by Karen Ranney
A sound, no louder than a brush of wind, stilled his movement. He breathed silently, each sense alert to danger. Too many years had been given up to survival not to be alert. Even at Langlinais.
He should have moved, left the room, but he did not. He wondered, later, if he had deliberately ignored the warning in order to see her again.
She entered the room in a rush, but abruptly halted at the sight of him.
The moment was ripe for apology, for telling her that he had not meant to startle her, or to satisfy his curiosity so overtly. But his words were muffled by his own sense of wonderment. He had not imagined her, then, nor made of her something she was not. Too tall to be considered delicate, too brightly colored to be called a lady fair. Still, she reminded him of spring. Or perhaps something more elemental. Her hair was piled in braids atop her head. He wanted to see it tumbled to her shoulders, a mass of untamed, ebony curls.
“Why were you in the forest?” The question slipped from his lips before he knew it was there, yet curiosity was the safest of all the feelings he had at this moment.
Her eyes opened wider, as if she was surprised by his knowledge of her movements. Both her hands moved to grip the handle of the basket tight, as if guarding the slab of lichen inside.
“I was harvesting oak galls,” she said. Her voice echoed with a soft quaver. Shy? Or terrified? More like the latter. He had not become less frightening with a second glimpse.
“And what is an oak gall?”
She glanced up at him. “The egg of a gall wasp. Laid in the bark of an oak tree. The gall forms around the egg.”
“For what purpose do you want such things?”
She looked down at the basket. “To make ink.” She extracted one from beneath the lichen. It looked like a small ball of bark with a protrusion on one end. That was not what fascinated him. It was the visible tremor of her fingers. She was frightened, even now.
“What do you do once you have them?”
“Boil them. Then add a quantity of wine, and just the right amount of rust.”
“And this ink is stable? It does not change color?”
“Only at first, my lord. But once on the page it remains stable.” She did not raise her head as she spoke, but seemed to address the basket.
He turned to leave. It was a kindness he did her. Once, women had smiled at him, had coaxed him into their beds and occasionally into their hearts. He had taken for granted the ease with which he’d enjoyed the carnal sports, the utter delight he’d taken in mitigating his occasional loneliness in the soft willing flesh of a compliant woman. He would never have it again. Memory would have to serve. Or like now, conjecture.
“Have I done something to displease you, my lord?”
He turned. She was looking at him, her green eyes wide and bright.
“Are we to behave as strangers? If we cannot be man and wife, can’t we at least be friends?”
“Friends?” he asked.
She took one step toward him, so slowly and hesitantly that he had a chance to move away before she came closer. He did so, even as he damned the necessity of it. Her flush told him she’d noticed the gesture.
“If nothing else, my lord, can we not converse from time to time?” Her words stumbled to a halt. She looked down at the floor.
“You wish to talk with me?” The idea was so novel that he wanted to tip her chin up and see her face again, read the truth of her request in her eyes.
Her nod was a sharp little acknowledgment.
“Is there no one you’ve found to be your friend at Langlinais?”
“People cease speaking when I enter the great hall,” she said. “Or else they wish to serve me.”
“This displeases you?”
“I do not feel comfortable with such constant subservience, my lord.”
“Yet you show the same to me.” She glanced up at him, surprised. “My name is Sebastian.”
Silence, while she stood there, mute. He was too patient. He should have left the room, but instead, he questioned her further.
“Are you not afraid of me, Juliana?” Unbidden, his curiosity bobbed free again.
She straightened, but he was aware that her grip upon the basket was even tighter, so punishing he could see the whiteness of her knuckles.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I am.”
“And yet you would converse with me.”
“It is just that I am not used to such solitude.” She moved, then, a small step. Not toward him, but away.
“Do you not converse with Grazide?”
“Rather she talks at me, my lord—Sebastian,” she said, correcting herself quickly. She looked up then. It was the first time he’d seen a ghost of a smile on her lips. It made her beautiful.
Unexpected amusement quirked his lips. “She has not changed much, then, from the spirited girl I remember,” he mused aloud. “If such a thing were to happen, what would we discuss?” He directed the question to her.
Her expression was too open, too vulnerable. He wanted to tell her that the question did not warrant such a look of gratitude. He had not yet decided if making a companion of her would be merely kind or absurdly foolish.
“Are there acceptable topics I should proffer?”
“The weather,” he said, without a pause. “And politics, because I enjoy a good argument. Aristotle’s Logic and Metaphysics. Averroes and Maimonides, Charlemagne, the shocking Eleanor of Aquitaine, or even Saladin.”
“I’ve no knowledge of most of those names. Will you tell me about them? All and everything?” She looked down at the floor again. “If we did talk together, that is.”
Why was she so timid? What had changed the daring child into the shy woman? A question he should not have asked himself, because it softened his intent, banished his reserve, made him curious in a way that was unwise.
“I will consider it, Juliana,” he said, the words pried from him by conscience. In truth, it would be wiser if he did not. He left the room, wondering if her gaze followed him.
Chapter 7
He dreamed of her that night.
