by Anne Stuart
Julianna rose from her stool, knocking it over in her haste to get away. “I see no need to discuss this,” she said abruptly. “I know my duty, and I did it while I had no choice. But if I can keep myself from the marriage bed in the future, I’ll do everything in my power to do so. And if you had any affection for me at all, you would help me.”
“You are my child, and I love you, Julianna. I would do anything for you.”
“Then give me the chalice. Father Paulus has the power to grant me the safety and peace I need. He can stop this marriage if you cannot. If I give him Saint Hugelina’s blessed flagon, he’ll be grateful and . . .” Her voice trailed off as her mother slowly shook her head.
“My dear child,” Isabeau said, “haven’t you learned by now that men can’t be trusted? The more powerful they are, the less honorable, or so it’s been in my experience. If you give the abbot the chalice, he will turn around and use it for his own benefit and forget anything he might owe you. He’ll dispense with you as he sees fit, and it will be for naught.”
“I could at least try—”
“My husband already knows I have it. I told him that I would return it to him tonight. He trusts me.”
“Tell him you lost it. Tell him someone stole it from your hiding place,” Julianna said desperately, but Isabeau slowly shook her head.
“I will not lie to my husband. He is a good, decent man, and he trusts me. I will not break that trust.”
“Not even for me.” It wasn’t a question. “You chose between your wifely duty and your daughter’s safety once before. I should not be surprised that you make the same choice again.”
Isabeau’s face paled. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is,” Julianna said wearily. “Don’t worry, I understand. There are some things that are beyond our help. A mother shouldn’t be asked to make that choice, but the result is foregone. And I’ll never know if I would have made the same choice.” She managed a faint, resigned smile. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured.
Isabeau was motionless, her huge eyes filled with unshed tears. Then she rose with sudden determination. “Father Paulus cannot be trusted,” she said. “He will betray any promise he ever made in his quest for power.”
“Most likely,” Julianna agreed.
“My husband will beat me, and you will still be wed to the king’s choice. And his choice may prove a gentle, comely man. You could be happy.”
“Anything is possible,” she said, not disguising the fear in her voice.
Isabeau nodded, suddenly determined. “I will give you the chalice. A slim chance is better than none at all.”
Hope and despair flooded Julianna. “You can’t—” she protested.
“I can.” Isabeau was rummaging through the carved wooden chest that stood at the end of the room, tossing scarves and veils and chemises this way and that. “I think my husband is half-smitten with me—if he chooses to beat me for my disobedience, it shouldn’t be too harsh a punishment. And perhaps I’m wrong about the abbot. He’s a stern man, but with Brother Barth as witness, he would be hard put to betray a promise.” She poked her head down into the chest, the tossing of the linens becoming more vehement. “It’s in here somewhere. I hid it this afternoon after you left, and it can’t be that hard to find . . .” Her voice trailed into silence as her movements grew more frenetic, and Julianna knew what she would say before she said it.
Isabeau’s face was pale and distraught when she finally emerged from the chest. “It’s gone,” she said flatly.
“Nicholas,” Julianna breathed.
“I don’t think so. I passed you coming up to this room, and when I got here he was still searching under the bed. Besides, there is no way he could hide it in his clothes. The man was scarcely dressed as it was.”
For a moment the vivid memory of his loose linen shirt, the smooth, warm skin beneath it, swept over Julianna, and she closed her eyes to blot it out. Making it even stronger.
“And he didn’t have it before I brought him here. For all his supposed lack of voice, he made it abundantly clear that he wanted the chalice. I was too blind to realize it.” She rubbed her cold, stiff hands together, trying to warm them. “Perhaps Lord Hugh had it brought to him. You said you told him you had it in your possession.”
“There would be no need for secrecy. I told him I would bring it to him tonight, and he agreed. If he wanted it sooner, he had only to ask.” She sat back on her heels, a despairing set to her narrow shoulders. “I have been an idiot.”
“Was anyone else around when you told him you had it? Could someone have overheard and come looking for it?”
Isabeau shook her head. “I noticed no one, but then, my husband and I are seldom alone. I suppose anyone could have overheard me.”
“And raced up here to steal the chalice. What will you tell your husband?”
For a moment her mother’s eyes darkened with worry. “The truth,” she said. “He won’t like it. I only hope he believes me.”
“And if you still had the chalice? If you’d given it to me to try and buy my freedom, what would you have told him then?”
“Still the truth. When you are surrounded by liars, the only way to survive is to tell the truth. It quite often shocks people.”
“I doubt I’ve ever shocked anyone in my life,” Julianna murmured.
“Perhaps now is the time to start. I think your fool is far too sure of himself.” Isabeau rose, wandering to the darkened window. Full night had fallen, and the blazing fire added light but little warmth to the room. “I suppose I should go confess to my husband. I have been wanton and careless with his family relic.”
“Will he beat you?”
Isabeau paused, a wise smile on her face. “I am not unused to the ways of men. If he’s feeling violent, I’m sure I’ll be able to distract him.”
Julianna controlled her instinctive shudder. For some reason her mother seemed to view the prospect of her husband’s bedding her with a total lack of disgust. It made no sense to her, unless . . .
