Lady Fortune

by Anne Stuart

  “I know my duty. I follow you, as my family has for generations,” Bogo said unhappily.

  “But you don’t want to give the cup to King Henry.”

  “No.”

  Nicholas nodded. “I think, my friend, that we are about to make a very great mistake.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The cup is Hugelina’s. Let’s leave it for her.”

  Bogo stared at him in disbelief. “You’re mad.”

  “I’ve often done my best to convince you of that,” he replied in a mild tone. “Let someone else find it and decide where it should go. The king wants it, the abbot wants it, Lord Hugh wants it. As far as I know the only one who doesn’t really want the blasted thing is me.”

  “Blessed thing,” Bogo corrected absently.

  “So we’ll leave it here, and it’ll be up to Saint Hugelina to see that it gets where it belongs. That stone over there looks close enough to an altar. Set it on there, Bogo.”

  Bogo still looked uncertain, but he was warming to the idea. “Do you have a cloth to put it on? I don’t want it scratched on the stone.”

  He had a cloth, inside his shirt, pressed against his heart, but he doubted the saint would appreciate that particular sacrifice. It was all he had to remember his lost love by, and he was giving up enough for Saint Hugelina the Dragon.

  “It’ll be fine, Bogo,” he said. “Put it up there, and we’ll drink the innkeeper’s wine, which I expect is godawful, and we’ll sleep under the stars, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do with the rest of our lives.”

  “You’re throwing away everything, my lord,” Bogo warned him.

  Nicholas didn’t bother correcting his form of address again. “I did that this morning, my old friend.”

  TIME HAD CEASED to hold any meaning for Julianna. The pace they kept was tireless, constant, and through her misery she could only hope they were heading in the wrong direction. But there was no hesitation, no uncertainty in the abbot’s moves, and deep in her heart she knew what they were doing.

  It was full dark when they finally stopped, and Julianna slid off the horse, leaning against it, unable to stand by herself. Brother Barth took her arm gently, and his touch was reassuring as nothing else was.

  Gilbert and the abbot had disappeared inside a crude structure, and she finally gathered enough energy to look up into Brother Barth’s kindly face. “Let me go,” she pleaded.

  “I can’t, my child. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and you wouldn’t last a day. I’ll protect you from the abbot.”

  “How?”

  The friar shook his head. “I don’t know. But I won’t let him hurt you.”

  “And what will he do to Nicholas if he finds him?”

  “Kill him,” Brother Barth said flatly. “Oh, not by his own hand. He’s too righteous for that. But he has any number of ways to get what he wants. We can only hope he doesn’t charge Nicholas with heresy. Burning is a terrible way to die.”

  “He won’t find him,” Julianna said, more a prayer than a statement. “He’s too far ahead of us—”

  “They’re here!” Father Paulus announced in triumph, stepping from the rough tavern. “Their horses are out back. They’ve climbed the tor to the saint’s ruins, obviously to perform some godless ritual.”

  “Bogo is a good man,” Brother Barth protested.

  “They’re both villains,” Father Paulus said with an indrawn hiss. “And as such, will face my judgment—”

  “The Lord’s judgment,” Brother Barth corrected gently.

  “Of course.” He started toward the woods. “Bring the harlot with you.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going to retrieve the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon,” the abbot intoned. “And mete out punishment to the unworthy.”

  NICHOLAS WAS quite, quite drunk, and very happy to be so. Of course, being drunk didn’t wipe Julianna from his mind. On the contrary, it made her even more real, the touch, the feel, the way she moved, breathed, looked up at him as if he were God and the devil combined in one lethal package.

  But when he was drunk, he didn’t mind. He could lean back against the ruins of Saint Hugelina’s unlikely Roman mansion and sing songs to her beauty, and Bogo was too drunk to pay any attention.

  “The answer in my lady’s eyes

  Is yes, my lord, both brave and bold

  The treasure ’tween my lady’s thighs

  Is worth more than the finest gold.”

