By Right of Arms

by Robyn Carr

  “There are those here who do not know that they pay you for what would be theirs freely, if they but sought it. And though you accuse me of cardinal sins, I still need the power of divinity in the walls of this chapel to shed light on my own prayers for myself and my people. The place was built and blessed in good faith, and your greed has not yet darkened the spirit in which it was raised.” She smiled lazily. “My dower purse built it, which is why Giles urged his father to deal with mine for marriage. I was a child then and thought it was good to bring this, a holy place, as a marriage gift to my husband. I did not know what it would cost him.”

  She moved from the chapel slowly, her hands clasped and her head down. She walked across the courtyard and was not questioned or halted as she moved through the gate to the outer bailey. At the farthest wall she was stopped by a youthful guard whose cheeks actually pinkened as he detained her.

  “I should like to visit the graves,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes downcast to hide the rage that burned in them. “You should have no trouble watching me from the wall.”

  He thought for a moment and then reluctantly had the door opened for her, keeping the bars back as she left. “Don’t be too long, my lady,” he urged, but she walked steadily away from him without reply.

  The graves were too many and she shuddered, wishing that they had forced her to consent to a burning pyre rather than this remaining proof by the stone markers of the numbers lost. She found the central one, bearing no name as yet, and looked down at the dirt, trying to understand the emotion that rose to choke her throat.

  Giles, she silently screamed. Why has this happened? Were you gentle and good, little knowing how Algernon used you? Did you mean to achieve something of righteous purity, of everlasting light, but instead descended into darkness to be ruined? I kept it all as your secret, your knowledge and prayers, but I was alone in knowing how tormented and troubled you were. The others saw you dressed in your monk’s habit, beating yourself in penance for sins you never committed and for which you should never have been forced to atone. If they do not scorn your memory now, they will soon, and they will speak of it more freely than in the past. And do you not see, now, from your place high on the wall of heaven, what it has cost? There is no de Pourvre son, no loyalty, or love. He came here knowing, Giles, that he could beat you because your only strength was that you longed to be weak.

  “Oh Giles,” she sobbed aloud, falling to her knees at the end of his grave. “I have tried.” Her fists hit the dirt, which was already sprouting new grass. “I cannot pretend any longer. There was no value in what you did, yet I worked to hold together what you left untended, and even protected you from the slander that would surround your peculiar obsession. And now I work to hold your memory with a shred of respect, a small piece of decency. Dear God, let your soul be in peace. Let your years of pain and suffering have acquired you at least that much. Oh Giles, such lies. Such pain.”

  She held her face in her hands, crouched there on her knees, and wept. She had not known the darkness she lived in until there was light. She had not known how to name the quiet, dull pain of Giles’s indifference, disguised as it was by impotent courtesy, a mien of kindness. She had always thought her husband selfless and pious, until Hyatt came and took their home as easily as one would bat a fly, and then finally, tragically, she could see Giles’s humility and submissiveness for what it was: an ugly, vile, sinful indulgence to serve only his own needs, sacrificing the lives and wills of all those people who depended upon him for strength. He had handed his life to a priest who promised him the very hand of God, but when the warriors came, God did not appear to save Giles’s people. But Giles was dead, and she missed him less every day.

  It was not enough to see Giles’s weakness and reckon Hyatt’s strength. The battle cries may have dulled to whispers, but the war raged on. It was a hideous, secret war, a treacherous mistress who worked fervently to recapture her mate; deposed men-at-arms who carried hoes now, but in the fists of knights ready to fight and to set her home again on the battlefield; a conqueror in her bed who used her body with a troubadour’s smooth experience in his touch, and his devout promise never to love a woman. And there seemed nothing she could do. She could not slay the mistress, remove the hate from her soldiers’ eyes, bring Hyatt to love her … and even her prayers were made dirty by the silver that bribed the priest to buy them.

