Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  No one stood there. Sir Joseph’s presence did not linger among the shadows, and anger swept away her caution.

  “Juliana—”

  “What do you mean, bringing that boy in without my permission?” Raymond stiffened, but she didn’t notice. “A youth from some presumptuous lord.”

  “William of Miraval is my friend.” The chill in Raymond’s voice penetrated her anger, but did not douse it.

  She thrust out her chin. “William of Miraval probably wished to rid himself of a small thief or liar.”

  Raymond glanced through the doorway as though to assure himself they spoke of the same person. “That lad?”

  Juliana glanced, too. She saw a colt of a boy, all arms and legs, smiling with fervent appreciation at her maid. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and plunged into the cup of mead like a horse drinking water after a hard ride, and with a shock she realized whom he resembled. He had the look, God help her, of her first husband. Too thin, eager to please, without personality or charm.

  Raymond explained, “In the letter Denys brought with him, William says the lad’s lady mother came to his wife and begged succor. Saura is known for her good works, and she did all she could, but ’twas too late. The lady expired of a combination of starvation and consumption, and Denys took it badly—very badly. His father had gambled away his lands and his wife’s dower, then killed himself. At the death of his mother, Denys swore a great many foolish things.”

  She hardly heard Raymond speak, so bound up in her own misgivings was she. Was that why she had rejected Denys so vehemently? Not because of pride but because he recalled the boy she’d married and lost after such a long, painful illness? The memories of Millard contained a confusion of love, exasperation, and distress. She’d thought she had put him behind her, but how could she forget the father of her children?

  Raymond seemed impervious to her confusion. “Denys swore he’d have wealth once more, regardless of the price to himself. William and Saura took him into their family and trained him, and the desperation has faded. They sent him to me because…”

  He flushed, and with a shock she realized young Denys meant more to him than a simple squire, also. Raymond wanted Denys fervently. “Why did they send him to you?”

  “Because at his age, I also was without support of parents or wealth. They thought I could help him. Also, I owe it to Lord Peter.”

  “You owe him? You owe Lord Peter?”

  “Lord Peter of Burke. He’s William’s father, and he fostered me. He taught me honor and dignity and leadership. That code of conduct saved my life. And Denys needs someone to help him learn the refinements of a knight’s art.”

  A smile quivered at the corners of his mouth, but her suspicions couldn’t stop her from asking, “Such as?”

  “Such as removing your metal gauntlets before peeing in freezing weather.”

  She stared at him; he stared at her. She tried to control it, but couldn’t. She burst into laughter.

  He waited until the first explosion of merriment had subsided, then took her hand and pressed it onto his chest. “Juliana, the lad has a good heart. He’s had bad times, but together, you and I can make a man of him. Don’t make me send him away.”

  Her laughter faded. Beneath her palm, his heart beat a strong and steady rhythm, his chest rose and fell. His flesh warmed hers, his smile lulled her, and she realized he, too, wove a web. Sir Joseph’s web had trapped her in the sticky threads of suspicion. Raymond’s web gathered her close and wrapped her in seduction. “Nay, don’t send him away,” she said reluctantly.

  “There’s my girl,” he said, and kissed her hand again as if that would put all to rights.

  Her hostility bounded loose. “Patronizing ass,” she hissed. “You don’t understand at all.”

  Like any oaf of a man, he looked confused. “Understand what?”

  She jerked her hand free. “My life is no longer my own. My body is no longer my own. My castle is no longer my own.”

  Anger flickered in his face, and too late she thought of caution. Crowding her against the wall, he held her with a hand on cheek and chin and pressed a hard kiss on her lips. Reservations were swept away as her desire leaped to meet his. Eager moans erupted from her, and he answered with a hum of frustration. When he dragged his mouth from hers, he said, “Your life and body and castle are no longer your own because you are mine. Remember that.” He swooped on her and kissed her once more. “Remember that.”

  He flung himself away, and Juliana shouted, “You are a wart on the nose of my existence.”

  She didn’t wait to see if he would turn back. Plunging down the stairs, she found herself in the kitchen, facing the cowering cook and two unimpressed old gypsies. Raymond’s retreating footsteps rang clearly down the stairs, and Juliana drew herself up. “You heard everything?”

