Rummaging through his bags, he found the stamp bearing his family seal, and with his fingertip he caressed the crude representation of the bear etched therein. With slathering jaw and upraised paws, it threatened death and dismemberment to every enemy of his clan. A mere woman had no chance against the might of the bear—so why hadn’t he taken the lady who slept in such exhaustion?
Angrily he tossed his seal back into the bags. He wasn’t like the legendary founder of his clan: fierce, strong, maddened in battle. He was more like a mother bear reproving a cub with a blow of one big, soft paw.
Rolling his wet hose down his legs, he hung them by the flames to dry. Would God he had another pair, but Juliana wore his extras, and he was too soft-hearted…
So some other man had tried to pressure her into marriage.
And she had refused? Refused what kind of offer? Had some suitor put that purple scar on her cheekbone with a blow of one ringed hand?
He knelt beside the fire, feeding it wood to see them through the night, and the glowing red of the coals matched the fire in his breast.
From now on Lady Juliana would go nowhere without a guard. His blood boiled when he considered how easily any man could pluck her from her lands and force marriage on her. Any knave could have beaten her into submission, used her ill, taken her.
Raymond had not used her ill, not beaten her, nor even taken her.
’Strewth, what kind of knight was he? Gone were the days when he slashed his way through life, sword and mace his constant companions. There had been a time when jousting, fighting, killing had brought him honor and enough wealth to maintain himself. The prizes of war had slipped into his purse, and he’d never considered the grief, the ruin that followed in his footsteps. He’d been to hell, he’d told Juliana. So he had, and he’d risen from the flames with his old self burned away.
True, he had been a knight on the Crusades. He had been captured, and he had indeed stolen a ship to return to Normandy.
But Juliana didn’t know about the years he’d lived with the Saracens.
Or did she? Was that the reason she’d refused to come on the king’s command and wed him? Did all of Christendom know of Raymond of Avraché’s frailty of will? Was she disgusted by the tales of his cowardice?
Was that why she called him scum?
He warmed his hands until steam wafted from his damp sleeves and stared at the sleeping lady, stared until his eyes burned. She would be passionate, wouldn’t she? She would be giving and kind, and welcome him to her hearth and into her body. Take her, he urged himself. It wasn’t too late. Impregnate her. Climb into the bed with her, be between her legs before she woke properly. Then he would have the lady in marriage without falling back on Henry’s strength, on Henry’s orders.
He leaned across the fire pit and draped a wool wrap over her, so if the furs shifted, she would still be protected. Then, lured by her warmth, he slid one chilly hand beneath the covers, touched the flesh he coveted. The firelight blessed her fine skin with a glow. He wanted her, and this gentle lady…
He sniffed. The odor of scorched cloth irritated his nose. Wool? He glanced at his hose, but they still hung out of reach of the flames. Then what?…Struck by an ugly suspicion, he leaped up. His drawers were smoldering, and he slapped at himself to muffle the impending—and appropriate—blaze.
Juliana sat straight up. In the dark room, the fire smoldered red. The storm moaned as it died a slow death, and the cold it brought pressed in, unfazed by the weak attempt of the embers to hold it back.
On the bench across the circle of stones, the stranger slept. His head rested on his arm, he’d pulled his knees close to his chest, a single ragged blanket covered him. Across the hut, the horse, too, wore a blanket, and a better one than his master.
Even in repose, the man seemed taut, vigilant, with none of the rumpled softness of slumber, yet he hadn’t taken advantage of her weakness the night before. With her weariness abated, her basest suppositions disproved, she wondered if she’d misjudged him. Now she’d had a full night’s sleep, now she had her wits about her, and she realized a few things about the man.
He spoke like a learned knight. Would such a man brave a blizzard to kidnap her? True, his scuffed leather boots and formerly fine cape indicated a need that could drive a man to desperate measures. They could also be a disguise to fool the brigands who so freely patrolled the roads.
