by Anne Stuart
She glanced up at the tarnished cup. “Why? You were the one who said it might answer all my prayers. If it could rid me of you, then any danger would be well worth it.”
Nicholas shrugged. “Some say the poison her husband used on her still lingers. That the cup was plain, and once she drank, the rest of the poison turned into jewels to poison the hands of those greedy enough to grasp it.”
“You expect me to believe a holy relic would kill?” she said tartly.
“Would you care to try? You couldn’t quite reach on that stool. I could lift you up . . .”
“Don’t come near me.”
“The lady wounds me, deep and wide
My only thought to please her
She’ll come again at eventide
Lest her cold heart freeze her.”
“Not your best effort, Master Nicholas,” she said, unmoved.
“Her breasts are small but neatly made
I long to touch their beauty
The nipples ripe like pebbled tripe
My tongue should do its duty.”
“Pebbled tripe?” Julianna echoed in disbelief, ignoring the blush that enflamed her face. “Surely the king’s fool can do better than that.”
“I’m very fond of tripe,” he said, moving closer.
“I’m not.” She backed away from him.
“You’re not the one who’s going to kiss them.”
“Kiss what?”
“Your nipples.”
“This is a holy place!” she said, scandalized.
“Saint Hugelina was a bawdy wench. She wouldn’t mind. Stop running away from me, and let me loosen your gown . . .”
Odd, but in this small, warm room her breasts felt hard, tight against the soft linen chemise. She backed away, but he came closer, and she was up against the stone wall, with the illuminated dragon glowering down over them, covering them with crimson light.
“I will scream,” she said in a low, warning voice.
“And then the father will come, accuse me of heresy, and probably burn me at the stake. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for that, now would you? You wouldn’t care for the stench of burning flesh, I promise you.”
She didn’t move, frozen in place. “Please don’t touch me,” she said in a quiet voice. There was nowhere else she could run to; she could only appeal to his mercy.
But Nicholas wasn’t a merciful man. “You’re bathed in the blood of the dragon, my lady,” he whispered. “You look quite delicious in that shade of red. Give me a kiss for Saint Hugelina’s sake, and I’ll leave you in peace. Just a small, sweet kiss for a poor, mad fool. Surely that can’t be such a great sacrifice.”
She shocked herself. She shocked him. Almost before he’d finished speaking, she jerked forward and slammed her mouth against his. She could feel her lip split against her teeth, but she didn’t care. A second later she was free, running out of the chapel, through the courtyard that was no longer deserted, running with her long, thick braids flying out behind her.
Her mouth hurt from the force of her hasty kiss, and she was glad, the pain wiping everything else out of her mind. The odd look in his clear eyes, the brief, shocking texture of his mouth. The fact that she’d put her mouth against another, and in a holy place.
She ran, through the tower door, up the circular steps; ran as if the devil himself were behind her. Ran until she barreled into the very person she least wanted to see. Father Paulus, the Abbot of Saint Hugelina.
Chapter Nine
“SUCH UNSEEMLY haste is godless,” Father Paulus intoned. “And your mouth is bleeding. What have you been doing?”
Julianna halted guiltily, touching her hand to her lip. The blood was only slight, and it had been her fault and no one else’s. But one look at the face of the Abbot of Saint Hugelina decided her that truthfulness was not an option. At least, not complete truthfulness.
She made a swift curtsey, bowing her head more to hide her expression than to show respect “I was praying to the Blessed Lady, Father Paulus. In the Lady Chapel. I was praying so hard and so mightily that I lost my balance and hit my mouth against . . . against one of the benches.” It was a lame excuse, but the best she could do in the circumstances. If Father Paulus knew that the fool had been flirting with her in a holy place he’d suffer far worse than an abraded back. So, for that matter, would she.
“You would never be so unwise as to inveigh the Holy Mother in a lie, my child? For such a crime would be an act of greatest heresy, punishable by death.”
Julianna kept her eyes dutifully lowered, mentally cursing herself. In this case the stern abbot was right—without thinking she’d invoked Mary in her lies. She deserved to be twice damned.
And yet the sweet, motherly Virgin of Julianna’s faith wouldn’t demand such a sacrifice. And the bawdy Saint Hugelina would more likely wink at such misconduct.
“My heart is pure, Father Paulus,” she murmured, more a distraction than an excuse.
He nodded, unexpected approval on his pale, petulant face. “Indeed, my child. I have looked into your heart and been most comforted. You hate sin and sinners, you eschew the weaknesses of the flesh, and you despise lust and lechery as sins of the devil. You will prove a good example to your lady mother. I fear she is too much a daughter of Eve, lured by the sins of the flesh. You can help save her soul, save her from wanton, fleshly desires. I shall drive the devil from her before I am through. I shall drive the devil from this place of sin.”
His pale eyes were burning brightly in his face, the eyes of a zealot, and Julianna knew well enough not to make any objections. But wisdom didn’t always rule her tongue. “She is married, Father Paulus. Isn’t it her duty to bring more Christians into the world?”
