Love at First Sight

by Sandra Lee

  “Do not deny it. He has committed some grave offense. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Her bottom lip quivered and she bowed her head.

  “The worthless get of a snake. His blindness has stolen his wits. To think I agreed with your great-grandmother and sent you to the bastard.”

  “Neider you or Bimbskin could have known . . .

  Her words trailed off at the sheepish look that overcame Varin’s countenance. “Whad have you and Bimbskin been about?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Nothing terrible.” Varin held up his hands as if to show he had nothing to hide. “I’d heard of Gavarnie’s troubles and asked your great-grandmother if she could help. When she said Gavarnie was the answer to her prayers, I contacted Sperville.”

  Rage near strangled Golde. She’d been duped, and by her own Mimskin. Just wait until she returned—

  She narrowed her eyes and sniffed, her nose clearing a little. “Did Mimskin say whether or not Gavarnie had regained his sight?”

  Varin nodded. “Aye. Said that not only could he see, his life was completely changed by your presence.”

  So, Golde thought. ’Twas Mimskin who’d cured Gavarnie’s sight the night of the attack. She’d likely had to use her Mad Rye spell to heal Gavarnie from such a distance.

  She glared at Varin. “Gavarnie was right. You indeed risk losing your wits each time you empty your bowels.” Varin blinked, then his nostrils flared and his features hardened. “He said that, after all I have done on his behalf?”

  “He also believes you sent me to kill him.”

  “Wha—”

  “The king has decided to rid himself of Gavarnie. You are the king’s agent in the affair, and by your order, I was sent to accomplish the deed.”

  Once she began, she could not stop. She told Varin everything that had occurred during her stay at Skyenvic—with the exception of her wanton behavior and Gavarnie’s ridiculous notions concerning the Danes.

  “So I am returned to you by Sperville’s good hand,” she finished.

  Varin, his legs cramping, had long since taken a seat on the ground.

  “Delamaure should be hung, the lowly coward. You say he admitted to killing his wife?”

  “Admit it he may, but he did not do it.”

  She frowned the moment the words left her mouth. She’d felt his innocence in her bones that night when they’d been attacked. Yet she’d allowed self-doubt rule her intuition.

  “Who—” Varin began.

  Golde breathed deeply, then exhaled. “I do not know who murdered his wife. I only know it was not Gavarnie.”

  Varin gave her a look of strained patience. “Your forgiveness, but I fail to see your logic. Murderer or no, the man arouses public sentiment against you until you are nearly killed in an alehouse. I would not wish to be the bearer of that news to your great-grandmother. He abuses your good nature and treats you with naught but contempt. Yet you would defend him?”

  She raised a brow. “You know better than any that there is little good in my nature. Gavarnie would have to be blind, deaf, and dull of wit not to notice such. Though he may have drawn the wrong conclusion concerning the king, ’twas not because of faulty reasoning. Someone murdered his wife, and is now trying to kill him.”

  “Well, it is not the king,” Varin snapped. “Nor is it you or me.” He rose to stomp his feet, ducking when his head hit the tent top. “With the morn’s first light, you and I shall proceed to Skyenvic and inform the dunderwit of his errors.”

  “There is not enough gold in all the world to make me return to that wretched place,” she huffed. “Let us send the information by messenger and be done.”

  “Messenger!” Varin gave her a disbelieving look. “I will have the satisfaction of confronting the ill-mannered lout with his stupidity.”

  An image of Gavarnie and Varin locked in mortal combat struck Golde. “Nay!”

  Realizing she’d shrieked, she immediately forced a more moderate tone. “If aught befell you, I would never forgive myself.”

  Varin gaped. “Think you the bumptious clod could take me?” Again his head hit the tent and he ducked. “Why, I would have him beaten before he could draw his blade!”

  “Please! Gavarnie is the victim in all this, not you or me. ’Twas the murder of his wife that begat this entire sordid mess, and he has suffered the torments of hell.”

  “But he did not murder his wife?”

  It was so clear, no amount of self-doubt could sway her belief. “You forget, I have developed the true gift of sight. And verily am I right in this.”