  “Aye, with Sir Joseph and with Raymond, and we’re sore disappointed in you.” Valeska’s eyes drooped like a hunting hound’s. Braced for a lecture on a docile woman’s rightful place, Juliana staggered backward when Valeska said to Dagna, “We’ll have to teach this little one the correct way to curse.”

  Dagna’s disappointment sounded, if anything, deeper than her friend’s. “That we will. You’d not get any respect in my country for such pallid oaths.”

  “Nor mine.” Valeska moved close to flank Juliana’s right side. “For instance, m’lady, a wart is an ugly thing, but a blister is uglier.”

  “A carbuncle is uglier yet again,” Dagna chimed in, taking a station at Juliana’s left side so that Juliana swivelled her head from side to side, up and down, trying to follow the conversation.

  “True. You are so clever, sister.” Valeska waved a gnarled finger. “So, m’lady, we’ll call Raymond a carbuncle. Then we must decide the most disgusting place for a carbuncle. A nose isn’t disgusting.”

  Dagna interrupted. “Unless—”

  Valeska pointed that finger, and Dagna stopped. “Not normally. A nose is not normally a disgusting place. So perhaps you’ll want to call Raymond a carbuncle on the foot of your existence.”

  “Personally, I like the term carbuncle on the ass of your existence, but one wonders what he would have to do to develop a carbuncle there.” Dagna clucked and shook her head.

  “True. And I thought we should ease Lady Juliana into the art of swearing. If she’s been satisfied with calling men mere warts—”

  “Stop!” Juliana covered her ears with her hands. “Stop! This is stupid! This is trivial. You’re making a fuss about nothing. Why would anyone make a fuss about such a trivial—” She heard what she was saying and stopped. In each suspiciously naive face, she read a message.

  “Sometimes—” Valeska began.

  “—we make a fuss about trivial things—” Dagna continued.

  “—to conceal or reveal our true feelings,” Valeska finished.

  Juliana found herself backing away from those too clever eyes, from that too clever observation. The old women never moved, only watched her avidly until she twirled and ran toward the wine cellar. There she stayed until all her fears, her frustrations, her unhappiness had congealed into one big lump, and she swore she’d avoid Raymond and his squire and all the complications they had brought to her life.

  12

  Don’t touch me, Juliana prayed. Just don’t come near me. The singing of the drunken villagers washed over her while she concentrated on her invocation. Far too close for comfort, the object of her plea sat mounted on his big black horse. His cloak fluttered, revealing the tunic and cream-colored surcoat that had been his wedding apparel.

  She would not soon forget the triumph in his eyes when he found it spread out on the bed. He had watched her as she stammered that it was a gift, a suit of clothing like the clothing she gave her servants.

  He hadn’t believed her. He’d touched the tight weave of the tunic, examined the fine embroidery of the leaves, and he’d accepted her surrender, although she hadn’t offered it.

  Now his black hair
rippled, shiny in glints of moonlight. He looked like the spirit of winter watching the night’s festivities. Watching, too, his wife with a regard that spoke too clearly his intention.

  Please don’t touch me.

  “M’lady, will ye pour th’ cider on Apple Tree Man? In yer newly wedded state, ’twould be extra good luck t’ have ye do th’ honors. Mayhap th’ apples next year will be as sweet as ye are.” Tosti blushed at his own temerity.

  “Oh, ho, the lady has a little admirer,” Geoffroi shouted. Tottering on his horse, he laughed unkindly, and Isabel giggled with the high-pitched nasal sound of a woman far gone with drink. The master castle-builder smiled fatuously, overcome with the abundance of wine. Tosti glared, offended by the taunt, yet unable to retaliate. Refusing to leave the festivities until the last pleasure had been wrung from them, the noble folk had insisted on accompanying them down to the orchard. Through the stark moonlight they had ridden, drinking from the pitcher of wassail until they stayed on their saddles more from the kindness of their steeds than from their own skill.