So if he was not a knave, why was he here, on her land, in her hut? Was he an errant knight, or a free man seeking work? Had bad fortune taken everything from him, and he was too embarrassed to speak of it? With a skillful application of feminine handling—surely she remembered how to handle a man—she could discover his misfortune without hurting his pride.
Today she could draw him out, question him about his background, and at the same time establish a relationship untainted by their genders. It was possible. Until three years ago, she’d known men she called her friends. Had welcomed them to her home, joked with them, confided in them. Now she shunned such contact, but for the sake of her safety, she could do it again. She would do it again, for the most important thing was this; he hadn’t raped her.
They’d spent the night together, and he hadn’t forced himself on her with cruel hands and grinning mouth and vicious intentions. For she knew that if the man had been determined, he could have plundered her defenses. This was no puny knight, ablaze with a dream of riches, but a man who knew what he wanted. He looked to be eighteen hands high, and she had reason to know his hard muscles covered hard bone. His restraint alone absolved him of almost every guilt, and if she couldn’t completely acquit him, she hoped her suspicions would prove to be for naught.
Ablaze with resolve, she sat up, dislodging the furs around her, and, as if to test her courage, his eyes opened. Like a warrior ready for battle, he assessed her, and there leaped to his face a ravenous hunger.
The terror returned, making her cower when she had resolved to be strong.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
She nodded, and marvelled at him. How strange he was. Unlike any other man she’d ever met, he seemed to have his desires under control.
“I’ll heat more wine.” Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes.
His gloves had no fingers. His dexterity was greater, but the gloves had not been knitted in that manner. He’d cut them, and the gloves had suffered in the wearing. Perversely, that made her cast her fear aside. “No more wine,” she said with parched tongue. “Water, I beg you.”
He rose. “I’ll collect the snow that has blown in around the door.”
While he mounded his cooking pot full, she asked, “Is it morn?”
He pawed the ashes away from the still-glowing embers, arranged kindling and logs, and blew until the wood lit. “Perhaps. The snow piles so deep around the hut we are—” He hesitated.
“Buried?”
“Snowed in,” he said.
She pointed at the ceiling where the smoke whirled before escaping. “Not completely buried, but I think I detect a warmth that comes with a snowbank’s protection.”
“Warmth?” He grinned, a wry twist of his lips. “Warmth is an exaggeration, I believe.”
As he turned and handed her a cup of chilly water, she remembered that the covers which had kept her warm last night had been denied to him. His kindness nagged at her; she didn’t wish to be indebted to him. She drank the cup dry, then, brisk as a mother hen, she said, “Here.” Swinging her legs down, she plucked the wool blanket from atop the bed and swung it around his shoulders.
He huddled into the blanket, and, as she stood close, she could see the blue tinge to his skin. She said, “Sit there, and I’ll cook us a warm meal. What food have you?”
“I’ve a loaf of bread I bought in the village.”
“I’ll toast it.”
“And some cheese, some oats, some onions, some dried meat, some dried peas, some dried fruit, some ale—”
She held up her hand. “Toasted bread should be enough
.” He looked up at her with big, wounded eyes, and she yielded. “But I’m hungry enough to eat a stag. Perhaps some oats with stewed fruit, also.”
“Is that all?” He sighed.
His shoulders drooped in the exaggerated imitation of a child, and that pretense sat so ill on his massive frame that she laughed. The bubble of amusement startled her. How long had it been since she’d smiled? Too long, for it felt too odd and a little like a surrender. Turning to his gear on the table, she picked up his bags. “Is the food here, or—”
He plucked the bags out of her hand before she could open them, and pushed her toward the shelves against the wall. “There are my own supplies and the supplies left for those too weary to wander farther.”
“Shall we be snowed in indefinitely? I mean, should we be cautious about our supplies?”
“I fancy the wind lessens. If it ceases, I’ll try to force the door.”
“Would you?” She clasped her hands prayerfully. “I would give anything to be safe behind my walls.”
“Safe? From what do you seek to be safe?”