“Do you love him?” she asked abruptly.
Isabeau turned from the window to look at her. “What an odd question, daughter. I didn’t know that you believed in love between a man and a woman.”
“It’s rare,” she replied, “but I’ve seen it. You look like Agnes when she spoke of her husband, but I don’t understand why. Your marriage was arranged. You barely know the earl. How can you have tender feelings for him? For such a . . . a brute?”
“He’s not a brute, Julianna,” she said. “And love makes little sense. I saw him years ago, when I was younger than you are now, and I remember looking into his eyes and thinking . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I never expected to see him again. I never realized he’d even noticed me among all those beautiful women. I was pregnant at the time, miserable and afraid and lonely. And he was kind.”
“Boys can be kind. Men can be cruel.”
“I would take Lord Hugh over young Gilbert any day,” Isabeau said. “It wasn’t an accident that the Earl of Fortham sought my hand in marriage. He has never mentioned that we met, long ago, but I think he knows. He remembers. And I think he could love me well indeed. He might even love me already.”
Julianna shook her head, half in disbelief at the very notion, half to wipe such absurdities from her brain. “What has love to do with marriage?”
“If you marry again, I promise on my honor that it will have everything to do with it,” Isabeau said. “I won’t let them barter you off to a stranger.”
“How can you stop them?”
“Women have more power than you think, my love. If you marry, you will marry for love.”
And unbidden, the hateful, mesmerizing image of the lying fool danced into her mind.
NICHOLAS PASSED no one as he made his
way back to the north tower and his prison-like room, but the door was open when he reached it, and Gilbert was stretched out on the bed, trimming his fingernails with a long, thin dagger. He was alone, and Nicholas closed the door behind him, not moving any closer.
He had no particular fear that Gilbert had come to kill him—the child assassin was remarkably set in his ways, and he preferred doing his work in the dark of night, from the back.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded roughly, no longer interested in playing the fool. The image of Julianna’s shocked, wounded expression was like a rip in his soul, and nothing would have pleased him better than to coax Gilbert into attacking him. From straight on Gilbert was too slight to inflict damage on a much larger man—his particular gift was stealth and trickery.
“You decided to regain your voice,” Gilbert observed lazily, not moving from his position. “A wise move on your part—Lord Hugh seemed to be losing his temper. Do you have the chalice?”
“Do you?” Nicholas countered, only giving him a trace of his attention. There hadn’t been tears in her eyes, surely. Julianna of Moncrieff was not the sort to cry easily.
Gilbert sat bolt upright. “Don’t tell me you let it slip through your fingers! I assumed you knew where it was when you pulled this latest trick. Our time is running out, and the good priest can only be distracted for so long.” He stared at his elegant hands, flexing them.
“Bogo tells me you managed to distract the good abbot quite easily,” he said in an even voice.
Gilbert shrugged. “He has a taste for the whip. He has a taste for young boys as well, but I’m not certain I need to go that far to get what I want.”
“But you would.”
Gilbert’s smile was angelic and chilling. “I do what needs to be done, Master Nicholas. Do you judge me?”
“No,” Nicholas said. “I just hadn’t realized that whoring for old men was one of your many talents.”
Gilbert’s expression didn’t change. “I do what I do, and I do it discreetly. Most men are quite taken with my charming innocence. The only reason you see through me so easily is because you too are living a lie. You’re neither the fool nor the madman you purport yourself to be.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “And you’re certainly not the innocent child.”
“Never have been,” Gilbert said with a wistful smile. “Never will be. Who has the chalice? I presume you’re wise enough to have found it if either of the ladies of the household had taken it. I must admit I have a singular dislike of killing women. It must be my sentimental streak. Perhaps a leftover affection for my sainted mother.”
“‘Sainted mother?’”
“A street whore slashed to death by her pimp when I was five years old,” Gilbert tossed off casually. “My father, however, was of high-born blood. And his blood took precedence in my makeup—I’m far more like him than that pathetic, murdered strumpet.”
“Why are you being so chatty, Gilbert? It’s not like you to be so open about your life. Do you plan to silence me?”
Gilbert shook his head. “There’s no need. We’re in the same position. Killing you would avail me nothing, and I never kill for sport, only for gain. We can help each other. Tell me who doesn’t have the chalice, and I can work from there.”
“I have no idea.” It was nothing but the truth. He’d waited outside Julianna’s door, once she’d shut it behind him, hoping to find where Isabeau had put the chalice. He’d stayed long enough to know that the chalice was once again missing. And that Julianna was to marry again.
Gilbert blinked. “King Henry is an impatient man, Master Nicholas. He wants that chalice, and he wants it soon. Neither of us would like him to lose his temper. And if you happened to have developed any unlikely affection toward the members of this household, you would do well to keep that in mind. He can be very ruthless.”
“Fortham Castle could withstand his assault for a long time.”
“But not forever. He would win, sooner or later, and the revenge he’d take on the owners of this place is not pretty to contemplate. You don’t want her to be given to Henry’s men, do you? As a reward? I don’t think she’d enjoy that very much.”