The vision and the truth were so tangled in his mind that he could not easily discern what was real and what was only his secret wish. But she visited him in the moments before dawn, a woman of intent and gentleness. He did not, even in his sleep, think to send her away.
She sat on the edge of his bed, her hand cool against his brow. Such a delicate hand, her fingers long and tipped with softly rounded nails. There were ink stains upon her fingers, and she looked away when he commented upon it, smiling. He reached up and allowed his hand to cup her cheek, turn her head back so that her gaze met his. Even in the darkness, he could see the soft flush that enveloped her cheeks, the faint smile tipping her lips.
“Do not be embarrassed. Will you begrudge me my scars?”
She shook her head, then reached over to place her hand upon his chest as if she claimed him as a prize. A possessive gesture, one that he acceded to when he placed his own hand upon hers, pressing down on his skin as if to emblazon her touch, her mark, on him.
In the way of dreams, he could wish and it was made true. Her kiss was that of a woman who yearned to learn her mate, yet had the touch of an innocent still. Her tongue traced the line of his lips, her mouth opened to invite his gentle assault. Her soft murmur enchanted him, led him into the darkness of her kiss. A heady potion, her joy and innocence. An even more addictive brew, her skill and gentle teasing.
The night made her a delicate sketch of charcoal on white, snow and shadow, only faintly graced with a pale rose of cheek and nipples and lips. Even her eyes were dark, shining with emotion.
She knelt beside him, and pushed the sheet off his body. Her fingers traced his battle scars in gentle remonstrance and tender anointing.
The light that surrounded her seemed crafted of a moonbeam. A gentle hue, it seemed designed for Juliana. His night sprite. She bent and kissed his chest, and he shuddered, his flesh never before so sweetly caressed.
> She drew her hand down his legs, lingered upon his knees. Then, suddenly she was kneeling between his outstretched legs, her hands running from knee to thigh in a teasing, delicious taunt. For nearly two years he’d felt such hunger to be touched, as if his very skin starved for it. She seemed to know it, pressing her palms up in long strokes, trailing the backs of her hands down as if to acquaint herself with every ridge, every indentation, every muscle of his body. Both of her hands pressed down upon his stomach, then fingers played as they danced lower. He arched upward, yearning for the tender stroke of her fingers in a way he could never articulate.
“Sebastian.” Her mouth uttered his name. He wished she would say it over and over, she mouthed it so beautifully. She made of his name something heroic, a pledge of honor. His dream request was granted and she bent closer to him, the ebony waterfall of her hair brushing over his face in a touch as soft as a spider’s web, his name on her lips invoking passion.
He was adrift in the cloud of her, sweetly pained and nearly sobbing with gladness. She inhaled his breath and gave him back hers in exchange. Her own sigh echoed his, yet she was him and he was her in that way of dreams.
She was white moon and dark shadow, a creature of the night come to tempt him to forbidden joy. Even her scent acted upon his need, his senses so attuned to her it was almost pain. Whereas he was forbidden and restricted and denied in his waking state, he was allowed and encouraged in this blessed reverie.
His hands, talented with a sword, with the instruments of war, were now imbued with the effortless grace of a lover. His fingers trailed across her skin, each separate and distinct touch causing a shiver in their wake. She was over him now, her head arched back as he cupped a breast in his hand, his thumb brushing its peak. He beckoned her closer and she held herself over him, no longer virgin as much as temptress. The taste of her nipple in his mouth, hot flesh against his tongue was too real to be crafted from mist and need.
She was suddenly around him, over him, enveloping him, the hot passion of her almost as consuming as the words she whispered in his ear, the sound of their names, a chant of desire and repletion in one breath.
His heart beat so loud and so strong it seemed to create a hollow in his stomach. His blood raced and his mind lay dormant. He knew the taste of her. The scent of her was in his nostrils, her soft cries rang in his ears. He became her in that instant, or perhaps it was simply the way of dreams, especially those devoutly wished and forever lost.
Then, it was over. It ended not with satiation, or even physical release. She simply disappeared. One moment she touched him, giving life to all those unvoiced wishes and secret thoughts. The next she was gone, and he awakened abruptly to a room silent in the hours before dawn. Yet he could still hear her voice, that sweet whisper when she spoke his name. It seemed to spiral down into nothingness, a whispered entreaty. Or was that his own cry? In his chest was an odd feeling almost like emptiness.
He sat on the edge of his bed, certain that sleep would not come again this night.
He walked to the table that served as his desk, sat and studied the accounts he kept so diligently in the light of the oil lamp. It was always kept burning, protection against moments such as these when night was too cloying and the walls too close.
Langlinais boasted two stewards. Jerard worked to ensure his orders were followed, Sebastian arranged for the purchase of supplies and calculated the profits gleaned from all his holdings. He did so first to keep himself occupied. Most men hunted, or spent their time in tourneys or as guests at various demesne. But he could no longer be seen among people. His only safety was at Langlinais. The castle was not open to the casual guest either, and while willing to lend the traveler a place in the stable, no stranger was allowed within the great hall. But it was not to stave off his boredom that he knew everything about Langlinais, every coin spent or expended, every profit made. It was because he needed to know, in finite detail, the state of the Langlinais finances, the better to attempt to save his home.