From someone like you, she wanted to say, but she hadn’t the courage. Her gaze slipped away from his; she found herself staring at the row of neatly arranged jars and bags.
His sardonic voice drawled, “With a snowdrift as your castle and a man such as I as your champion, you’re as safe as is possible.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean…” She stole a glance at him. Most definitely, this was a man who had faced misfortune. He was beautiful, aye, but not in the first bloom of his youth. The stubble of his beard grew black and thick on his chin, and his tanned skin showed signs of a relentless sun. Responsibility had marked him with tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and as he watched the flames, his mouth drooped.
She could handle this man, if only she’d take herself in hand and stop blundering about. Keep the conversation impersonal, talk about things men like to talk about, subtly probe into his background. She blurted, “Where was King Henry’s court when you left it?” Oh, that was subtle, she chastised herself.
But he answered readily enough. “Moving about his domains on the continent with the speed of a youth, which he is not anymore, although no one has the crust to tell him. His retainers complain, but I’ve come to think it’s the way he keeps his kingdom under control. No one ever knows where, or when, he’ll arrive.”
While sorting the bits of chaff and small stones from the oats, she muttered, “You learned much from him.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I asked what kind of fruit you want.” She peered into the leather sacks that protected dried foods from rodents.
“Apples. Since my return, I can’t get enough of good English apples.”
“Don’t apples grow over the channel?”
“Not with the tang of these.”
His smile spoke to her soft heart, and she tossed a goodly handful of apples into the bubbling stew. The scent made her stomach growl, and she remembered her trepidations of the previous night. She dismissed them as fantasy, brought only by hunger and distress, and told him, “I’ve heard Queen Eleanor returned to England.”
“She did,” he acknowledged.
“I’ve heard she’s distressed with the king.”
“That kind of gossip spreads like the floods of spring.” He reached for the spoon and stirred the pot. She thought he would say aught else, but he gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white. “Henry is a fool.”
Startled, she protested, “You’re bold with criticism of your betters.”
“Henry’s my king, and he holds my allegiance. That doesn’t mean I have no opinion of his good sense, or lack of it.” His mouth was grim. “You never reproached your father? Or your husband?”
“Neither my father nor my husband was king of England and lord of half of France,” she answered roundly. Picking up the bread, she glanced around. “Where’s the knife?”
He rose from his place by the fire and took the loaf from her. “I’ll use the knife.”
The way he spoke reminded her of her attempt to smash his head. Abashed, she gathered bowls as he hewed a chunk of bread and skewered it with a stick.
Extending it over the flames, he said, “Neither your father nor your husband had the potential to build what Henry has, nor the potential to destroy it. He’s within a breath of uniting his lands into one kingdom, firmly in control of the lands of his father, of his mother, and his wife. And what does he do? He flaunts a mistress in front of his queen. His proud queen. The queen who divorced the King of France for him.”
“Love…changes. Grows greater or lesser with time and circumstances.” She was an expert at this. To avoid looking at him, she stirred the pot so vigorously the oats could never scorch.
“Love? I don’t know if there was ever love between them. But there was infatuation, at least on Eleanor’s part. She’d been married to Louis, and he was so holy he dispensed marital favors only sparingly. When she saw Henry, young and virile as a bull—”
“She’s older than Henry?”
“Aye, and that makes his defection particularly galling.”
“Any woman could understand that,” she acknowledged.
“Any man could understand that,” he snapped.
The flames illuminated his handsome features, and she was stricken anew by a sense of his power. This man carried his arrogance easily, without effort or thought. She knew that whoever he was, whatever he did, he was master. Her prolonged scrutiny brought his gaze to hers, and he lifted his brows in query. Hastily she said, “The porridge is ready.” She spooned it into the bowls, accepted a piece of crusty bread, and seated herself on the bed. Testing his knowledge, she said, “But the king is known to have liaisons outside of his marriage. There’s never been any talk of his fidelity.”
“Henry’s fidelity? Ha!”
