by Anne Stuart
Brother Barth cast her a despairing look, but there was nothing he could do. “Give me your word, Father. You will not hurt her.”
Father Paulus’s thin lip curled in disgust. “She won’t be hurt. Not if you hurry.”
She almost called after him, but he had already left, racing away on his sandaled feet. Leaving her alone with the two of them, both so dangerous. The innocent-looking young boy with the dead eyes, and the old priest.
“You will change into something more suitable,” he intoned severely. “You will wash the stain of fornication from your flesh, and you will prepare yourself to accompany us. And you will utter not one word, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Father,” she said. Her reward was a hand across her face, so hard that her head whipped back. She stared up at him in shock, the pain numbing her.
“Not one word, harlot,” he said. Waiting for her to speak again.
She nodded, keeping her head lowered so he wouldn’t see the hatred in her eyes.
“There’s water in the ewer, and I imagine you know where to find clean clothes. We will wait here.”
They weren’t going to leave. She suspected neither of them had any particular interest in her body; they merely wanted to humiliate her. She stood her ground, staring at the two of them stonily. Her face still throbbed from the force of the priest’s blow, and she half expected him to hit her again.
But his eyes fell, and he looked away. “Come, my boy,” he said to Gilbert. “I don’t want your sweet innocence polluted by her wanton soul.” He put his arm around the boy’s slender shoulders and drew him over to the window, their backs turned to her.
She stripped off her gown, no longer caring, and washed her body, washed the blood from her thighs, washed his touch from her skin, washed him away as if he’d never touched her. She didn’t cry—this was no time for tears. She simply scrubbed her pale flesh until it hurt, then covered herself with her plainest, drabbest clothes, her sturdiest shoes. She had no idea whether the priest was really going to take her with him, but she wanted to be ready to escape if she could. Soft leather slippers would be useless in the woods.
Her hair was a tangled mess, and she began to comb her fingers through it, trying to tame it, when she felt the priest’s eyes on her.
“Gilbert,” Father Paulus said in a calm voice. “Cut off the harlot’s hair.”
“No!” she cried in horror, but the priest had already taken hold of her, forcing her to her knees as Gilbert advanced upon her with a thin, wicked-looking blade. She struggled, but Father Paulus was surprisingly strong, grinding the bones of her wrists together as the boy hacked at her hair. The long tangled skeins of hair fell to the floor around her, and she wept silent tears as she lost her only beauty.
“There,” Father Paulus said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Now you look like the harlot you are.” He released her, and it was only her strength of will that kept her upright.
Her head felt odd, light, without the accustomed weight of her hair. She rose, before he could haul her to her feet, and cast a fleeting glance at her reflection in the silvered mirror. And then she turned away.
The priest threw a heavy linen coif at her, and she caught it in clumsy hands. “Cover your shame, harlot,” he said roughly. “And thank the Virgin that your mother won’t see your fall from grace.”
She didn’t want to, but she expected the abbot would allow her no choice. Her head felt strange beneath her fingers, the short, spiky hair unlike the silken length she was used to. It would grow back, she told herself. And if she found her way to a convent, no one would ever see her shame beneath the wimple of a nun.
But she didn’t want a convent. She didn’t want a cloistered life in thrall to men like the Abbot of Saint Hugelina.
She wanted Nicholas.
No one stopped them as they made their way past the gate of Fortham Castle. She doubted anyone even recognized Lady Isabeau’s daughter in the drab clothes, lowered head and starched white headdress. Gilbert held the reins of her horse with a deceptively light hand, but she had no doubt that escape would be a difficult task. She glanced back over her shoulder at the towers of Fortham Castle. Somewhere within those forbidding walls lay her mother, at the mercy of her angry husband. Was she even alive? Had she been beaten?
“My mother . . . ,” she said, despite the edict not to speak. Brother Barth rode by her side, his misery apparent.
“Your mother is well, my child, I’m sure of it. The earl is a good man, who would do her no harm. But she will grieve when she hears what happened to you. I only wish I could change things.”
Did he mean her night with the fool or the abbot’s punishment? She didn’t bother to ask. “Give me the reins, boy, and go on with Father Paulus,” Brother Barth ordered Gilbert, his voice rich with the disapproval he didn’t dare show his abbot. He waited until the boy had caught up with the priest, then spoke softly.
“Are you all right, my lady? Did he hurt you?”
Unbidden, the memory of the time she had spent with Nicholas returned, and she was swept with such longing that she could have wept with it. “Nicholas would never hurt me, Brother Barth. He only pretends to be mad. He was quite—”
“I was talking about the abbot, child,” Brother Barth said gently. “If you’re going to get out of this mess, then you’d best put the jester out of your mind entirely.”
“I have,” she said, not caring that she was lying to a holy friar. “I don’t expect to ever see him again.” At least that much was true.
“If Father Paulus has his way, you’ll be seeing him far too soon.”
Julianna shook her head, then stopped, dismayed at the strange, light feeling. She’d almost forgotten about her hair. “He won’t be able to find him. The abbot’s righteousness is no match for Nicholas’s trickery and guile.”
“Indeed. But I think young Gilbert rather evens the odds, don’t you?”
