by Anne Stuart
He could see the party approaching in the distance, moving slowly enough. His grandfather had chosen wisely when he picked the site for Fortham Castle—it gave a commanding view of the countryside approaches to the castle, and the back abutted the churning sea. No one could sneak up on the household without at least half the garrison being made aware. These were relatively peaceful times, but one could never take such things for granted.
He squinted down at the approaching party—some twenty strong on horseback, plus a horse-drawn litter that could only contain his new stepdaughter. Thinking about her brought him back to the distracting thought of his lady wife, another thorn in his side.
He must have been half mad to contract such a marriage. Isabeau was penniless, past her youth, and barren—her only child to survive infancy was about to arrive at his doorstep. Marriage to her brought him nothing, not even the king’s grace, and he could have lived well without it. His people wondered at his accepting such a match, but they didn’t know the half of it. It had been a match of his own making.
He’d first seen Isabeau some fifteen years ago, and he’d never forgotten her. Her young daughter had been by her side, her belly was swollen with one of her many fruitless pregnancies. She was pale and frightened-looking, and he’d taken one look into her wide brown eyes and fallen . . .
He didn’t care to think about what he’d tumbled into. Infatuation. Lust. One of his odd fits of compassion. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words, and yet he’d dreamed about her for weeks afterwards. When he married his father’s choice for him, he’d sometimes seen Isabeau in his little wife’s pale face.
She’d died after less than a year of marriage, carried off by an ague. He had been a widower since, ignoring his duty for the last ten years, content to live in this household of men, content with the easy pleasure offered by the serving women.
But all that had changed when he’d heard that Isabeau of Peckham was now a widow.
She could have grown old before her time, or sadly fat, or querulous. It didn’t matter. He still dreamed of her. Castle Fortham needed a mistress; he needed a wife. He had married for the sake of an heir, for the sake of his duty, and the match had ended in early death, with no heir.
This time he would choose for himself.
He was a strong, fearless man, capable of facing an army without flinching, implacable in combat, fierce in battle, totally without hesitation when it came to danger. Courage was synonymous with Hugh of Fortham’s name.
But the thought of finally speaking with Isabeau of Peckham terrified him.
He’d been on these very battlements, watching for her arrival, in a fever of anticipation, not three months earlier. He’d planned how he would treat her with loving concern, tender forbearance for her age and infirmity. He expected a semi-invalid, sweet and long-suffering and infinitely gentle.
He was struck speechless when he first saw her, and he had rarely managed to get words past his mouth in the ensuing occasions when they came together.
She looked younger than she had fifteen years ago; he knew her to be a few years past thirty. Only her first pregnancy had yielded a living offspring, and Julianna was already widowed herself, which made Isabeau five years younger than himself. He hadn’t known she would still be so beautiful.
Her face was a perfect oval beneath her veil of golden hair; her eyes were wise and knowing, staring up at him with mingled doubt and hope. She moved with perfect grace, her small, delicate body nicely rounded now that she was no longer bloated with the ravages of a fruitless pregnancy. And her voice, which had haunted him for years, greeted him with a soft, musical warmth as she made her curtsey to him, and he’d suddenly realized how very big a fool he’d been.
She was the epitome of a young man’s fancies. But he was no longer a young man, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by boyish dreams.
He’d barely spoken two words to her in the weeks since she’d come to his home. He knew she had no memory of their previous meeting—it would have meant nothing to her, and he made no mention of it. By right he could have taken her into his bed, but he’d been curiously loath to do so, afraid that once the bond was sealed, there’d be no turning back. He’d honestly mourned his pale first wife. He didn’t think he could bear losing the woman of his dreams.
“My lord . . . ,” Gilbert’s hesitant voice broke through his abstraction.
He glanced down at him. He was already quite a favorite with the ladies, though a trifle young for dalliance. He would be a good fighter as well, Hugh thought, though he might rely on brain more than brawn, which could be uncomfortably close to trickery.