  “She wouldn’t like that,” Bogo murmured. “Too bawdy.”

  “You aren’t supposed to be listening,” Nicholas reprimanded him. “I’m talking about my lady love, and you’re too much of a villain to appreciate her.”

  “You’re a villain as well, my lord,” Bogo pointed out affably.

  “A villain and a lady fair

  Would’st never twine, would’st never dare

  To taste the nectar of desire

  Or land them both in eternal fire.”

  “Too many words,” Bogo said.

  “By love’s sharp darts, my heart is plucked

  By love’s soft flesh, my body’s . . .”

  “My lord!” Bogo’s voice was admonishing.

  Nicholas sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him. He was never getting on a horse again. He was never making love again either, not unless he could have Julianna, and that was out of the question. So he might as well just lie here on the Saint’s Tor and keep drinking and hope to be struck by a bolt of lightning.

  Unfortunately, he’d picked the wrong night for lightning. It was still and clear, and it would take the wrath of a very angry god to strike him with a thunderbolt, no matter how much he deserved it.

  He also hadn’t brought enough wine. He’d underestimated his capacity, and there wasn’t much left. He’d have to wrestle Bogo for it. Bogo was twenty years his senior and able to consume prodigious amounts and still stay on his feet, but tonight Nicholas needed oblivion far more than Bogo did.

  “My lady love is fair and true

  My heart is hers, my soul and life

  She is betrayed by doubt and rue

  And . . . me.”

  “Doesn’t rhyme,” Bogo pointed out.

  “I know.”

  “You need a rhyme for life,” he added helpfully. “Wife rhymes with it.”

  Nicholas reached around him for a rock and chucked it at him, missing. Bogo merely laughed.

  Nicholas rose to his feet, only slightly unsteady. “I’m leaving,” he announced with great dignity.

  “And where are you going?”

  “To find Julianna.”

  “You’ll get back on the horse?” Bogo seemed no more than curious.

  “No,” said Nicholas, sitting back down in a heap. “You go and bring her to me.”

  “Right,” Bogo said. “She’ll be glad to come.”

  “Right,” Nicholas echoed. “Glad.” And he slid cheerfully into oblivion, where he could dream of Julianna.

  IT WAS FAST approaching another dawn, and Julianna wanted to weep. But she had long ago moved past the point of tears, and exhaustion was little excuse. The branches tore at her face, ripping the linen coif from her head, but she simply kept climbing, one step after another, following the abbot.

  Not that she had any choice in the matter. He’d tied a rope around her wrists to ensure she didn’t try to escape, and the rough hemp rubbed against her skin until it was raw. The only relief was to keep up with him, and she did the best she could, despite the long skirts that got in her way.

  She had heard Brother Barth’s shocked intake of breath when the coif was ripped away, but he’d said nothing, following her up the narrow path, and she had no idea whether she coul
d look to him for help or not. She no longer cared.

  All she cared about was whether Nicholas would be waiting on top of this endless mountain. And whether the abbot would kill him.

  She stumbled, falling hard to her knees on the rubbled path, and let out an involuntary cry of pain, though she bit back her second one when the abbot hauled her to her feet with the rope. “Make another sound, my lady,” he said, “and I’ll have Gilbert bind your mouth. We’ll have no warnings. Do you understand me?”

  His pale eyes glittered down into hers, and for the first time Julianna understood true madness, a far cry from the fool’s games and tricks. She didn’t make the mistake of answering, but simply nodded dutifully. If she thought it would do any good, she would have screamed a warning, but any sound she might make would be swallowed up in the thick woods that surrounded them.

  A faint smile curved the abbot’s thin lips. “Good. You’re learning obedience. And I know just the place for you when this is over. The Sisters of Redemption take in wantons to work in the laundries. There you will learn true humility.”

  Julianna bowed her head, to hide the hatred in her eyes.

  HE HEARD HER cry out. In his sleep, Julianna was crying, and he was torn into complete wakefulness, the benevolent fog of wine vanished with the coming dawn.

