by Sandra Lee
Against his will, Gavarnie’s thoughts again wandered to Golde. How many men had she known? One? A dozen? Likely more than that, judging from the timbre of her voice.
No woman came naturally by such an alluring sound. It had to be practiced until it held just the right hint of languid huskiness. The type a self-assured woman knowledgeable in the fleshly arts would affect to manipulate a man’s body against his reason.
Did not Gundrada use her vast experience with men to bend de Warrenne to her will? And de Warrenne, for all his power, was too dimwitted to see through the facade.
Crossing his legs, Gavarnie leaned back in his chair. No woman would ever bend him to her will using such methods. Take Golde, for example.
Aye, he would admit a rutting desire for her. However, he’d already determined she was no innocent maid. Her looks, regardless of Sperville’s remarks, meant nothing to his blind eyes. Therefore, she would never be able use sweet words of guile upon him.
A small smile curved his lips. Not that she possessed any sweet words in her vocabulary. He certainly need never fear offending her with his sharp tongue.
And ’twas most entertaining to hear her outrageous remarks. Never gut a person’s buttocks, indeed. A lesser man would e’re be challenged to outwit her.
Again the feel of her backside commandeered his thoughts; the blossom of her hips below her slender waist.
“Your eldest son is of age to be fostered, is he not?” De Warrenne’s coarse voice jarred him from his pleasurable musings.
Gavarnie commanded his features to remain blank as lustful thoughts of rounded bottoms deserted him.
What was the whoreson about with such a question?
’Twas de Warrenne who’d discovered him in his bedchamber the morning of Isabelle’s death. He’d been the one who’d raised the hue and cry to King William, demanding Gavarnie be charged with murder.
Now, of a sudden, he was asking after Ronces? Would that Gavarnie could see the overfed bastard and know from his porcine eyes what scheme was mirrored there.
“What think you of pledging the boy to me?”
Gavarnie felt his face flush and he lowered his chalice to his lap, hoping to conceal his shaking hands. By the rood, de Warrenne’s audacity knew no bounds.
“Ronces is already pledged unto Varin de Brionne.” Despite his best effort, his tone was harsh enough to grind grain.
“For shame, husband,” Gundrada piped. “You have made our host angry.”
Gavarnie gritted his teeth. The soiled bitch was gloating over his discomfort. And whatever subterfuge the pair were about, ’twas likely Gundrada’s idea. Anything that could not be beaten, bled, or tortured to submission was beyond de Warrenne.
“’Tis an offer made with the best of intentions,” Gundrada continued. “Walther wished to mend the breach ’tween the two of you. ’Twas his thinking—”
Gavarnie interrupted. “I would hear Walther’s thinking from his own mouth, if you please.”
He almost smiled at the abrupt silence. Doubtless, Gundrada’s overripe lips were pursed and her fair features sour as a fishwife’s at day’s end.
“Know you how many seek to place their children in my service?” de Warrenne blustered. “I am beseiged with requests until my household is overflowing. Yet I am willing to make a place for your boy. I believe the king would be content to know our differences are settled.”
Gavarnie swallowed his distaste and forced a thoughtful expression. “Which of your sons will you give as surety?” he asked, though the question was moot. De Warrenne had four sons, and had a lost fifth whom he’d refused to ransom from an enemy baron several years past. He was hardly a man Gavarnie would trust with Ronces’ life.
“Two already serve de Breteuil, but you may have your choice of the other two.”
Faith. De Warrenne would never have made so bold a suggestion when Gavarnie could see, for he knew Gavarnie would take offense. That de Warrenne would now offer for Ronces bespoke his contempt.
Raw anger consumed Gavarnie. Did he appear so incapacitated by his loss of sight that de Warrenne believed him powerless? He drained the wine from his cup, then leaned forward and slammed it on the table.
“Think me a fool at your own risk,” he warned hotly. “I yet have King William’s ear when there is need.”
“Perhaps before Isabelle’s murder,” de Warrenne responded flatly, “for which you should have been tried, despite her infidelities.”