  As she wept, she swore to do without even the costly prayers. If God could not hear her pleas without the tinkle of livres, then she would bear in darkest silence the agony of a deaf Savior. Yet, as if some inner spark of hope lay deep in her soul, she continued to pray as if God would hear. Save us from further tragedy. Let the end of pain come, dear God, let us live in peace and harmony …

  She was unaware of any presence, divine or mortal. Girvin stood at the edge of the trees a short distance away. A stag that would feed a hearty number was curled lightly around his shoulders as if it weighed no more than a woolen shawl. He watched Lady Aurélie in silence, but the urge to go to her was strong. He had never before pitied a woman. And he doubted that anyone could give her the comfort and peace she needed, least of all Hyatt.

  He turned and went back into the woods. It was better that she mourn in private. And he could not bring himself to let her see that his own eyes mirrored her pain.

  * * *

  “Come here, slut, and baste this meat.”

  Aurélie stopped where she stood. The cruel, mocking sound of Faon’s demand sent prickles up her spine. She slowly turned from the bottom of the stair to assure herself that the command was issued to her, knowing full well that it was. Behind Faon, Aurélie saw the pained eyes of Perrine as she jostled Derek on her hip.

  Aurélie had felt the need to tarry on her way back from Giles’s grave, letting the cool late afternoon breezes dry her moist cheeks and steady her pulse. By the time she arrived in the hall, the dinner was nearly ready to be served, and she realized she was not ready to supervise. She meant to fetch a clean smock quickly from her room when she noticed that Hyatt’s men had begun to filter into the room to take their meals.

  Faon stood in the center of the room near the hearth, hands on her hips as if she were ready to dance in glee. Her fiery tresses bounced on her bare shoulders, her jewelry glittered on her arms and neck. She smiled much in the way a hunter smiles when he has landed a powerful beast with a single arrow.

  A sound alerted Aurélie, and she turned to see Guillaume enter the room. She turned away to mount the stairs.

  “Did you not hear me, wench? You have duties here; see them done.”

  Aurélie lifted her chin. “If you wish that the meat be basted, Mistress Faon, I will not be offended if you do so yourself.”

  “I cannot be ordered here,” Faon chuckled happily. “My only duty is to take care of my lord’s son.”

  “Good. Then do so.”

  Aurélie turned to leave again.

  “Don’t you dare turn away from me.”

  Again Aurélie stopped. She checked eyes with Guillaume and found that he watched Faon dangerously. She quickly surveyed the room and took note of the way Hyatt’s men looked on in stunned wonder, little knowing how to react. Would they stay the mistress, or would Guillaume lose control and be punished for any act in defense of the wife? She could not fathom the answer, nor could she trust her instincts. She took a few quick steps across the room and picked up the ladle from the drippings collected in a large kettle under the meat on a spit. She carefully poured the drippings over the side of meat and, once done, began to leave.

  “Wait.”

  She turned back to Faon and nearly winced at the devilish gleam in the woman’s eyes.

  “Turn the meat for me, and I will baste it properly.”

  Aurélie’s fingers trembled as she took a knife to the well-cooked meat and began slowly to force it to turn over the kettle. Faon held the full ladle and slowly dribbled the contents onto the meat, moving her hand deftly and evenly to let the hot, greasy
drippings pour onto Aurélie’s hand.

  Aurélie gasped as the scalding brew scorched her, snatching her hand away too late to save herself from a burn. The knife she had held dropped into the kettle and the grease splashed on Faon’s gown. With a movement as quick as light, the ladle dropped to the floor and Faon grasped the folds of her dress. “Stupid bitch! You’ve ruined my gown!”

  Aurélie heard Guillaume’s fast-approaching footfalls before she saw him. She whirled to face Guillaume, raising her uninjured hand to stop him. She knew her seneschal well enough to believe he could kill Faon without conscience … and what Hyatt would then do to him, she dared not guess. She was so intent on protecting Guillaume that she missed the action of several knights, bolting to their feet in outrage. One even held the hilt of his broadsword. But no man of Hyatt’s army knew which woman he valued the most, if he valued either one.