“You and I know full well your mother has failed at her duty. She brought forth nothing but a daughter to serve the lord—a weak enough offering. It would be best if she spent the rest of her days in celibacy, atoning for her sins.”
“What sins?” She realized that was a mistake the moment the words left her mouth.
“You dare to question me, child? The world is a sinful place, and pretty, frivolous, wanton creatures such as your mother are the lure of the devil. Better that all such women be locked up behind convent walls, or have their beauty destroyed. It’s a sign of the devil, nothing more.” Julianna didn’t say a word, struck silent in horror. They said Nicholas Strangefellow was a madman. He was a font of sanity compared to the creature in front of her.
“Yes, Father Abbot,” she said meekly. There was nothing else she could say. “If I have your permission, I would go to my mother and speak to her on the wisdom of abstinence.” Father Paulus nodded benignly. “Go in peace, my child.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and for a moment the claw-like fingers dug in painfully; then he released her. She backed away, almost tripping over her skirts in her haste to get away from him, when his voice stopped her.
“Lady Julianna, when you were in the Lady Chapel, did you happen to notice the holy relic?” It seemed no more than a casual question, and yet Julianna could sense the urgency beneath his smooth tone.
“Which one?” She had no idea why she avoided giving him a direct answer—it was mere instinct, and Julianna had learned to listen to her instincts over the last few years.
“There is only one holy relic in this place,” Father Paulus said testily. “The Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon, of course. I have yet to see it—I searched the family chapel most thoroughly in between hearing confessions last night, but I hadn’t known there was a smaller Lady Chapel in this godless place. Is that where the blessed object resides?”
The lie came, swift and instinctive and so astonishing that it was believable. “I didn’t see it, Holy Father,” she murmured. “The place was dark and dusty and ill-used, and ther
e was no holy relic on the altar. Not even a pair of matched candlesticks. Only a rough cross fashioned of wood.” The rest of it was true enough, and if she’d been a properly penitential young woman, she would have kept her eyes lowered and never noticed the chalice in its dusty niche high overhead.
Father Paulus nodded, easily convinced. “I thought not. A relic of such value would be closely guarded, hidden away from wanton eyes.”
“Wouldn’t Lord Hugh know where it is? Why don’t you ask him?”
Father Paulus frowned at her. “I have my own reasons, child. Don’t dare to judge me.”
“Yes, Father.”
He waved his hand in dismissal, and she escaped before she could trap herself with another lie.
It had been the strangest encounter. She was one who never lied—she had seen too many people trapped in falsehoods, and she’d never found anything worth lying for. But in the last two days she’d lied more than once, culminating in the most damning lies of all, to a holy priest.
She should be wracked with guilt, yet oddly enough she felt none. Her lies had been instinctive, natural, and she could only hope they had come to her for a reason. She could think of no earthly excuse not to tell the priest the truth about the relic, but perhaps her excuse wasn’t earthly at all.
In the meantime, she wasn’t going to worry about it. She hurried down the hallway, her leather-slippered feet making a soft, whispering noise on the stone floors. The unhappy wedding celebration seemed to have dissipated, and she passed only a few servants as she made her way back toward her tower room. She touched her mouth again; her lip had stopped bleeding, a fact which both reassured and yet somehow distressed her.
So she’d kissed him. He’d asked, nay, demanded, and she’d done so, with all the tenderness and passion of a runaway pony. He’d think twice before seeking her kisses again.
And yet, it lingered, and she couldn’t understand why. The brief, forceful touch of mouth to mouth shouldn’t be of any greater import than running into the unpleasant abbot. The touch of body parts had been more a blow than anything else. After all, she’d been kissed before, and what had happened in the Lady Chapel was merely a travesty of . . .
She paused on the landing, shocked by a sudden realization. There was no one around, and she moved to the arched windows, looking down over the courtyard with unseeing eyes.
In fact, she hadn’t been kissed before. Ever. Not on the mouth. Her mother had kissed her cheeks, the occasional visitor had kissed her hand, but no one had ever put his mouth on hers. Including the man she had been married to for ten years.
Victor hadn’t been a believer in physical affection, in tenderness or caresses or kisses. He had come to her bed infrequently, in the dark, and what had transpired had been painful and unpleasant and over quickly.
Fortunately he hadn’t come often, and in the past five years he hadn’t come at all. She had no idea whether it was her lack of womanly skills or a simple dislike of coupling; she only knew that the few times they came together were mutually detestable.
But she was free of that now. Free of a man’s pawing, free of lying on her back and listening to him grunt and curse in anger.
But never to feel the joy of caresses and kisses and soft words spoken in her ear . . .
Why in the world would she even consider such things?
She touched her lip again. It didn’t hurt—the tiny cut must have been infinitesimal. She pressed harder, but nothing happened. It was gone, vanished as if it had never existed.
What if she’d held still and let him kiss her? He’d said she’d never been well and truly kissed, and he’d been even more right than he’d guessed. Would she find it beguiling? Would she want caresses as well? Would she want to lift her skirts for him?