It was a stab in the dark on Gilbert’s part, the sort of thing he was so good at, but Nicholas didn’t flinch. It was a guess, nothing more, and he wasn’t about to betray anything. “We’ll find the chalice, Gilbert. For all I know, Hugh himself might have it stashed away. It was taken from the women’s rooms, and I have no idea by whom.”
“But not you? And not your man?”
“On my honor.”
Gilbert smirked. “I don’t think either of us are men of honor.” He rose, sauntering past Nicholas’s still figure. “I’ll tell our temporary master that you’ve been cured. That way he might not have your ears cut off and tossed in the fire.”
“Kind of you,” Nicholas murmured.
“And we’ll find the chalice. Soon, Nicholas. Our master grows impatient.”
Soon, Nicholas thought after Gilbert left. “I don’t think either of us are men of honor,” he’d said, and Nicholas didn’t bother to disagree. Most men would fail to understand his own, twisted definition of honor.
He wouldn’t rob from the poor, he wouldn’t hurt anyone smaller than he was, he wouldn’t let a generous impulse betray him, and he wouldn’t promise what he couldn’t deliver, be it a sacred chalice from a martyred saint or a heart that was capable of love.
He had nothing to give a woman like Julianna of Moncrieff, and if she’d ever been tempted, he’d successfully destroyed that softening. She would keep her distance, and he would accomplish what he’d set out to do.
It would all be quite simple.
Wouldn›t it?
Chapter Nineteen
IT WAS A WRETCHED, miserable night. A storm had blown down from the north, bringing chilly winds and lashing rains, and Isabeau was not looking forward to a stroll along the torrent-soaked battlements. Particularly since she knew what she’d find at the end of her journey.
One very angry husband.
She’d considered cowering back in the room she’d shared so briefly with her daughter, but that would hardly answer. After all, Hugh had come to fetch her in the first place—he would have no qualms about doing so again. And she certainly didn’t want Julianna caught in the middle of this mess, even if she was to blame for initially pilfering the saint’s blessed chalice. She seemed to have a very low opinion of men in general, and it wouldn’t do to have her think Hugh would actually hurt her mother.
He wouldn’t, though she only had her instincts to go on. Kinder men than he often beat their wives, and he was already suffering from monumental frustration due to the priest’s edict. It was always possible he could punish her, but she doubted it. He might yell and bluster and threaten, as even the best men sometimes did, but in the end he’d be reasonable. Unlike her previous husband.
She didn’t want to think about Julianna’s father. He’d given her a strong, beautiful daughter, and for that she should be grateful, even if he’d taken that daughter from her early on and sent her away. At least she had Julianna back now, and her husband was long gone, no longer able to interfere with her life and her choices.
She had a new husband to answer to now. And if it weren’t for Father Paulus, she would have answered quite saucily. She was hoping her return of the missing chalice would lower Hugh’s guard just enough for her to find out whether he truly cared for her as she suspected.
But someone had gotten in the way of her plan. She’d been careless, and now she had to answer for it. She just wasn’t certain what she would find to say.
He didn’t know that Julianna had taken it in the first place, and she had no intention of telling him. If he were like most men, he wouldn’t believe her protestations that Julianna hadn’t stolen it once aga
in and would likely storm and bluster around her daughter, further convincing her that all men were tools of Satan. No, she’d told him she’d found it, and he hadn’t stopped to question her, satisfied with the knowledge that it would be returned.
But he’d have more than enough time to find any answers he sought tonight. And she’d have no choice but to come up with something reasonable, or pay the price.
It was a wretched way to start a marriage, she thought, staring out into the rain. Too many people surrounding her, too many unwanted guests with unwanted opinions. The priest, the fool, the young boy with the sweet smile and the lifeless eyes. Only her daughter was welcome, and in truth, Isabeau could have chosen a better time to reforge that relationship.
However, fate and Julianna hadn’t allowed for a better time. It wasn’t until the death of Victor of Moncrieff that Julianna was forced to speak to her mother, and Isabeau couldn’t afford to waste her one chance.
The rain wasn’t letting up. Julianna lay curled up in the center of the bed, mourning something she wouldn’t put a name to. The fool had been a fool indeed, toying with her daughter. Not that he was any kind of man for the likes of Julianna, no matter how exalted his master. Julianna needed someone solid and dependable, gentle and understanding in bed. Someone to coax her gently into loving. It seemed as if Victor of Moncrieff had botched the job thoroughly.
No, Nicholas Strangefellow was hardly the kind of man for her daughter, with his odd ways and his strange clothes and his lies and tricks. And Julianna was wise enough to know that.
If only her heart would pay attention.
She was so enamored of the jester that it broke her mother’s heart. So in love, and so blind to it. They had only to be in the same room together and it seemed as if sparks flew between them. Nicholas would glance over in Julianna’s direction, and his expression would alter, just slightly, enough to betray him to the discerning eyes of a mother.
And Julianna, poor sweet, was totally vulnerable and almost blind to his effect on her. He enraged her, haunted her, tormented her, charmed her. It was love, pure and simple, but Julianna didn’t know it when she saw it. Possibly because she’d never seen that kind of wild, mindless love before.