She savored the flavor of cereal and fruit with closed eyes, and when she opened them she found his gaze fixed on her face. A half-smile decorated his mouth, but whether because of her pleasure or Henry’s doubtful fidelity, she didn’t know. Briefly, her doubts of the night before returned. Was this the king of hell? Had she damned herself to stay with him eternally by the eating of his food? As she watched, he tucked his hair behind his ears to keep it out of the way, and she saw the earring again.
A barbaric earring of hammered gold, so large it expanded the pierced lobe. The pain must have been extraordinary, and she couldn’t imagine what had made him allow such a license. He glanced up to see the cause of her sudden silence, and she launched into speech. “I’ve heard the nobles keep their wives and daughters away from the king.”
“Unless they want a favor,” he acknowledged. “But this girl, this Rosamund, is different. Henry flaunts her, keeps her in the royal residences.”
As she ate, she debated the wisdom of telling him all the gossip the minstrel had passed on. But he knew so much, was so intimate with the players, she couldn’t resist. “During her autumn travels, Eleanor found Rosamund living at Woodstock.”
He put down his spoon. “At that most beloved royal residence?”
“So I was told.”
“Does Henry believe Eleanor will submit tamely to his disrespect? Before she was Queen of France or of England, she was Countess of Poitou and Aquitaine. Her lands are almost half of Henry’s empire.”
She scraped the last bits of apple from her bowl. “What kind of woman is she?”
“A marvelous woman.” His smile spoke volumes of his fondness. “No queenly figurehead is she. She understands the politics between France and England, and understands the politics within France and England. Without her help, Henry could never have come so far, so quickly.” He took her bowl and gave her another helping of the oat and apple mixture.
“Surely you believe she’s one of the lesser sex.”
He sidestepped her challenge. “But greater than most men. She’s borne Henry seven children—three healthy, living sons, and perhaps a fourth at Christma
stide.”
Juliana’s heart contracted with sympathy for the beleaguered queen. “She carries a child?”
“Which Henry sent her away to bear on English soil, so he said.”
“Perhaps the king doesn’t realize how he offends her with his exhibit of this Rosamund.”
“He does, never doubt it, but rather than placate the queen, he’ll display his power over her subjects. He’ll spend Christmas at Poitiers, at Eleanor’s own home, to introduce his son Henry to the Poitevin lords. The second son, Richard, is Eleanor’s designated heir to Poitou and Aquitaine, but the king will introduce Henry the younger as their future sovereign.” He set his bowl aside with a sigh of satiation or aggravation. “Our liege is a splendid tactician.”
The way he said it made her look at him. “Don’t Poitevins recognize the young Henry as their overlord?”
“Poitevins are a flighty people, with a tendency to break into rebellion every time Henry turns his attention elsewhere. If the queen should go to them and request their assistance—”
“They’ll gladly rebel,” she finished. “And mayhap rebellion would spread. Glad I am that I’ve plans to make improvements to my castle.”
His attention homed in on her. “Improvements?”
Should she tell him? Would it impress him that she had the foresight to strengthen her defenses, or would he see a weakness he could exploit? “Additions to the curtain wall,” she said, watching him as closely as he watched her.
He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his eyes sparking with zest. “Your outer bulwark needs reform?”
“Aye. I’ve been told of the progress made on the design of castles manned by the Crusaders, and I resolved to take advantage of those designs.”
Obviously pleased, he told her, “I can help. I know a bit about castle design.”
Did he indeed?
Leaping up, he went to the door and gathered snow in his arms. Close to the outside wall of the hut, he piled the snow on the packed dirt floor and formed a mound. “There’s the outcrop your castle is situated on.” He drew a wavy line around three sides of the mound in the packed dirt floor. “There’s the river that protects you. The keep sits here, on the highest point, and in it you have your great hall, your storage cellars, perhaps a well, since you’re so close to the river.” He stabbed his twig into the summit, and around it like a fence he laid kindling.
Castles in the Air Page 3