And was she completely out of her mind? She shoved away from the stone embrasure, shaking her head. She needed to get away from this place. After years of peace and solitude at Moncrieff, she now found herself in the midst of madness, and if she couldn’t have her peaceful household again, and fate had decreed that she couldn’t, then she wanted at least some semblance of solitude. If she threw herself on the abbot’s mercy, he would find a convent for her, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t there be money, somewhere, to pay her entry and make her welcome among the holy sisters? Couldn’t she get away from the disturbing fool and his seductive smiles?
She knew the answer without knowing why. Father Paulus wanted the chalice. She could get it for him. Its presence could hardly be a secret—despite the vastness of Lord Hugh’s household, such things would be common knowledge.
And Nicholas had seen it as well, when less than an hour ago he’d claimed to have no knowledge of where it might be. It wouldn’t take long for Father Paulus to discover its whereabouts either, if he weren’t strangely loath to ask those who would most likely know.
But if she presented it to him, he might be disposed to grant her the boon of a convent placement. After all, what would an abbot want more of a penniless, barren widow than to have her serve God as a holy sister?
She looked out over the courtyard. The Lady Chapel was off in the corner, tucked out of the way, hard to find if one wasn’t searching for it. It had a peaceful, disused look about it, even from her vantage point, and there were weeds growing up around the doorframe. Another sign of the poor household management of this place. Her mother would have enough to occupy her during her time of enforced celibacy.
But there were too many people around for her to go back down the stairs and stroll idly to the chapel, scoop up the chalice, and tuck it under her clothes.
A little discretion went a long way, and she knew better than to rush into anything. Besides, for all she knew, Nicholas Strangefellow might still be there, lying in wait for her inevitable return.
How had he found her there in the first place? Had he been watching her, following her, or had it been merely chance? He seemed far too interested in the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon for a simple fool. He hardly seemed the type to ponder holy relics. Jewel-encrusted ones, however, might be a different matter.
He might have already taken it. He might have taken it, and then disappeared, abandoning the household and his sovereign for the reward of a golden goblet. Perhaps he truly was mad enough to think he could get away with such a theft. And if he had, would she rejoice, or feel a secret sorrow that she would never see him again?
There was only one way to find out, but now was not the time. Over the long years she had learned patience. Now was no time to abandon it.
For some foolish reason she had expected the bedchamber to be empty, and she halted inside the open door in surprise when she saw her mother sitting on a stool, one of her ladies brushing her thick, beautiful hair.
When Julianna was young, she used to play with her mother’s hair, winding it around her small hands, breathing in the flower scent of it. Isabeau would wrap it around her daughter’s face and laugh, they would laugh together, and suddenly Julianna wanted to weep with longing.
She didn’t.
Isabeau met her gaze, her own eyes tranquil and unshadowed. “You didn’t expect to see me here, did you, Julianna? It seems that if my husband and I are to live as brother and sister, we have no reason to share a bed, and I decided I would rather spend time with my daughter. Unless you’d prefer a room to yourself.”
She would kill for a room of her own. She would die if her mother abandoned her again. She bit her lip, searching for the words. “Whatever pleases you, my lady. This is your household.” She moved into the room, seemingly indifferent.
“Have you hurt yourself? Your lip is bleeding.”
Holy Saint Hugelina, Julianna thought in consternation. “An accident,” she said, dismissing it.
A moment later Isabeau had dismissed her ladies, and she caught her thick, beautiful hair in her hands and tied it
in a loose, graceful knot. “You’ve been too long without a mother, Julianna,” she said. “You forget that a mother can see through her child’s excuses and know when something is wrong. What is it?”
“I lost my mother ten years ago, my lady. It wasn’t at my wish.”
“Do you think it was at mine?” Isabeau demanded, her face white. “If you only knew . . .” She fell silent, then managed a shaky laugh. “I’d forgotten how annoying one’s children can be. They have a skill like no other in driving their mothers crazy.”
“I’m your only child.”
“Very true,” Isabeau said calmly. “So tell me what caused your lip to bleed. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were indulging in over-passioned kisses.”
“But you know better?”
“Indeed. You still have that cold, lost look in your eyes. If you’d been kissing someone, I would expect your expression would be a little less bleak. For that matter, I can’t imagine who you’d be kissing. Unless it was that handsome, annoying fool.”
“You think I’d kiss a fool? A madman, a clown, a servant, a . . .?”
“A servant to the king, as we all are. Master Nicholas holds a place of surprising power. And I find that people seldom consider one’s lineage when it comes to kissing. Did you kiss the fool?”
“Why would you care?”
“Because I’m your mother!” Isabeau said sharply. “Dieu, but you’re maddening. If he hurt you I’ll have Lord Hugh see to him. He has no trouble saying no to the king on other matters—he can do this much for me if I request it. Say the word, and he’ll be sent back to court.”
It was sorely tempting. No Nicholas teasing her, taunting her. As soon as he was banished she’d forget about his long, lean, golden body, a body she’d seen far too much of already. She’d forget about the whispers of temptation that she knew in her heart were lies. She’d forget about him entirely and get on with her life.