  “Guillaume, nay! You must not …”

  Guillaume stopped, but if his eyes had been red glaring pokers, Faon would be holed through her hide. Then, very slowly, his eyes turned to look at Aurélie’s scorched flesh. Again the violence grew, for the top of her hand had already blistered under the crimson burn.

  “Do you find the meat basted to your liking, Mistress Faon?”

  Even Aurélie’s head turned at the deep, gravelly voice of Girvin. He stood in the frame of the door that came from the back of the hall, the opposite direction from which Aurélie had come. Over his shoulders a dead stag slumped. The animal he carried was huge, but he gracefully strode across the room as if he carried nothing at all. Everyone moved as he passed, as if backing out of the way of Goliath. Knights who had risen in sudden but helpless fury reclaimed their seats. Girvin lifted the stag over his head and dropped it on the rushes, staring down at Faon. She was the only one in the room who did not react to him.

  “I asked, is the meat now basted to your liking?”

  She gave her curls a flippant toss, her hands going to her hips. “I suppose it will do.”

  Girvin’s lips slowly parted as a grin developed on his mouth. “ ’Tis well, since any more basting you require, you would do with my help.”

  “Hah! I would do it better alone than with anyone’s help. The insolent witch purposely ruined my gown.”

  Girvin’s voice came in a slow, dangerous rumbling. “You should be whipped, mistress, for what you dare.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “Who will whip me, Girvin? You?”

  “Nay,” he said, sharply. “Not for this, since I have not been bidden to protect Hyatt’s wife.” The last word was stressed and Faon actually blinked at the sound of the word that haunted her.

  Girvin turned to Guillaume. “What did your master bid you do in his absence?”

  “Guard my lady.”

  “From whom?”

  “From anyone who would dare touch her.”

  “And have you done that?”

  “I have tried.”

  “Try harder.” Girvin threw an arm to indicate the room at large. “There are plenty of witnesses from Hyatt’s own camp in this room. Your punishment would be worse should you ignore the duty Hyatt gave you, than should you slay ten of his best men in pursuit of your duty. Hyatt does not give command lightly, and never for his amusement. Take this to heart, Sir Guillaume, and hesitate only at your own risk. You must not fail again.” His eyes narrowed as they swerved in Faon’s direction, though he continued to speak to Guillaume. “You would be pardoned for anything done by Hyatt’s order, on behalf of his wife.”

  “This French slave has a protector?” Faon demanded. “And whom, pray, did Hyatt name as my protector?”

  Girvin’s smile came again, and it was the evil smile of a beast who had just tasted fresh blood.

  “Me.”

  Chapter Eight

  “How do you fail me in this, Nima?” Faon asked, a near whimper in her voice. “You had potions and spells that served me so well.”

  The old woman slowly shook her head. “You have fooled yourself for so long, though I never lied to you. I have not misled you, Faon. Hyatt has never been moved by my balms or brews. You believed what you wished to believe—if he was more docile than usual, you decided some brew had worked at last. But it is all in your mind, Faon. The only time Hyatt was at your mercy was once, and you know when that was.”

  Faon frowned at the memory. When Faon had been desperate to have Hyatt with her for once, Nima gave her strong herbs to put in his wine. They had made him so seriously ill that he could not rise and required her care for a fortnight. She knew the chance she had taken, for if he ever learned that she purposely caused his sickness, he might have killed her. But she had thought he would be so grateful, so endeared to her. Instead, when he could rise from his pallet, he took his leave. Since he never discovered this deception, and to keep such aids at her future disposal, Faon held Nima’s talent for mixing rare concoctions as a careful secret.

  “I have told you, nay, warned you, that I know brews and mixes that sometimes fill a man with lust, or render him helpless to love, but there is a condition: the man must be weak of will. Hyatt is too strong. He denies his body’s urges. He is capable of ignoring pain.”

  “Why would I want a weak man?” Faon asked.

  The old woman smiled with knowledge. “Of course.” In teaching this simple wisdom to Faon, Nima had failed. A strong man who was capable of great control could not be changed by potions or spells, yet a weak man would swoon powerless. However, the weak man would come around as easily with a wink, a swinging skirt, a seductive lie. Nima repeatedly pointed this out to Faon; every time Faon failed to see.