Gavarnie felt the blood drain from his face. If only he could see! De Warrenne would be cleaved in half where he sat. “Dare you repay my hospitality with scurrilous abuse?”
The bench beside him scraped against the wooden platform and he knew de Warrenne had risen. “’Tis I who should take offense,” he spat. “I offer my house for your son, knowing full well you are no longer favored by the king—”
“Please, husband!” Lady Gundrada implored with honied falseness. “Lower your voice. You have everyone’s ear.”
At her mention of it, Gavarnie realized all discourse in the hall had ceased. Whore’s gleet. Though de Warrenne’s statement was a bold lie, it was more damaging than if he’d spoken the truth. Gavarnie could almost hear the disparaging thoughts of his liegemen that were present.
Poor blind bastard. Couldn’t protect a lamb in the field, much less his possessions.
Were they ashamed of him?
His face felt as if it might crack with impotent rage. “I would have a care with my language and tone were I you. There comes a line beyond which no man will be pushed.”
De Warrenne snorted. “You can ill afford a pitched battle under your roof. The king would never allow his shire reeve to be set upon with impunity. ’Twould set a far more dangerous precedent than the murder of an unfaithful wife.”
’Twas a savage remark, and Gavarnie near choked on his ire. De Warrenne had drawn his last breath, and plague take the consequences. He would order Nigel to lop off the pig’s head and deal with the king. . . .
A thread of reason wound itself through his anger. He inclined his head and forced a level tone. “Your insistence on referring to Isabelle’s death wears thin. According to our king, adulterous offenses are punishable by death. You risk much to find fault with William’s interpretation of the law.”
He took a deep breath, pleased with the result of his control. De Warrenne would be brought to heel, not with deeds, but with words.
“Mi’lord, husband,” Gundrada spoke quickly. “Let us not dwell on unpleasant memories. Not when there are other . . . matters to be considered.”
Was it his imagination, or was there a note of warning in Gundrada’s tone?
De Warrenne cleared his throat. “You are right, sweet wife. I wonder, Sir Gavarnie, why the king insisted upon billeting me here when I could as easily have lodged at Atherbrook? I confess, I cannot decide whether he desires a reconciliation between us or hopes one will kill the other. Fostering your son was my plan for avoiding the latter.”
Gavarnie frowned, recalling his own dismay at being ordered to act as host to the Baron of Adurford.
De Warrenne continued, mirroring his thoughts. “I have no desire to become a pawn in our wily sovereign’s games. Though William may have decided he cannot depend on a blind man to guard the Solent, I would never be so foolish as to underestimate you.”
A robust cough sounded from below the dais, and Gavarnie recognized it as belonging to Fitz Simon, his barrel-chested castellan. Whore’s gleet. The insinuation that the king could no longer depend on him to perform his duties would not be lost upon the castellan.
Again anger consumed him, only now it fed on the frost of fear. In his arrogant thinking, he had not once considered that King William might wish to rid himself of a baron whose sightless eyes were naught but a liability. He must assure everyone in the hall that de Warrenne’s words were false.
“What brew have you been swilling, Walther?” he asked in a voice loud enough to carry. “Sit, before you collapse. ’Tis cle
ar your head is muddled if you believe me to have fallen from William’s favor. Even you will agree that did the king wish to rid his royal self of me, I would be keeping company with worms at present. I do not believe that is the case, is it?”
His congenial tone belied the true sentiment behind his last question, and he near laughed aloud when de Warrenne did not respond. ’Twas telling of the man’s ignorance that he did not realize he’d just been compared to a worm.
But Gundrada understood. “Come, husband,” she snapped. “Let us not abide where we are not wanted.” “You object to our sharing a drink?” Gavarnie asked innocently, convinced the entire discussion had been planned by the bitch. “Faith, ini’lady, you have grown shrewish to spoil your husband’s pleasure.”
The scrape of the bench told Gavarnie de Warrenne was seating himself again. “Either keep your tongue behind your teeth, wife, or take yourself off.”