  Varin stared at her a long moment. Then a sly look slid over his features. “You love him.”

  Golde gasped. “I most certainly do not!”

  A grin charged across his face. “So that is what all this moaning is about. You are in love. I never thought to see the day you would be humbled by such foolish sentiment.”

  Sitting up straighter, she drew the covers about her shoulders as if she were donning royal robes. “I tell you, I have no feelings for the oaf, other than pity.”

  Varin chortled gleefully as if she hadn’t said a word. “Poor Gavarnie. I’ll wager he hasn’t a clue. To think I was prepared to leap to your defense. ’Tis Gavarnie who needs aid, more than he can guess.”

  Golde’s lip curled and she narrowed an eye. “You are worse than a cackling old hen. I do not love the man, and if you are not careful, I will see to it that Roscelyn has a blade to hand at the birth of your next child.”

  Her threats did naught but make the imbecile laugh harder. At last she threw herself back upon the pallet and rolled to her side, giving the merry fool her back. Faith, all men were dungheads.

  Abruptly Varin’s laughter ceased, and she heard the flap ruffle as he exited the tent. “Come, Arnulf. Let us return to the hall.”

  “But—”

  “Golde needs some time alone for now.”

  Time alone? ’Twas the last thing she needed. Yet she could not bring herself to ask Varin and Amulf to remain. Both men doubtless looked forward to escaping her miserable company.

  Did Gavarnie feel the same? Was he glad that she’d taken leave of Skyenvic?

  Her breath caught. Would he attend the tourney at Atherbrook, now that he could see? Might she have an opportunity to speak with him?

  Why, oh why, had she allowed self-doubt to ruin her belief in Gavarnie’s innocence? Had she trusted her feelings, her swevyn, she would have been more understanding and patient, more kind and gentle with Gavarnie. Then mayhap he would have grown to like her, if only a little.

  But nay, she’d given her waspish tongue and sour disposition full rein. And she would suffer for it the remainder of her life.

  Mimskin had indeed taught her a lesson, more than she could ever know.

  IT SEEMED HALF THE NIGHT would pass before Amulf and Varin returned to settle themselves. And though Golde had not thought it possible, sleep she did; so heavily, that she did not realize what was happening until it was too late.

  One moment she was dreaming. Ye are a fool for leaving when ye could have him, Mimskin was saying. He loves ye.

  Before she could sigh wistfully, something was strapped over her mouth. By the time she managed to gather her slumber-dulled wits, she was already bound and gagged.

  TWENTY-THREE

  GAVARNIE SAT MOTIONLESS in the dragon-carved chair. After a sumptuous breakfast, most of the lords and ladies had hurried to their tents to prepare for the great exodus to Atherbrook.

  He, too, should be preparing to leave for the king’s castle. Though William did not expect him to participate in tomorrow’s tourney, Gavarnie would be expected to attend the huge feast that would be held this eve.

  But he could not seem to stir himself just yet. He stared at the distant oak doors, open to air the hall. No sunlight shone on the bailey beyond, for the day had dawned overcast and chill.

  What would King William think if the guardian of the Solent did not appear? Would he notice? Or w
ould he be too busy entertaining his newly favored barons?

  Mayhap, at Golde’s behest, Sir Varin de Brionne would be whispering in William’s ear the reason for his absence.

  No sooner was the thought complete than he blinked and sat up straighter in his chair. By the rood, but it appeared de Brionne was coming in through the doors— followed by his giant underlord, Arnulf. The few servants that remained in the hall froze midtask to ogle the ugly giant.

  What in the name of all that was holy? The two were shouldering a huge rolled tapestry. Gavarnie rose, clutching the hilt of his sword.

  “I will not have it,” de Brionne announced as they drew to a halt at the foot of the dais. “I send you a gift and you dare to return it.” He and Amulf deposited their burden on the dais.

  Gavarnie squinted at the frayed roll of faded yellow-gray material, uncaring whether or not the pair knew he could see. Faith, it stank worse than dead fish. “What trickery is this? I have never laid eyes on that flea-infested pile of offal.”

