaure gave a booted foot to the squire. Then his eyes scanned the room in Golde’s direction. “Now, silver-tongued angel. Let us discuss arrangements for your employ.”
Golde’s brows climbed her forehead. Silver-tongued angel! She’d been called many things, but never that. And ’twas foolish to derive such pleasure from the accolade.
Yet, unable to resist the annoying glow that settled over her, she found it impossible to inform the man she would be taking immediate leave. Instead, she queried, “At what task do you intend to engage my services? You have said naught can be done to restore your sight.”
Delamaure nodded. “I am indeed convinced that such is the case.”
Though he did his best to appear nonchalant, Golde detected a bitter undercurrent in his tone. He gave his other foot to Roland just as Alory extricated himself from the covers. Shrieking like a crazed hawk, the bug jumped up and down on the bed.
“I find, however,” the lord fair shouted, “that my children are in great need of guidance. To my thinking, you are just the person for such a task.”
He groped behind him until he caught the bug’s leg and jerked it out from under him. Alory screamed his delight at the rough treatment, drawing forth Ronces from the tangled mass of quilting. Together the boys threw themselves at their father’s back, grimy hands clutching at his neck in a bid to topple him.
Golde shook her head. ’Twas several moments before she trusted herself to reply in a
tone that would not convey her horror. “I am ill prepared to care for children. My expertise lies in the healing arts.”
Having removed both the lord’s boots, Roland hustled to rescue the fine clothing from the bed. Gavarnie encircled both boys, one in each arm, and squeezed. Groaning and gasping mightily, they thrashed about until fear squirted through Golde. Could the man not tell he was hurting his children?
Then she saw their gleeful, wide-mouthed smiles, and her lip curled. Faith, she would be rich indeed had she the talent for fakery that the little mummers possessed.
“’Tis only until I can locate a nursemaid here on the isle,” the baron continued over their moans. “What with the king’s tourney at Atherbrook, I have not the time to look for anyone at present. If you would agree to stay ’til the tournament is past, I would reward you handsomely.”
The boys pounded the lord with their small fists and Golde fidgeted, as if the breath were in fact being crushed from her. Was not coin the reason she’d journeyed to Skyenvic? But ... a nursemaid?
“If you like,” Sir Gavarnie offered, “you may try your hand at curing my blindness.”
So captured was she with the little demons’ display of agony, ’twas a moment before the import of his words struck her. Even then, she had to rethread both his statement and tone through her memory before she was certain.
Nay, she could not refute her first impression. The offhand manner in which he’d made the suggestion might have fooled her were it not for the quiet edge of desperation in his voice. The baron yearned to see again.
’Twas not difficult to imagine her dismay were she blind and dependent upon the whims of others for . . .
Nay, and nay. She would not feel empathy for the baron. Still, her feet would not obey her command to walk away.
She studied the squirming children. The little brutes should be locked away until they matured. They were worse than two evil sprites on the prowl for human marrow. And their sister, Nicolette, was no better. A cat would have been more amenable to the fever-cooling bathwater last night.