Gavarnie struggled to keep a grin from his lips. How he would love to see Gundrada’s face at the moment. Steam must be curling about her head.
He leaned back in the thronelike seat and introduced the subject of the war games that would be held at Atherbrook. At his lead, conversation resumed in the hall, and he congratulated himself on his restraint.
From whence had come his facile tongue? He’d never realized that words could be as effective as swords. Yet the evidence swirled about him. The tense silence that had pervaded the hall moments ago had been replaced with a cordial comaraderie.
Still, he was careful to avoid topics that might cause discord between him and the Baron of Adurford. And all the while, he thought on de Warrenne’s comments concerning the king.
He needed time alone to sort through the maze of intrigue that was beginning to fester in his head.
EIGHT
GOLDE WRAPPED a drying cloth about her shoulders. Padding to the scarlet-covered great bed in Lord Gavarnie’s private chamber, she eyed her fresh clothing where Hesper had laid it out.
Strange that she should feel no discomfort here, where a dead woman had lain—if she were to believe her vision. Then again, she would not be surprised were Satan himself to walk up and tap her on the shoulder.
Indeed, after supping in the great hall, she would welcome a sight of the devil. Though the roast goose had been well prepared, it had been impossible to enjoy the fare where Golde had sat with the boys directly below the dais. Not with the rancorous stirrings that clamored in her belly.
’Twas bad enough that Nicolette thought Gavarnie had killed her mother. Worse was that the boys hated their sister, if in fact she was their sister. But all withered in comparison to the evil that emanated from De- lamaure’s two guests. “Lord and Lady de Warrenne,” Alory had informed her.
There was an air about the Baron of Adurford and his wife that affected her like rancid, maggot-infested meat. Not that they smelled. Indeed, Lady de Warrenne applied lavender with such abandon that Golde could smell it despite her distance from the woman.
Nay. ’Twas not an odor. Rather, it was a putrid feeling that made her flesh crawl. Lord de Warrenne’s small, close-set eyes and sweating, rotund countenance made her feel sick inside. His wife’s avaricious blue eyes and blood-colored lips did naught but add to the feeling.
Chilled despite the hot bath she had just taken, Golde reached for her drawers and pulled them over her hips, tying the drawstring.
From her vantage point below the dais, it had been clear that Sir Gavarnie had not enjoyed his guests’ company either. Yet the visiting lord appeared to savor the meal, as befitted his size, even though his wife, Lady Gundrada, had appeared sullen. She’d sat brooding while Gavarnie and her husband talked around and over her.
Golde frowned. ’Twas almost as if the baron and the woman had argued. A lover’s spat?
Anger rose in her breast. ’Od rot the whoremonger. While he dallied with sluts, his children . . .
Good lack! She was doing it again. How often must she remind herself of her vow? She would not involve herself in the baron or his children’s affairs. And that was that. The moment she was dressed, she would seek out the muckraking Sir Gavarnie and tell him she was taking immediate leave.
Pulling her chainse over her head, she inhaled its scent of cedar and dried heather, which still clung from her storage chest. The smells suddenly reminded her of Mimskin.
She sighed, glancing out the narrow window near the bed to the orange-hued sunset. At this very moment, Mimskin would be mixing pounded leaves of green marche with white of egg for old man Ansel’s gout. Even the stinging odor of verjuice that pervaded Mimskin’s cluttered cottage during the salve’s weekly preparation would be welcome.
Her throat grew constricted and she realized she was staring at her tunic. Compared to the shimmering, scarlet bedcover, her homespun green tunic appeared comfortably familiar. She plucked the drying cloth from the bed and rubbed her wet hair.
Mayhap she should set matters to rights concerning the baron’s children before leaving Skyenvic.
She paused in drying her hair. Aye. Just this once, she would do something of which Mimskin could be proud. She would see to the welfare of those less fortunate than herself.
Aye. His lordship should be made accountable for the misery that racked his children’s tender imaginings.