  De Brionne drew himself up as if he’d been slapped. “I will admit, ’tis a bit rough around the edges, but ’twas given with the best of intentions. A steady hand and thorough cleaning will do much to bring forth its worth.”

  Was the man serious? Gavarnie snorted. “The thing could be hung on a line and beat for a week, and it would yet be a useless heap of filth.”

  Gavarnie’s gaze shifted as the chamberlain came through the screens passage. “Sperville. Come and confirm for his daftness here that we never received this gift. And if we had, we would never have returned it. We would have used it to keep the crows from our fields.”

  The chamberlain hurried forward, gaping. “Sir Varin! And Sir Arnulf. Come and take your ease.” He gestured,

  indicating that the two should seat themselves upon the dais. “Wine,” he commanded the nearest servant.

  De Brionne shook his head and huffed, “We will not linger where we are not wanted. Faith, Arnulf. One would think we were lepers.”

  If Sir Varin had planned to empty the hall, he could have picked no better way to go about it. At his mention of the flesh-wasting disease, the servants quickly found tasks that would carry them from the room.

  As if he hadn’t noticed the peasants’ departure, de Brionne continued to address the chamberlain. “First, the king seats us as far from himself as possible while entertaining the likes of de Warrenne. Then we are insulted by his rudeship here. Come, Amulf. We will take ourselves off.”

  The two turned to leave, and Sperville shot Gavarnie a harried look that begged him to call them back. Gavarnie scowled. Judging from Sperville’s behavior, one would think the two were royalty. Still, his curiosity was piqued.

  “De Brionne,” he snapped. “Come and have some wine.”

  Varin halted, then turned to face him. “We would not wish to impose ourselves on your hospitality.” The satisfied note in his voice indicated the opposite sentiment. “But if you insist.”

  It seemed the man fair skipped up the dais steps, dragging Amulf behind him. Doubtless, some heinous scheme accounted for the lowly cur’s good cheer. Plopping on the bench beside Gavarnie’s chair, Varin inclined his head. “Are you going to stand there looking sour, or will you join us?”

  Gavarnie curled his lip and seated himself with great deliberation. “What is your purpose in coming here? And do not pretend ’twas to deliver that sorry rag.”

  De Brionne affected a coy look worthy of the cheapest baud. “We have come to gossip.”

  Gavarnie hid his interest behind a smirk. “Gossip?”

  Sperville hustled up the steps to deliver their wine, then positioned himself at Gavarnie’s elbow. Varin took a hearty gulp and smacked his lips. “’Tis quite good, Amulf. Do you not agree?”

  The giant’s cheeks bulged as he made a show of swishing the wine in his mouth. “Aye. It rivals the king’s. Mayhap our host could send—”

  “Get on with it, de Brionne,” Gavarnie interrupted.

  Abruptly Varin’s teasing mien vanished and his features grew harsh, along with his tone. “Were I you, baron, I would endeavor to remain civil. ’Twould be much easier to kill you than try to convince that thick head of yours what is right.”

  Gavarnie slammed his fist on the table and rose. “Then let us have done. ’Twas your plan all along.”

  “Mi’lord!” Sperville pleaded, reaching out. “At least listen.”

  Gavarnie shook the chamberlain’s hand from his shoulder. “Admit it, de Brionne. ’Twas you who perpetrated the ambush on me.”

  A muscle twitched in Varin’s stubbled jaw. “You are an even greater idiot than Golde has relayed.”

  “So,” he sneered, “the magpie has chattered.”

  “And more is the good fortune to you. Hear me out—then if ’tis yet your wish to draw swords, I will be most content to oblige your dullwittedness.”

  Abruptly Arnulf jabbed an elbow in Varin’s ribs, and a look of . . .

  Gavarnie narrowed his eyes. Was it apprehension that crossed de Brionne’s features? Aye. He looked like a small boy about to receive punishment for some mischief he’d caused.

  The man cleared his throat. “There are greater schemes afoot than even your twisted thinking can invent.” His voice was low and hurried. “I have it on good authority that there are those who would see themselves as rulers in William’s stead, which is why the king entertains the whoresons. Better to keep the vipers before him than be bitten from behind.”