She glanced ahead, at the slim, straight figure of the boy, and she was filled with sudden foreboding. “He might.”
Brother Barth leaned over and put his hand on Julianna’s. “Trust in God, my child. Ask the Blessed Saint Hugelina to protect you, and I believe all will be well.”
She nodded, wishing she had the elderly monk’s unswerving faith.
“WHERE IS MY daughter?” Isabeau demanded, her voice tight with panic.
It had been her own fault, she thought. She’d tarried too long in bed with her new husband, delighting in his body as he delighted in hers, exchanging kisses and secrets and sweet commingling while somewhere in the castle her daughter had been in danger.
Sir Geoffrey looked properly miserable. “I don’t know, my lady. The fool and his man have disappeared, and the guards saw the abbot ride out a few hours later with his party. But no one saw Lady Julianna.”
Had she been mad enough to run off with the jester? After yesterday’s despair it seemed unlikely, but Isabeau knew far too well the foolish mistakes a longing heart could make. “Who accompanied the priest?” she asked.
“The monk did, and that young boy who’s been tagging along after his lordship. Gilbert, isn’t that his name? And a serving woman.”
Isabeau felt icy tendrils of dread clutch at her heart. If Julianna had left with the fool, it would be a terrible mistake, but if the priest had taken her, it would be disastrous.
She was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps her stubborn daughter had simply managed to convince the priest to take her to a nunnery. Perhaps all was well.
But she doubted it.
“My lady?” It was Rachel, one of the serving women who approached, and the worried expression on her broad, plain face made Isabeau’s heart sink. “Could I speak to you in private?”
Isabeau glanced at the motley group of people. She had come down ahead of her husband, intent on ordering a feast to celeb
rate the true beginning of their marriage, only to find confusion and disarray. And the worst possible news of all.
“Someone go to Lord Hugh and tell him my daughter has disappeared, along with most of his guests.” Sir Geoffrey raced off, clearly glad to get away from an angry female, and Isabeau turned to Rachel, drawing her to one side.
“What is it?”
“When I went to attend Lady Julianna this morning, her room was empty, my lady. I found bloody rags by the basin, and”—she swallowed—”I found her beautiful hair scattered on the floor. Someone has hurt her, my lady. Someone has shorn her head and taken her.”
“The priest,” Isabeau said in a voice filled with loathing. “God curse his wicked soul.”
And the serving woman simply nodded. “Aye.”
Isabeau found her husband in the courtyard, surrounded by a small army of men, already dressed for battle. His mouth was grim, but his eyes softened when he saw her.
“We’ll bring her back to you, my love,” he promised. “They haven’t got more than a few hours’ start, and I know this land by heart.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Nay, you are not. This is a man’s work—”
“My daughter is in trouble. That, my lord, is women’s work. Someone bring me my palfrey.”
No one moved, looking to Lord Hugh for some sort of sign. Isabeau held her breath. If he refused, she would follow on her own. If he refused, she would never forgive him.
“Bring her palfrey,” he said abruptly. “But you must be prepared to ride hard, my lady. For your daughter’s sake.”
“I can match anything you ask of me.”
A brief, tender look flashed in his eyes. “Yes, my love,” he murmured in a voice too soft for others to hear. “You certainly can.”
NICHOLAS STRANGEFELLOW was not a happy man. He was stiff and sore from an unaccustomed day in the saddle; he was hungry and tired and bad-tempered and feeling as guilty as hell. He needed to get back to the pleasures of court, to the ripe, talented body of the king’s sister, to the patronage of his king, to the world of lies and deceit where he belonged. His time in the west country had unsettled him, making him doubt his well-laid plans.
It had always been clear to him. With the king’s patronage, he would amass enough favor to live well. At worst he supposed he would die young, killed by some poor knight he’d driven to madness with his incessant rhymes, but he didn’t particularly care. He had learned to live for the day, not the year, and he had no particular future to look forward to.
Reclaiming his title, building a new home, now seemed an absurd dream, a fantasy for a fool. He was the king’s fool, indeed, a pawn to be used and discarded.
What if she was with child? What if he’d given her the babe she longed for so desperately? Would they assume it was the child of her new husband?
If she were wed and bedded soon enough, that would account for it. In truth, if he heard she’d given birth, he’d never know whether it was his child or her new husband’s, which would be all for the best. He didn’t need to know he had a bastard somewhere.
Once he made sure Henry meant to follow through with his hasty marriage plans for the young widow he could put her from his mind. She’d never been his responsibility, and a tumble in the hay didn’t make her so. Even if she bore his child.
He should have been more careful. He knew how to withdraw in time and spill his seed elsewhere, but she’d been so warm, so wet, so clinging that he couldn’t do it. His own selfishness again, he thought. He’d endangered her for his own wicked pleasure.
And for hers.
It was a warm night, a far cry from the storms of the night before, and Nicholas glared up at the twilight. He would have preferred an icy rain dripping down his back.
He would have preferred any sort of punishment at all, the worse he could imagine the more he wished for it.
“Looks like there’s some kind of tavern up ahead, Master Nicholas.” Bogo’s words interrupted his melancholy. “We could stop for food and ale.”