“I know, lad,” he said wearily. “We should go down and greet the new members of the household and make welcome the king’s messenger. Sir Richard is a good man and an old friend, though I doubt I’ll be pleased with whatever word he brings.”
“The king sent me to you, my lord,” Gilbert said anxiously. “Have I somehow displeased you?”
Hugh clapped a reassuring hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad. And I’m sure whatever Sir Richard has brought us will be equally welcome.”
He was wrong, of course. Lady Isabeau was already waiting in the courtyard, and despite her calm expression he could sense the anxiety in her heart. He wanted to put his arm around her slender figure, draw her against him with wordless encouragement, but he made no move, merely nodding in a silent greeting.
She seemed barely aware of his presence, which served him well, and he stood beside her, waiting to greet his guests, as Sir Richard dismounted and moved stiffly toward his host.
“I rejoice to see you, Sir Richard. It’s been too many years.”
They’d known each other long and well, and there was a trace of mischief in Sir Richard’s eyes as he clasped Hugh’s arm. “I doubt you’ll be rejoicing long, friend, once you see what I’ve brought you,” he muttered in an undertone. He bowed to Isabeau. “My lady,” he murmured, kissing her hand in the Norman fashion.
But Isabeau could barely summon the properly polite response. “You’ve brought my daughter?” she asked eagerly. “She’s well?”
“She is that,” Richard replied, but Isabeau had already moved past him to the litter, her small body rigid with tension as the curtains parted and a young woman dismounted.
She stood taller than her mother, her long hair pulled back from her face in two thick plaits, her plain clothes fitting loosely on her angular body. She was far from the beauty her mother was, Hugh thought absently, but pretty enough for all that.
She was looking at her mother, making no move to greet her, and Isabeau was similarly paralyzed, staring at the child she’d borne and lost. Hugh was a simple man and impatient. He moved to Isabeau’s side, took her frozen hand in his, and smiled at Julianna. “Welcome to Castle Fortham, daughter,” he said.
He’d managed to startle her. She withdrew her gaze from her mother’s pale face to stare up at him.
“Daughter?” she echoed dazedly.
“Your mother will be my wife. Which makes you my daughter,” Hugh said in a booming voice, wishing he didn’t feel so huge and noisy next to the delicate little creature he’d chosen so foolishly.
But for once Isabeau looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Welcome, Julianna,” she said softly. “I’ve missed you.”
A brief, almost imperceptible look swept over Julianna’s face, and then it was gone. She curtseyed to her mother, the very picture of polite, daughterly duty. And she said absolutely nothing.
All right, Hugh thought, hiding his grimace. So he’d be dealing with two emotional females in his household. He’d dealt with worse.
“Woe betide the ungrateful child!” a new voice intoned, and Hugh’s mood sank even lower as he turned to face the approaching priest. The abbot of Saint Hugelina’s had come to oversee his nuptials and to lend gui
dance to the spiritual well-being of his huge household, another unwelcome appointment of the king. One look at the man’s pale, burning eyes and thin, disapproving mouth, and all Hugh could think of was the Inquisition.
“A thousand pardons for not greeting you properly, Father Paulus,” Hugh said quickly. “We welcome you to Fortham Castle.”
“Your household is in sore need of spiritual guidance,” the abbot intoned in a chilling voice. “I only pray that I’m not too late.”
Things were going from bad to worse, Hugh thought grimly. Isabeau and her daughter were still looking at each other warily, the new priest was threatening to turn his peaceful life on end, and Sir Richard was surveying the entire proceedings with unholy amusement. Only Gilbert seemed dutifully somber.
Hugh sighed. “Let us go in and prepare for the feast,” he said in a spuriously cheerful voice. “We have a wedding to celebrate, as well as a family reunited.”
