Hot Summer's Knight (22 page)

“Enough, woman.”  His huge hand clamped down upon her shoulder.  He twisted her around so she was once more facing the door.  “Get to your room.  I’ll deal with you later.”

Jessamine turned back to him, desperate to persuade him.  “She’s not what she looks like!  Please believe me!”  She begged, “everyone talks about her as though she’s a saint, but she’s not, I know, I saw.”

In reply, the Count hauled her across the room.  He was hurting her arm, and her feet and legs banged against the furniture.  At the entrance to the chamber, he bellowed down the stairwell for his captain.  Gilbert must have been waiting close by, because he came quickly.

“Take this woman somewhere I don’t have to see her.  Make sure she stays there.”

Jessamine was thrust into Gilbert’s arms.  The door to the Count’s chamber slammed shut behind her.

“Let go of me, oaf,” she spat.

He didn’t release her.  If anything, he tightened his hold, pressing her against his body.

“You don’t know how close you came to death just then,” he said, holding her chin in his hand, and forcing her to look up at him, “the Count’s killed for less than being interrupted.  Let me get you away from here, before it’s too late,” he begged.

Her closeness was having a predictable effect on him.  She wriggled a little, increasing the contact between them, enjoying the effect.  If the Count wasn’t available…

“Do you still want me for yourself then, Sir Peter?”  Perhaps she could still turn this situation to her advantage.

“Let’s get you to your room.”  Without releasing his hold on one of her arms, her escorted her down to her chamber, and closed the door behind them.  She made no move to escape from his grasp.

“I loved you once, Jessamine.  I betrayed my oath to my liege Lord to follow you.  Let me get you away from here, before it’s too late, while the Count’s attention’s occupied elsewhere.”

Jessamine had other ideas.  She’d no intention of leaving the Count.  He might be annoyed with her at the moment, but he was still her road to wealth, to status, to power.  But it wouldn’t hurt to have an ally, just in case one was needed.

“Don’t you want me – now?”  Her dress had slid down a little further, and now her shoulders barely supported it.  She saw his glance flicker downwards.  She felt him stiffen even more.  His hardness moved against her belly.

“Behave yourself, woman,” Gilbert said, “I have to take a message to the Count.  The priest’s been sighted.”

“The priest?”

“To perform the blessing.”

“What are you saying?  They’re not?  She’s not?”  Hope surged in Jessamine’s breast.

“They’re not married yet, no.”

“But he said…”

“Count Fulk has a way, I’ve noticed, of assuming the rest of the world will fall in with his declarations.  Lady Berenice is not yet his wife, no matter how much he desires the union.”

Jessamine threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

“What’ve I done now?” he asked, a little dazed.

“There’s still a chance, Peter.  He may not marry her.  Something could go wrong.”

“I think you’re grasping at straws there, girl.  Once the Count decides he wants something, that’s usually it for all concerned.”

“You said you loved me once, Peter.”

“I did love you.  And I care about you still…”

“Then promise me something.”

“It depends what it is.”

“If something does go astray with this wedding, promise me you’ll not stand in the way.”

“How can I promise you that?  I’m the Count’s man, and you know it.  Besides, the Count’s laid his plans with his customary attention to detail.  She’ll be his wife, in all ways, before morning, believe me.”

Jessamine ignored his protests.  “Things sometimes don’t work out how people plan.  Even when it’s the Count doing the planning.  Would you do it for me?  Would you promise?”

She let her body lean into his, feeling herself react to the big man’s closeness.  She remembered the rippling muscles of his chest and back.  How could she have ever thought the Count was well built?

His mouth came down, and found the hollow between her breasts.  She leaned back in his arms, wallowing in the sensations created by his tongue.  He left a trail of wet kisses up her neck, until he found her mouth.  His tongue, fat and thick, filled her.  She remembered just what he could do with that tongue.

“I can’t promise you anything, Jessamine.  The Count would kill us both if we defied him.  But I’ll see what I can do when the time comes.”

She’d forgotten how arousing this big, blonde Englishman could be.  Unable to find her voice, she nodded.

“Now, I must take this message to him.  Stay here, where you’ll be safe.  I’ll come for you when it’s all over, and I’ll take you away.”