“We could,” Nicholas agreed, not particularly interested in anything but getting off the damned horse. There was no sign of anyone following them, and they’d had such a head start it was unlikely anyone would catch up by the time anyone realized they’d gone. Unless Julianna had woken up right after he left and screamed bloody murder.
He rather hoped she had. He hated to think of her waking alone in that bed. He should have stayed, and to hell with the chalice, to hell with the king, to hell with everything . . .
“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Bogo said.
“I suggest you don’t tell me what you think it means,” Nicholas said in a dulcet tone.
Bogo chuckled. “Aye, you’ve got it bad. Never fear, lad. These things have a way of working out.”
Nicholas snorted in disgust. “I have two choices, Bogo. Either to get royally drunk or to beat the hell out of you. Which would you prefer?”
“I’ll get drunk with you, Master Nicholas. And then maybe you can decide what it is you really want.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“BE YE PILGRIMS?”
It was all Nicholas could do to stand upright after a day of torture on horseback, but at that artless question he straightened his back, looking at the wizened old tavern-keeper.
“Pilgrims?” he echoed.
“That’s all we get in these parts, and not many of them. Come to the holy shrine of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon,” the man said. “Not that there’s much to see, neither. Just an old ruin up on the hilltop there, but some people care. Not many, nowadays. They’ve forgotten the old saints, and most of ’em would rather follow a warrior saint, not a woman. Me, I like Hugelina. Any woman who can turn herself into a dragon is all right by me.”
Nicholas turned slowly to eye a surprisingly sheepish Bogo. “Did you know where we were, old friend?” he asked in a deceptively sweet voice.
Bogo was decades past blushing, but he avoided Nicholas’s gaze. “Seemed as good a way of going as any else.”
Nicholas turned back to the tavern-keeper. “And where is this holy shrine?”
The man jerked his head to the left. “Up on that hill. We call it Hugelina’s Tor. There’s the ruins of her old home. They say she was martyred up there. Poisoned, fed to a dragon, and then turned into a dragon herself to slay her oppressors. B’ain’t been no dragons around here for a hundred years at least.”
It would have been blasphemy to suggest there had never been any dragons at all, so Nicholas merely nodded. “Have you wine, tavern-keeper?”
“’Course I do!” He seemed affronted by the very question. “Finest wine in the countryside.”
“Give us some of your best wine then. We’re off to pay our respects to the saint.”
“Master Nicholas?” Bogo sounded uneasy, as well he might.
Nicholas turned to him. “You brought us here, Bogo. The least we can do is offer a toast to Saint Hugelina on her own holy ground.”
Bogo said nothing, wisely recognizing the glitter in Nicholas’s eyes.
At least he didn’t have to climb back on that devil horse, or he might not have been able to do it. Hugelina’s Tor loomed overhead, and the only way to reach it was a winding path too narrow and rocky for the horses. It was just what he needed to stretch his legs, to get away from the thoughts and memories that were bedeviling him, and he started up the path, pausing for a moment to look back at Bogo.
The older man was standing by his tethered horse, confusion on his face. “Bring your pack, Bogo,” Nicholas said softly. “We need something to drink from.”
Bogo’s hiss of shock was the only sound he made, but Nicholas had no doubt he’d obey him, just as his family had followed the Derwents for generations. Times and fortunes had changed,
but Bogo would continue to follow Nicholas until he sent him away, and even then he might not go.
The moon was bright overhead, just past fullness, and the light filtered through the overgrown trees as they climbed upward. The tavern-keeper was right—the good saint didn’t get much traffic. The path was weedy and overgrown, strewn with rocks and roots, and it was rough going in the fitful shadows.
It took them a goodly time to reach the top, and he could hear Bogo panting behind him. Nicholas stepped out into the clearing at the top of the hill, looking around him with seemingly casual interest.
“Looks like Saint Hugelina was older than we thought,” he murmured. “These are Roman ruins.”
Bogo collapsed against a tree, struggling to catch his breath. “She was a baron’s daughter,” he protested, wheezing.
“Then what was she doing living in the ruins of a Roman villa?” There wasn’t much left of the place—a few stone walls still standing amidst the rubble, a broken column or two.
“Maybe she came here to hide from her husband,” Bogo said. “Maybe he imprisoned her here. I don’t know. Either you have faith or you don’t.”
Nicholas glanced at the ruins, then turned his back on them. A breeze had picked up, rustling through the dead leaves that littered the broad crest of the hill. “We’re here now,” he said, “and I’ll be damned if I’m walking back down that path tonight. Let’s open the wine and toast the good saint, whoever she may be.”
Bogo glared at him suspiciously. “You’ll be damned anyway, my lord.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“There’s no one around to hear.”
“You might slip when there is. Besides, what good is a lord without lands or even a name? Where’s the chalice?”
“In my pack, where it will stay,” Bogo said severely. “You aren’t using it for blasphemy. Only the pure in heart can touch it without dying.”
“Then how did you manage to take it, old friend? I wouldn’t have said your heart was pure. Or was it your intentions? You don’t want to give it to me at all, do you?”