Abruptly the door to the chamber swung inward and she jerked the cloth to her chest.
“I cannot think how I will manage with that whoreson underfoot for an entire month,” the baron grumbled as he entered the room assisted by Spindleshanks.
Before Golde could notify them of her presence, the chamberlain spotted her. His eyes grew round and he quickly reversed direction, drawing Sir Gavarnie with him.
“What—” Caught unaware, the lord stumbled over his feet as he was pulled backward.
“Come away,” Sperville croaked, and steadied him.
The baron drew his sword, his eyes shifting in all directions as he backed toward the door. Golde raised a brow. Obviously, he believed himself endangered.
Sperville pulled the door shut and she grabbed her tunic. She’d just managed to settle the material down around her ankles when she heard the lord’s indignant bellow.
“The witchwife!”
She snatched her corded belt from the bed and tied it about her hips as the door burst open. Dark-faced, the baron stalked into the room while Sperville hustled to keep pace.
“To what purpose do you skulk about my private chambers, wench?” the lord demanded. He drew to a halt and scanned the room, as if he would locate her position.
She waited for Spindleshanks to reply. After all, ’twas the chamberlain who’d procured the use of the baron’s tub for her. When he did naught but level a disgusted look at her, she gave her attention back to the baron.
“Do you accuse me of thievery?”
His sightless gaze riveted on her, black and forbidding. “I can think of no other reason for your presence.”
“Beg pardon, mi’lord highness.” Her tone was syrupy. “Did you not suggest Sir Sperville might arrange a bath for me? And were he not so concerned with his own neck, he would tell you so.”
Spindleshanks scowled. “The maid speaks the truth, though I had no inkling she would require the better part of an evening to bathe.” He cast her a sour look before returning his attention to his master. “No harm has been done, and you have more immediate matters to attend to.”
Delamaure’s features grew impatient. “You are right. Hie yourself off, wench, and keep yourself away unless I summon your presence.”
Golde crossed her arms over her chest. “I will hie myself off, all right. But not before we have discussed your children’s behavior.”
For a moment it appeared he might strangle. “Chil— Behav—” He sucked air through clenched teeth and when next he spoke, ’twas with the succinctness of a scholar addressing a dull child. “As I told you earlier, I am much involved with more important affairs. I have not the time at present”—his tone grew angrier with eac
h word he spoke—“to worry over trifles which have no bearing on aught but worthless social graces.”
Golde clamped her teeth together and narrowed her eyes. Were all men consumed with such a sense of self-importance? Even Spindleshanks was eyeing her as if she were a bothersome gnat.
Spinning about, she marched to the tub and snatched up her shoes and dirty clothing. If his toadship couldn’t bestir himself on his children’s behalf, neither would she.
Still, she could not resist goading him with a parting remark. “’Tis no wonder your offspring are such maladjusts. They have been cursed with an officious, boot-licking halfwit for a father.”
As the baron’s jaw knotted, so did Spindleshanks’ face pale. Golde smiled tightly and headed for the door. But she got no farther than two steps before the lord clutched her arm. The shoes and clothes slipped from her grasp as he jerked her back in front of him.
Her breath caught at her body’s agitated response.
“’Tis you who is the maladjust, Mistress Dowd. Boys were not made to sit about stitching and simpering over the beauty of one another’s needlework. Though their mischief-making can become tedious, my sons have oft been a source of great pleasure to me.”
She now understood a cat’s craving to be stroked. If her flesh had its way, she would rub herself up and down the length of the lord’s body until he . . .
Plague take the bastard! What mean imaginings he inspired.
Horrified with the simile of cat to owner, she lashed out. “Alory scrambles to hide in corners while squalling like a babe to avoid his brother’s foul innuendos. Ronces curses Nicolette and takes great satisfaction in telling her you are not her father. And Nicolette relates how you chopped their mother into tiny pieces.”
She struggled to pull her arm from his grasp. “Maladjusted I may be, but my worst nightmares are naught compared to your children’s thick-comings.”