He kissed her again, quickly, deeply, and was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Gilbert wasn’t happy.  Again.  As he’d discovered long ago, spending his days in Count Fulk’s milieu was not conducive to happiness.

Jessamine had made it clear she didn’t want the wedding to go ahead.  Gilbert didn’t entirely follow her reasoning, but he knew, for reasons of his own, he agreed with her.  The bride was showing a quite definite reluctance to proceed with the nuptials.  Now Fate had decreed he would be the bearer of more unhappy news.

He rapped gently on the door to the Count’s chamber, opening it when he heard the answering call.

The bride wore the same blue dress she’d been wearing when he’d carried her unconscious body, ensconced in a sack, down the stairs of her tower, through the kitchens, and out the garden door to the waiting boat.  The way she wore the faded gown made it seem as though it were made of the finest silk.  He thought that, in her own way, she looked more like a queen in her own old dress than most women would wearing the grand garment lying across the bed.

Her hair was unbound, and flowed over her shoulders and down her back like a gleaming brown cape.  It shone, as though it had recently been well brushed.  Seeing her hair like that made him realize how young she was, not much more than a girl.  Despite her pride and her aristocratic bearing, she was more innocent and unworldly than Jessamine had ever been.

Yet she was a woman too; a very beautiful one.  Her deep blue eyes were sparkling, her chin was held high.  The Count, he suspected, would have his hands full if he succeeded in dragging this one to the altar.  She was no coy little maid who’d lean on a man’s arm, and flutter her eyelashes.

Gilbert sighed.  A woman such as this was forever out of his reach.  He’d never have a great keep, like this one.  He’d be lucky if he kept body and soul together by selling his sword.  A wife was a luxury he could ill afford.

“My Lord Count,” he bowed, “the priest has arrived.  Some monks are traveling with him, on their way to Bordeaux.”

“At last,” answered the Count, “show him to the chapel.  He can unpack later, I want to get this over with.  Come, my dear,” he addressed the Lady, “we have a wedding to attend.”  He held out his arm for her to hold.

 “I have told you, Count Fulk, I’ll not marry you,” she ignored his arm, “but the sooner this priest is made aware of the fact, the better.”

Gilbert held the door open for her.

“Where’s the chapel?” she asked him.

“In the first floor of the keep, my Lady.”

“Would you be so good as to show me the way?”

“I would be honored, my Lady.”

The small procession set off down the stairs, Gilbert leading, Lady Berenice following him, the Count taking up the rear.

Torches had been lit in the chapel.  Despite the warmth of the season, it was cool.  A dry, musty smell pervaded the room, and dust clung to the pews.

Near the altar, three figures awaited them.  The priest was a plump, jovial man, whose vestments seemed a little tight for him.  Two monks knelt in prayer at each side of him, their hoods concealing their faces.

The Count took the Lady’s arm, and led her to the front of the chapel.

“You will marry me,” he hissed.

“I will not,” she answered, clearly enough for all the occupants of the room to hear.

Gilbert made a move to leave.

“Stay,” said the Count, “I would have you witness the proceedings.”

Gilbert walked behind the couple, up the aisle, towards the waiting priest.

The Count stopped in front of the altar.  His prospective wife wrenched her hand free of his grasp, but remained standing next to him.  Gilbert perched uncertainly on the end of one of the pews.

He noticed the monks were no longer praying.  Their heads still bowed, they’d moved silently to each side of the chapel.

They were big men for monks, he thought.  They didn’t move like monks.  They moved more like soldiers.

The priest intoned something in Latin.

“My Lord Count,” Gilbert whispered.

“Not now, man,” the Count answered.

“But, my Lord, the monks…”

“Leave it,” shot back the Count.

Gilbert had done his duty; he’d tried to warn him.  He couldn’t be held responsible for whatever happened next.

He listened to the priest’s monotone.  He knew little Latin, and he doubted the Count did either.  The Count had told Gilbert how much he despised book learning when they’d shared the old Lord’s room at Freycinet.  He considered it not only a waste of time, but unmanly as well.