  The wind had picked up, the moon had set, and the sun was rising in the east. A new day.

  Bogo lay sleeping, his loud snoring at war with the song of the lark. The chalice stood on the large stone in front of him, and Nicholas moved toward it, getting his first good look at what he’d sought. What he’d sacrificed for.

  It wasn’t nearly as pretty as Julianna, he thought dispassionately. A simple chalice, made of dull gold, studded with large stones. The earl had a dozen of finer quality. So, in fact, had his father’s household.

  But this was a magic chalice. It could heal the sick and make a fool mute—or so Julianna had thought. It could strike down the unworthy, and he was feeling about as worthless as a human being could feel at that moment. His body ached, his head pounded, and whatever passed for a heart had been torn from him, the gaping wound dressed with only a stained scrap of linen shift.

  He opened the last of the wine and filled the blessed chalice. If Saint Hugelina wanted to pass judgment on him, so be it. He reached for it, wondering if he was reaching for death or life.

  “Don’t touch that!” The voice thundered across the clearing, ripping Bogo from his sound sleep so that he sat up, cursing, in time to see the noble Abbot of Saint Hugelina appear in the dawn-lit clearing.

  He could see Gilbert shadowing him, see the thin stiletto near his delicate hand. There were others behind him as well, coming up the trail, and Nicholas tensed, gloriously ready for battle. He’d been wanting to hit someone for a long time. Wanting someone to hit him back as he so deserved.

  “You brought Gilbert, priest,” he said lazily. “Are you certain that was a wise thing to do?”

  They were in the clearing now, and he could see Brother Barth toiling behind them, his girth slowing him down.

  Father Paulus came to a stop, looking at him haughtily. “I wouldn’t have found you without Gilbert’s help. He is a true son of Christ.”

  “He is a true son of a bitch, and he’s probably planning to cut your throat and take the chalice back to the king,” Nicholas said affably. Gilbert’s bland, boyish expression didn’t change. “I imagine he wouldn’t think twice about killing all of us, if need be. He’s a very practical young man, aren’t you, Gilbert?”

  Gilbert merely nodded.

  “Of course, this does present a small problem,” Nicholas continued. There was someone else following behind Brother Barth, but in the shadows he couldn’t make out who it was. Someone in skirts, with close-cropped hair.

  “And what problem is that?”

  “This isn’t just any chalice. It has magic powers.” Whether it did or not was beyond him. He had never been a superstitious man, but he’d never taken foolish chances either. You never knew when a long dead saint might decide to interfere.

  “I know that,” the abbot said irritably. “Why do you suppose we’ve been chasing around after it? It’s a holy relic, and the ungodly who try to take it will perish. Which means you!”

  Nicholas smiled sweetly. “Perhaps. Are you willing to test it?”

  “I’m not willing to do anything . . .”

  “Take the chalice, Father Paulus, if you deem yourself worthy. If lightning doesn’t strike you, perhaps you might even drink from it. After all, you’re a sinless man, unlike the rest of us.”

  “You mock me!” Father Paulus shrieked, turning almost purple with rage.

  “Of course I do,” he replied.

  “The greedy priest is filled with lust

  For power, wealth, and gold

  He cares not who he grinds to dust

  With hatred he is bold.”

  “No rhymes,” pleaded a faint voice, and Nicholas froze as he recognized the limping figure that appeared in the clearing behind Brother Barth.

  Her thick blond hair was little more than a shaggy cap to her beautiful face, and her brown eyes were full of dull misery. There was a mark across her face, the sign of a man’s fist, and her hands were tied in front of her, the rope held loosely by the friar.

  The sudden rage that swept over him was blinding, crippling, and seemed to last forever, but when he opened his eyes he realized that only a moment had passed. “Untie her,” he said in a dangerously calm voice.

  “She won’t escape the judgment of the Lord,” Father Paulus said.