His midnight perusal of the figures did not alter the sum. Even with a good harvest, he would have to petition for more time to repay the balance of his ransom. It might well be a decision that proved unwise. The Templars did not grant extensions without punishing interest. Yet, he wrote the letter, trapped within his responsibility as aptly as he was his body.
The night teetered along on thin legs. At times like these, when he could not sleep, he normally went to stand atop the east tower, carrying a torch to signal that all was well to the men-at-arms in the bailey and aligned on the walls below. They had become accustomed to his shadow, as he sat there for hours, his view of the countryside steeped in darkness.
But instead of going to the tower, he found himself at the door of Juliana’s chamber. It was too close, only across the hallway. And at the end of the corridor, a door that led to the chapel. How convenient, to have his soul’s nesting place so quick at hand. He should be there, not here.
If he opened the door and went inside, it would be an intrusion as invasive as the visit to the oriel. Yet, he pushed open her door, wondering as he did so if Grazide slept within the chamber. He stood on the threshold, listening, his senses attuned to darkness as if he were a creature of night. There was only the soft sounds of breathing, a hand sliding across a sheet in sleep. But Grazide was not there.
The room was shaded blue from a cloud-covered moon and smelled of roses.
Sebastian stood at the end of the bed, his gaze upon Juliana.
Her hair was a black stain across her pillow. She was curled on her side. A fist rested against her lips, her other hand splayed open upon the sheet. As he watched, her breath seemed to hitch and release, as if she gasped in her sleep.
He’d had no choice but to summon her. He had been excused the delay in claiming his bride by the simple fact he’d been on crusade, and had subsequently been captured and imprisoned. But after he’d returned home to Langlinais, it would have incited suspicion not to have sent for her. As it was, almost a year had elapsed before he’d done so.
She had no idea how vital her role as his wife was, how important her decision to stay had been to him.
She had smiled. In the oriel. A small, sad smile such as one who grieved might wear. That smile had twisted something inside him, something buried and long dead. Or at least he had thought. Her smile, merely an upturn of lips, had sparked it to life again. Urged it to fruition, to completion.
Longing.
They should not have released her from the convent, not an innocent such as she. She nearly had her newborn down upon her cheeks, so naive, so tenderly young she was. It hurt to witness such purity, to be in the same room with it.
If he could pay the remainder of his ransom, then Langlinais would safely be in her hands. One day in the future he would simply remove himself from the world. Juliana’s presence would be his safeguard. While they could take Langlinais from him, they could not wrest it from her.
He had given no thought to the woman he would use as his pawn. Yet, now he regretted that he had not considered her. Juliana was too young to be used in this game, too innocent to mingle with players who had long since lost their naïveté and their kindness.
She had trembled before him. Yet, she had stood her ground. An intriguing woman. In another time. Or another place. Perhaps only in his dreams, where his passion was given full rein.
What manner of woman makes ink at dawn? Who looks eager when speaking of rust and wine? Who walked with a jaunty step and bore ink stains upon her fingers. Who smelled of roses and asked if he was Death in a voice that quivered. Who touched him in his mind in his sleeping hours.
He wished he had never brought her here.
Juliana waited until the door closed again and only then did she breathe deeply. She’d slept heavily all her life, but had done so among the company of other girls. Night was not so much a quiet time as it was one of muted sounds. Sister Etherida’s snores, the dreamy murmurs of a sleeper, the movement of a body upon a m
attress stuffed with hay, a sound of disgust as an old, flat pillow mimicking a brick in softness was pounded into shape.
Nights at Langlinais were filled with silence, as if the great hall and the family chambers were muted beneath a soundless cloud. For this reason, she stirred often and rested less well.
She had known it was him immediately. He did not blend into the shadows as much as he commanded them. Was it just the effect of the monk’s robe he wore, or was he truly as large as he appeared?
Her heart still beat wildly, a rhythmic boom no less loud than the sweep of ocean to the shore. She’d seen it on the journey to the convent so many years before, had been transfixed with the crash of waves upon the rocks, and the thundering sound of the power of the sea. Now, her heart sounded much the same.
She could not remember a time in which she’d been so afraid and curious and stirred by pity all at one time. The fear was easy to understand. She was afraid of the circumstance. The curiosity, too. Why had he decreed their marriage to be so strange? The pity she felt because he was so obviously set apart from others. But why?
He had stood silent, a figure shrouded in a black monk’s robe. His only ornament a knotted rope. Had he even been real, or just some nightmare from which she had awakened?
When she had first seen him, she’d truly thought him Death, had half expected him to extend a bony finger through the sleeve of his robe and accuse her of all manner of transgressions, most of which she’d no doubt committed. She was convent-bred but too flawed to be as holy as the sisters who’d taught her.
A hint of his face had appeared in the opening of his cowl. Not a spectre, after all, but a man. A face garbed in graduations of color, from black to the barest gray. A strong nose, a firm mouth, a chin that looked to be too stubborn. She could well imagine that face covered with a helm, his body garbed not with a monk’s habit, but in armor and tabard, a sword raised high.