  Gavarnie frowned. Had not de Warrenne and Gundrada shared William’s table at the king’s reception? Was it possible the two were . . .

  He had no time to finish the thought, for Varin was blathering on. “You risk much to hold de Warrenne in such contempt. He is no simpleton, and what he cannot think of, Gundrada will.”

  Arnulf began to fidget, and de Brionne drained his wine. The two rose hastily as a loud thump distracted Gavarnie. He glanced at Sperville to see if the chamberlain had bumped the table.

  “Oh, I near forgot,” de Brionne called.

  Gavarnie looked back, astonished to see that Varin and Arnulf had already reached the dais steps and were rapidly descending.

  Varin spoke over his shoulder as he and the giant hurried toward the doors. “If you persist with your absurd imaginings concerning my supposed plan to kill you, William says he will be happy to rid you of the dust that has collected between your ears. He wishes you to know that ’twas not he who sent the messages warning of betrayal. And he sends his congratulations on the return of your sight.”

  White-hot rage flashed through Gavarnie, and he shot to his feet. “You went to the king!”

  “’Twas necessary. I would never have returned such a lovely gift without first consulting the king. And I have it from William’s mouth that if he truly believed you guilty of Isabelle’s murder, he would never have pardoned you. He suggests you concentrate your efforts on recalling the events of that eve, rather than wasting your time on plots that do not exist.”

  Gavarnie gripped the hilt of his sword, prepared to give chase, when Sperville grabbed his arm.

  “Leave go!” Gavarnie snarled. “De Brionne has breathed his last.”

  “Shh!” the chamberlain hissed. Clutching Gavarnie’s arm more tightly, he inclined his head at the tapestry, his eyes round with apprehension.

  The lump of material jumped, and Gavarnie took an involuntary backward step.

  “Unholy son of a goat!” he roared at de Brionne. “What demons have you brought into my house?”

  The man turned, but he did not slow his retreat. Instead, the bastard scurried backward, waving and grinning. “No need to the thank me. Your face says all. ’Til next we—”

  His words were cut off as Arnulf jerked him through the doors.

  “Stop them,” Gavarnie ordered the chamberlain.

  Sperville started forward, then halted as the tapestry wiggled.

  Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie swore. Had de Brionne wrapped some huge serpent within the f
olds of material? He waited until it stilled, then sidled toward it. Drawing his blade, he took a deep breath, prepared to stab the thing.

  Nay! a voice screeched.

  Gavarnie froze. The same voice from the alehouse, the same voice from the lane during the attack.

  He spun about, his sword raised. “Who is speaking?” he demanded, surveying the area.

  Sperville’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You are hearing voices?”

  “Did you not?”

  The chamberlain’s face paled as he shook his head.

  Gavarnie clamped his teeth together against a shiver. ’Od rot. He was not mad. Someone had screamed at him. And though it was much higher in pitch, it was the same voice he’d heard when . . .

  The shiver finally rushed up his back to claim his body.

  On both occasions when he’d heard the voice, Golde had been endangered. Indeed, the second occasion had heralded the return of his sight.

  He narrowed his eyes in thought. What had Sperville said about Golde’s great-grandmother? That she had promised to heal his blindness? Was it possible that—

  He blinked and jerked his gaze back to the tapestry.

  Nay. ’Twas absurd to imagine that some old crone had cured him from afar. ’Twas even more fantastic that she would be aware of events she was not present to witness.

  Still, he could not bring himself to stab the tapestry. Instead, he raised his foot, then shoved the thing with all his might. It flew off the dais, landing with a thud on the rush-strewn floor. To his horror, the coarse material began to flop about and unravel.

  He should have killed it before kicking it from the dais. He braced his legs and raised his blade, ready to leap on the thing once it was free.

  With a writhing flourish, the creature at last burst forth.

  Gavarnie clamped his teeth together lest his jaw fall from his face to the floor. Joy consumed him, so fierce it near buckled his knees.

  “Mistress,” Sperville whispered.

  Just as quickly, fear coursed through Gavarnie’s blood. He could have killed Golde! Shuddering, he staunched the unbearable flow of his thoughts.