  Ignoring the swirl of frigid wind that rattled the branches, Juliana smiled at Tosti kindly. To herself, she said, That’s right, Tosti, stand between us. Block me from his very gaze. Aloud, she said, “Of course. One of my sweetest duties is the blessing of the trees on Twelfth Night.”

  About to dismount from her gentle mare, she cringed when Tosti’s father said, “His lordship be pourin’ th’ cider, too. Just as newly wedded.”

  Tosti snorted. “They can’t both pour th’ cider, Dad, we’ve only th’ one ceremonial cup.”

  “Both pour,” Salisbury insisted, his mouth puckered into a wrinkled knot. “Wish Apple Tree Man wes-hâl, an’ off th’ home t’ drink th’ night away.”

  Raymond moved his horse close to Juliana’s. “Wes-hâl?”

  Tosti explained the English tradition to the new lord. “Wes-hâl means good health. Wassail is th’ drink we make, O’ cider an’ spices, beat together an’ bobbin’ wi’ apples.” He smacked his lips and winked. “With that we toast th’ apple trees an’ give them thanks fer their bounty. Makes th’ spirit in th’ tree want t’ give us more next year.”

  “Then Lady Juliana and I would be honored to toast the tree together. We wish the best for the village. Isn’t that correct, Juliana?”

  Raymond’s voice dipped deep and husky when he spoke her name, and the sound transported her back to nights filled with scarlet passion.

  The fright Sir Joseph had given her had been for naught. There had been no worry when Raymond touched her. And touched her. When darkness hid them, one from the other, those magic hands found her. No longer did he allow veils between them. Every night he pulled her chainse from her. Every night they lay with all their skin touching until there were no secrets but the ultimate one.

  Sometimes, when the delight was over, she’d strain to see his face. Sometimes she could imagine his flesh melting away, his beauty transformed, torn from him by some evil pact with the devil. Mostly, though, she knew the reason she feared him was his blatant claim of possession, and his methods of enforcing it.

  The withholding of pleasure, she’d found, was as agonizing as the application of pain.

  Dismounting before Raymond could come and help her, she hit the frozen ground so hard tingles jarred her ankles. At once he stood beside her. Stripping away his gloves, he shoved them in his pocket. Before she could object, he took her hands and her gloves followed his.

  She squeaked, “’Tis cold.”

  He ignored her, demanding, “The cup.” Salisbury placed it in his outstretched palm. Raymond handed it to Juliana, and as she wrapped her hand around it, he wrapped his hand around hers. The carved surface bit into her flesh. His palm rested directly against the back of her hand. Spreading her fingers, each of his fingers entwined with each of hers, he effectively trapped her.

  The serfs laughed and jostled, unaware of the cataclysm shaking Juliana. The noble folk drank ale with no care to the morrow. Juliana produced a sickly grin as Tosti poured the wassail from the pitcher into the cup.

  “Now what?” Raymond asked, moving behind her.

  Resisting the urge to protect her tender neck by tugging her hat down, she said, “We pour it on the soil around the tree and onto the trunk.”

  Tosti looked appalled at this evidence of forgetfulness in his lady. “Don’t forget, m’lady, t’ dip th’ branches in it first.”

  Soft against her ear, Raymond imitated the man’s dialect. “Nay, m’lady, don’t forget that.”

  She snapped her head around, glaring, but he stood solid and solemn. Never removing his hand from hers, he led her to the closest branch and together they dipped the tip in the wassail. The villagers were singing again, louder this time, and she said, “This will wake the tree from the long sleep of winter.”

  He tilted his head as a particularly loud verse assaulted them. “I suspect it will.”

  They moved to another branch, repeated the ritual. “This will prepare it for spring, for the rebirth of life.”

  “The tree?”

  What did he mean? She turned in his arms. Enclosed by a golden cocoon, she felt isolated from the world. The singing washed over her, but she could hear only Raymond’s voice. Grubby bodies jostled close, but she could breathe only the scent of Raymond. The stars glittered in the black sky, blindingly bright, but she could see only the stars in Raymond’s eyes.

  She backed away from him; he held her with his free arm around her waist. “The tree,” he said, reminding her.