Gilbert couldn’t see most of the Lady’s face, but he could tell from her stance she was listening to everything the priest was saying.  He even thought she might be smiling a little.  Since her original outburst, she hadn’t said another word about not marrying the Count.

The monks moved again.  The taller one came to sit beside him on the pew.  The shorter, wider one was on the opposite side of the aisle, nearer the Count.

Gilbert swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.  He turned in his seat a little, so he could see more of the monk, perhaps even glimpse his features.

He wished he hadn’t.  The bearded, scarred face was that of a man he’d seen quite recently, fighting the Count in Freycinet’s courtyard.

“I won’t insult your intelligence any more than I have to,” whispered the monk, “I have a dagger in my hand.  I’d appreciate your continued silence.  You’ll not be harmed, the Lady would disapprove.”

“You have my co-operation, if you wish it.”  Gilbert spoke quietly.  A year in the Count’s employ was enough.  Perhaps he was being given an opportunity to redeem himself.

“Why?”  The troubadour’s tone revealed his disbelief.

“I’d come to respect and admire the Lady by reputation.  Now I’ve met her, I find her reputation does not do her justice.”

“You’ll not see her harmed?”

“No.  I’ll help you, if I can.”

The priest’s voice rose and fell.

“But what of the consequences for you?” said the monk.

“I was planning on leaving soon, anyway.  Would you do something for me?” answered Gilbert.

“Perhaps.”

“I know the Lady won’t let you kill him, but tie him up good and tight for me.”

“That sounds like something I’d enjoy doing.”

“Then you have my support.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to make it look as though you’re resisting.  The other two won’t know of the change of plan.”

“Of course.  What happens now?”

“We wait until Odo says the blessing.”

“But won’t they be married by then?”

“No.  Berenice understands Latin.  Odo’s been telling her that the soldier and the singer are here to help her, and she must wait until the time is right.  Lots more along the same lines.”

Gilbert grinned.  “I thought his name was Gerhard!”

“It seems Father Gerhard was delayed at the monastery.”

Odo’s voice increased in volume.  He made the sign of the cross over the couple, and then began the blessing.  The other monk threw back his cassock, revealing a sword and a dagger, and another sword materialized from beneath the priest’s vestments.

Gilbert stood, the troubadour’s dagger clearly visible, his empty hands displayed on defeat.

The Count found speech difficult.  From the color of his face, he was on the verge of expiring from anger alone.

“How dare you!” he spluttered.  “You’ll never get out of here alive.  Captain, my men…”

“I’m sorry, my Lord Count, but…” his captain answered.

“Fulk,” said the shorter monk, “we take back what’s ours.”

“Don’t kill him!” said Berenice, “I’m not harmed.”

“But, my Lady,” began the monk.

“Sir William,” she answered, “Just take me home.”

“Let me dispose of this piece of garbage first, my Lady.”

“Then take him to his room,” she answered, “It’s on the top floor of the keep.  Restrain him there, while we make our escape.”

The procession back up the stairs was a little longer than the one that had come down.  Fulk was encouraged to lead, followed by Sir William, his sword extended.  The troubadour and Gilbert came next, and then Berenice, helped by Odo.

Cords were torn from bed hangings and tapestries, and used to tie the Count to the chair near the fireplace.  As the troubadour had promised, the knots were not intended for comfort.  When they left him, the Count’s face was purple with rage.

“The servants will find him, eventually,” said Gilbert.  He led the way down.  “I’ll make sure you get out the gates safely.

“Can we trust him?” Sir William asked of the troubadour.

“I believe so,” the man answered.

The priest had produced another cassock, and the Lady pulled it on.  No sign of her blue dress showed, and it concealed her hair as well.

“Won’t it seem a little strange when two monks arrive and three leave?” asked the troubadour.

“Leave that to me,” answered Gilbert.

They crossed the dimly lit courtyard without incident.  At the gate, Gilbert took Jacques, the senior guard of the night watch, to one side.

“The monks and the priest are leaving now,” he said, “One of their number had been staying here, and he leaves with them.”

“I didn’t know we had a monk here.”  Jacques’ tone was a little suspicious.

“He’s only a novice, a relative of one of the women who work in the kitchen, I believe.”