  “You are not the Lord,” Nicholas said, and even Father Paulus looked taken aback at the low viciousness in his voice. “Who did this to her?”

  “She brought it on herself, with her wantonness,” the Abbot said. “Though I imagine you had a hand in her downfall. She’ll endure a public whipping and spend the rest of her days in a convent, just as she wanted. Of course, I doubt anyone will pay a dowry for her to be a holy sister, but she’s fit for servitude.”

  “Untie her, Father Paulus,” Nicholas said gently. “I won’t ask again.”

  The abbot’s eyes narrowed, but he was no fool. He nodded to Brother Barth, who hastily began to untie the knots around Julianna’s slender wrists.

  She wouldn’t look at him, and he could be glad of that. If she looked at him, he might strangle the abbot with his bare hands, and Gilbert as well, and then all would be lost, including any hope of his soul. He waited until her hands were free and she had collapsed in a small, weary heap in the fallen leaves. He took a deep breath and gave the old man a ferocious smile.

  “Come take the cup, Father Abbot,” he murmured.

  Father Paulus turned to Gilbert. “Go fetch it.”

  Gilbert started forward eagerly, but as he approached the altar-like stone, he slowed, and even Nicholas could read the expression on his usually blank face.

  “There’s nothing to be worried about, Gilbert,” he said in a soft, crooning voice. “If your heart is pure, then the cup is yours. The saint would never punish the righteous.”

  Gilbert had stopped. In truth, though he was old in the ways of sin, he was still no more than a boy, and a superstitious one at that. “What heart is pure?” he said.

  “Not yours, my boy. Take the chalice and find out, if you dare.”

  Gilbert reached out for it, and his hand was trembling. The hand that dispatched death so neatly and tidily was shaking as he reached for the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon. And then it fell to his side again.

  “No.” He turned and looked at the priest. “I’ll kill for my king, and gladly. But I won’t die for a crazy old man like you.”

  And a moment later he was gone, vanishing into the woods as if he’d never been there in the first place.
>
  Father Paulus didn’t even attempt to call him back focusing on Nicholas. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me,” he said calmly. “I have no hesitation in acting in the cause of righteousness.”

  “Then come take the chalice,” Nicholas said once more.

  The priest started forward, and Brother Barth held out a restraining hand. “Father Abbot, are you certain you should do this?”

  “Do you doubt my faith?” Father Paulus demanded angrily.

  “No, Father,” Brother Barth said, straightening his back. “Only your goodness.”

  The priest yanked his arm free. “You’ll pay for that, Brother Bart,” he snapped. Now give me the cup.”

  “Take it yourself,” Nicholas said, standing very still behind the makeshift altar and the sacred vessel.

  They faced each other across the stone, but the abbot’s hands didn’t tremble as he reached out for the chalice. He grasped it in both hands, then let out a harsh groan.

  For a moment Nicholas half expected to see him burst into the flames of the damned, but nothing happened. The priest looked down into the goblet and laughed. “It will be mine,” he whispered. “All the power, all the glory, will be mine.” And he drank from the wine that Nicholas had poured, then threw his head back and laughed to the brightening sky. “Mine!” he cried. “All mine . . .”

  Brother Barth moved with the swiftness of angels, catching the chalice as it slipped from the abbot’s lifeless fingers when Father Paulus collapsed on the ground. He lay there, rigid, unmoving, his eyes wide and staring as they all looked on in horror.

  “Praise be to the blessed saint,” Brother Barth whispered. “God has made his judgment.”

  Nicholas moved around the stone to reach down and touch the abbot. He half expected the evil old man to rear up and grab him by the throat, but in truth, he was dead. Nicholas had seen far too many people die in his life not to recognize death, but he’d never seen it happen so swiftly. Or so justly.

  He rose. “He’s dead all right,” he murmured, eyeing the chalice uneasily. He’d yet to touch it, and was suddenly glad. If the abbot was a sinner, God only knew what that made him. But he wasn’t prepared to die. Not here, not now.