  Abruptly, the roar of humanity invaded her senses. She tried to hurry, but, shackled at hand and waist, she could not. She could only pray again, but now her prayer begged, Just let me finish without humiliating myself. Disgusted, she admitted she didn’t know what she wanted. Him, of course. But she was frightened.

  Of a man! A man whom she’d never seen raise his hand in anger.

  And of an animal act that meant nothing in the final tally.

  Yet no matter how she snorted and champed at her own foolishness, she still feared. And wanted. God, how she wanted.

  When they at last gave the cup back to Tosti, she sighed with such gusty relief the wind groaned in envy.

  Raymond smiled at her. She turned to stone. He smiled more, and she stood helpless, unable to move until he turned his back to speak to Salisbury. She was very much afraid he still smiled.

  Streaming away toward the village, the serfs shouted their pleasure to the skies. The castle servants, too, followed along. “M’lady? Help you?” Salisbury formed a cup with his hand and boosted her into the saddle, then touched her knee. She looked down at the toothless man, and he said, “Brave woman. Told ye so three winters ago. Braver than a man. Don’t forget.”

  Thankful that the taciturn tracker had made the effort to encourage her, she agreed, “I’ll remember.”

  She looked for Raymond and found him moving among her villagers, praising their celebration. She ought to join him, but he was so anxious to be lord; let him handle the responsibilities. Ignoring the inner voice that taunted, coward, she said quietly, “I’m going back to the keep now.”

  Salisbury looked at her, then at Raymond. “Won’t help,” he advised, and she doggedly ignored him.

  At her back, the wind urged her on as she plunged toward the castle. Anxious for his stable, her horse moved willingly along the woodland path. Her hands hurt, cold and bare, so as she slowed she tucked one inside her cloak. She moved far ahead of the others, for she heard no sound of tack behind her. No doubt Isabel and Geoffroi delayed Raymond. No doubt she’d be in bed, pretending sleep, when Raymond slid between the covers.

  But wait. The soft thud of hooves came to her ears. Only one horse? She turned in the saddle and looked. Behind her rode a man clad in a black cloak, raven hair flowing behind. Beneath his dark brows, she imagined she could see the stars of his eyes. The spirit of winter pursued her, and like a silly girl she wanted to run. Run in a panic until he caught her, brought her to earth.
In her loins, a thrum of excitement made her question her own mind. What did she want?

  The black stallion reined in beside her, and she called her horse to halt. Raymond panted slightly, his hair askew from his ride. “Juliana, your gloves.”

  They dangled from his hands, and she snatched at them. Jerking them back, he demanded, “Hold out your hands.”

  She stared at the gloves with longing, but did as she was told. His touch failed to create the tumult she feared; her fingers were so cold they were almost numb. Quiet and demure as if she’d never experienced his brand of desperate passion, she said, “You’ve outstripped the others.”

  “The others aren’t coming.”

  Her calm fell away, and she slewed around to examine the bare path behind. “Why not?”

  “My parents found themselves in the midst of the celebration and they rode along to the village.”

  “You mean the villagers trapped their horses and they had no choice.”

  He lifted his brows at the contempt in her voice. “They drank deep, but it’s not for me to curb them. Besides, I wished to speak with you.”

  Again, that place inside her gave a little jump. Casual, she rested her chin in her palm, but that was awkward. She crossed her arms on her chest, but he watched where her hands rested. She clutched the pommel of the saddle. “Oh?”

  “Do you avoid me, my lady?”

  “Avoid you?” She made a sound of amusement, and moved her hands to her waist. “How could I avoid you?”

  “I’ve wished to speak to you these many days, yet it seems you’re always busy when awake.”

  She was nervous, he noticed, and that pleased him. He’d just spent a miserable six days of his life, and all because Juliana couldn’t accept one deprived youth into her castle. She’d pretended to be kind to Denys. She’d fed him and helped him learn his duties and introduced him to her children, but she could scarcely stand to look at him. All because Raymond had dared to bring the lad without her permission. The pettiness of it irked and surprised him. He had never thought Juliana would be so uncaring of a youth under her supervision.