  “You said you would try. Do you have anything?”

  Nima’s old eyes seemed to moisten as she sprinkled a few herbs into her palm and studied them. A crooked finger separated the different-colored leaves and twigs. She sat on a stool before the window in Faon’s chamber and glanced hesitantly at the agitated young woman pacing the floor.

  Once Nima had a reputation as a skilled midwife and healer. She knew balms to cleanse the bowel, cure the flux, both induce and stop miscarriage. She studied and experimented and invented new potions suitable for helping with common afflictions. People came to her from villages far away, for she could banish the pain of an unbearable headache, set a limb, dissolve a thick and dangerous cough into a harmless runny nose. Not every attempted cure was successful, but many were. And then an important man from a neighboring town had been thrown into seizures from one of her brews. He died a horrible death before witnesses.

  Faon was Nima’s daughter’s daughter. The bond they shared preceded Faon’s birth. And there was yet a tighter allegiance, since Nima was accused of dallying with spirits and potions by Faon’s father, Montrose, and it was better that she followed her granddaughter, as Faon followed the knight. Where was an old woman of no means to go? No one of this household, not Hyatt nor Faon’s other servants, knew that Nima was the girl’s grandmother.

  “He is married now, Faon, as he promised you he would be one day. There is nothing more to be done, but accept his offer of retirement and find us a proper house somewhere. He has a wife; it will not matter even if he desires you again.”

  “It will,” she insisted, whirling to face the old woman. “It will. She is barren. He amuses himself for a while and he has a proper mate, but I will bear his children, I will command his body, and I will spend all my days as his love.”

  “Hyatt does not love anyone.”

  “Hah, what do you know? He loves Derek. And as long as he loves Derek, my place with him is safe.”

  Nima looked again into her palm, shook her head and dropped the mixture into her pouch. It would not help to remind Faon that Hyatt was independent of her, as he had always been, even though he allowed her to follow him. At first, as the old woman remembered, Hyatt was attempting to be civil to an abused girl of six and ten. He had lain with her and her father threatened her very life. But once the boy was born, Hyatt’s attention shifted quickly to Derek, and Fa
on’s only link was through Hyatt’s son. The knight was now chafing more with each of Faon’s demands, but the foolish girl did not seem to see how shaky the ground was on which she trod.

  He had never loved Faon; he would never love a woman. This Nima understood, for she watched the knight closely and learned his ways. He was hard put to trust a decent woman, but a treacherous one was poorly placed within his reach. If Hyatt had known half of what Faon dared, she would have been turned out long ago. Nima protected her granddaughter as she kept safe her own sustenance. There was nowhere to go should Hyatt lose patience and withdraw his offer of support.

  “While he is willing …” Nima began again.

  “Nay. I shall never slink away, beaten, to find some hovel in which to spend my days alone.”

  “Faon, you must hear me. I do not think he loves this woman, this Aurélie whom he married, but I see that something in his manner has changed. You must use your eyes and ears and be cautious. He is less tolerant than he was; he has a woman who can tend Derek for him and he will not condone your trickery. For your life, dear Faon, be careful.”

  Faon straightened in a show of confidence. “This will not last. The bony, screeching whore will cease to pleasure him soon. Despite all that Hyatt claims, he is a man, and men want sons. They take pride in their bastards; they only pretend that children burden them. You’ll see, Nima. He will be mine again soon. Let her have the name and proper marriage.” Her lips curved in a superior smile. “Even queens have learned that a king’s whore can be more important than his wife.”

  “Once I thought, Faon, that it was better that you accept what Hyatt is willing to give you, rather than feeling misery and anger about it. Now I am worried. You are tempted to push him too hard. You forget that you have never outwitted him.”

  “But I have,” she said slyly. “I gave birth to his son.”

  “Then,” said Nima very slowly, in a warning, “take very special care of that prize, for if anything should happen to Derek, you will be gone like a dry leaf in a gust of wind.”