There was no missing the grimace on Julianna’s face. If anything, the abbot’s pale face seemed even more threatening, and Isabeau looked as miserable as he’d ever seen her. Sir Richard sidled up to him, a mischievous expression on his face. “One more surprise, Hugh,” he said under his breath. “Your wedding present from the king.”
Hugh stared at him. “Something tells me I’m not going to be very happy about this one.”
“It will amuse your wife and new daughter,” Sir Richard said with a chuckle.
Hugh glanced back at the stiff-backed women. “They don’t appear to be easily amused,” he muttered.
And then he heard it. The annoying clatter of bells, their light, tinkling sound a profound irritant on the brisk afternoon air. He saw the foot protrude from the curtained litter, the brightly colored hose, the mismatched shoes, and a frisson of pure horror sped down his backbone. “Don’t tell me . . .” he begged.
“You’ve guessed it,” Sir Richard said gleefully. “You’ve got possession of the king’s fool until Christmastide, when King Henry will come to fetch him and bless your marriage.”
“Holy Christ,” Hugh muttered in despair. The gimlet-eyed priest whirled around at his soft curse, as if he could even read his mind, and Hugh stirred himself. “Holy Christ,” he said more loudly, “welcome these sojourners to our humble household.”
“Amen,” Gilbert said piously.
“Amen,” Richard said, his voice still rich with amusement
“Amen.” The fool emerged from the litter, bounding onto the hard ground of the courtyard with effortless grace, and Hugh’s blood ran cold. He was tall for a fool, loose-limbed, with shaggy, golden hair and a mobile face. His clothes were absurd, torn and stained and mismatched, and the tiny silver bells attached to his sleeve would soon drive Hugh to madness.
He picked Hugh out with unerring instinct. “Your majesty!” he said grandly. “Lord of all you survey, king of the west country, master of magnificence—”
“Earl of Fortham,” Hugh corrected him grimly.
“I am your humble servant,” said the fool, and before the astonished eyes of the assembled household, he quickly curled into a ball and did a series of somersaults till he landed, upright, at Hugh’s feet.
Lady Julianna let out a faint cry of protest, one the fool was well aware of. The priest looked disturbed as well, but the fool simply looked at Hugh, equal to equal, and grinned. “Master Nicholas Strangefellow, at your service, my lord. Come to amuse and to charm, to lighten your dark days and darken your sunny ones.”
“I hate clowns,” Hugh muttered.
Nicholas’s grin widened still further. “A challenge. And I’m never one to shy away from a challenge.
“To charm a lord or please a maid
Is all the duty I have need
To see him laugh, or see her laid
Is just reward for every deed.”
There was no missing the abbot’s hiss of shocked disapproval, nor Richard’s snort of amusement. “I hate rhymes as well,” Hugh said grimly. “Even bawdy ones.”
“And I’d best behave myself in a household of women,” Nicholas said.
“It’s not a household of women,” Hugh corrected him. “We are mainly men and soldiers.”
“Ah, but what you lack in quantity you make up for in quality. I’d be hard put to choose between the mother and the daughter.”
“You don’t need to choose either, fool!” Richard snapped. “You can chain him in his room if you want, Hugh. The king may have sent him, but there’s no reason you have to put up with his presence.”
“I doubt Henry would be pleased if I locked up his favorite toy,” Hugh said slowly, staring at the fool. He was like and yet unlike his kind. He was tall and wiry, and his mobile face might be called handsome by the women. He could ask his wife, if he ever summoned the nerve to talk to her. There was clear, shining intelligence in the creature’s strange golden eyes, just as there was trickery and a faint glimpse of wildness. This fool of King Henry’s was no ordinary jester, and Hugh didn’t know whether to be relieved or disturbed.
“We have a wedding to celebrate,” he continued in a firm voice. “And a household in need of entertainment. See to your guest, my lady, and by tonight we’ll be properly bedded.” He hadn’t meant to sound so crude. Isabeau blushed, turning her face away, and he could see a faint trembling in the hand that she placed on her daughter’s stiff arm. So the thought of bedding him frightened her, did it? He was a big, blustering fool, damn it.
“I will hear your confession, my son,” Father Paulus announced. “And that of your repentant household. There’ll be no wedding celebrated until you are cleansed of your sins, both great and small.”
“Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone,” Nicholas said sweetly. “On the other hand, I will eschew confession. After all, I have no sin—I’m only an innocent fool.”
The abbot snarled. Sir Richard shook his head in disbelief. And Lady Julianna of Moncrieff, his wife’s long-lost daughter, looked at the fool for a long, thoughtful moment, and laughed.
Chapter Five
THE ROOM ALLOTTED for the king’s fool was unexpectedly spacious, Nicholas thought, moving gingerly once the door was closed and locked behind him. It was far removed from the family’s quarters, near the base of one of the five towers that marked the garrison, and as far as he could tell, only dry stores were kept beneath him and nothing at all above him. Clearly Lady Isabeau kept her new home in good order—they’d had no warning that he was coming and would require at least decent accommodations.
He didn’t bother to question his good fortune in having a spacious room and bed to himself—he had his own ways of securing such luxuries, mainly by making his presence so annoying that people would do anything to get rid of him, but this time he didn’t have to exert himself.
Which was a good thing, considering the pain he was in. He headed straight for the bed, collapsing facedown on the sagging mattress, stifling a groan.
The triple somersault had finished the work that the abbot’s choice hand had started. He expected his back was bleeding, and if he didn’t manage to peel his torn shirt off, it would end up sticking to the wounds, making the entire healing process even more painful. He didn’t care. Sooner or later Bogo would find his way to his master’s room, bringing salve and clean linen and food. In the meantime he would wait.
He could ignore pain—it was something he’d learned quite young, and he considered it only one of his considerable talents. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fresh linen.
He had until tomorrow to recover, and he’d be damned before he’d give Father Paulus the pleasure of seeing his pain. He had been summarily dismissed, and his presence wouldn’t be required until the wedding festivities the next day, leaving him more than enough time to recoup his strength. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see him flinch. He couldn’t af
ford to be vulnerable—not in his precarious situation.
He closed his eyes. The ride in the litter had been endless, and even the presence of Lady Julianna had been little distraction. It was all he could do to ignore the pain—he’d had no reserves left to tease the deliciously shy widow.
It was already growing dark. He was hungry, but he was in too much pain to move. Where the hell was Bogo when he needed him?
He lost track of time—it may have been hours, it may have been less—when he heard someone at the door. They’d locked him in, he realized, not moving. He supposed he could thank Sir Richard and kindly Father Paulus for that signal honor. The opportunities for revenge were plentiful to a man with imagination, and Nicholas had far more than his share. He listened to the sound at the door without moving, dreaming of ways to torment his enemies.
“Master Nicholas?” It was Bogo, of course, sounding frustrated. “They’ve locked you in.”
“I know that,” he said in a resigned tone. “Find Lady Isabeau and see if she’ll give you a key.”
“Are you hurting?”
Nicholas’s reply was succinct and blasphemous. Bogo’s heartless laugh didn’t improve his temper. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and scuttled off.
Nicholas settled in to wait, once more cursing the abbot and his heavy hand. He had complete faith in Bogo—his servant could manage anything with subtlety and speed. He’d know better than to let anyone realize Nicholas had been injured, though exercising caution might make the whole procedure take longer. He was willing to endure. He’d had experience at it.
In the end, the room was almost pitch dark when he heard the clanging of keys. He didn’t bother to move from his prone position—his back was a fiery mass of pain, and he had no reason to pretend with Bogo, a man who knew all, or at least most, of his secrets.
“It’s about time,” he muttered into the bed linen as a pool of candlelight filled the room. “Couldn’t come up with a reasonable lie in a timelier manner? I’m about to puke from pain. I trust you’ve brought me some ale as well?”