Juliana Garnett (19 page)

“My lady, the king wishes you to know he has your best welfare in mind.” Dark eyes studied her from beneath his thick
black lashes, a little distrustful at her silence. His fingers tightened around her wrist like steel bands. “Your wish to return to Wulfridge has been granted. But let it be made clear to you that even if you should disagree with the manner, the king will brook no argument in the matter.”

“Why should I argue about returning to Wulfridge?” The words came out in a husky rasp, and she cleared her throat. “So tell me the rest, my lord, and quickly before I lose interest.”

Luc’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth thinned. “William has decided you shall be wed.” He paused as if loath to finish, and there was a pinched look about his mouth.

Did he hate the thought so much? Was she that repugnant to him? Or was it the loss of his precious Lady Amélie that grieved him? Piqued by the knowledge that he cared nothing for her, she did not resist the urge to goad him.

“I do not mind wedding, as long as the man is not you. Forgive me for speaking my mind, my lord.”

“I share your sentiments, but it is not to be. Your plea for retribution has been answered in the truest sense. You are to be my wife.”

“And mistress of Wulfridge?” She smiled. “Perhaps it is not I who am being punished, but you.”

“So it seems.” Luc released her arm and stepped back, hostility in his eyes. “Apparently, you are not as surprised by this event as was expected.”

“It would have been clear to a mole that the king was not pleased by my request or your actions. No, I cannot say I am completely surprised. Nor am I completely displeased. I belong at Wulfridge.”

Stepping close to her again, Luc said softly, “You may regret the manner in which you return, my lady. As my wife, you will belong to me, not to Wulfridge. Once we wed, no man may stand between us, not even the king.”

A chill ran through her as she saw the fierce black anger
burning in the depths of his eyes. Had she wagered all just to once more taste defeat?

“M
Y LADY
?”

Ceara looked up, lifting her head from atop her drawn-up knees when she recognized her visitor. He spoke rough English, heavily accented but comprehensible, and she rose from the narrow bed in her small room—cell—to greet him.

“You were in the bailey when we arrived.”

A grin flashed across his swarthy face, and he nodded. “Yes. I am Robert de Brionne.”

“What do you here, Robert of Brionne?” She swept out an arm to indicate her tiny chamber. “It is hardly a very comfortable room for conversation and merriment. Do you play a lute, perhaps?”

Robert edged into the room and shut the door behind him, but Ceara glimpsed the armed guard standing just outside. “I do not play well. My efforts make dogs howl and children flee.”

She smiled a little. Some of her tension eased, and she smoothed the folds of her gown and gestured for him to be seated on the one stool the chamber boasted. “Then we would be a likely pair, for my singing has the same effect. Why are you here?”

“You do not bandy words, my lady.” Robert’s smile was wry. “I came because I am Luc’s friend.”

“And you think to talk me out of wedding him?” She shook her head. “Speak to the king instead. It was his decision.”

“But one that serves you well, I think. Wait—” Robert put up a hand when she stiffened. “Do not mistake me, Ceara de Wulfridge. I do not disapprove. Indeed, I think it well met that Luc is to wed. He will need heirs one day, now that he has lands and title for them to inherit.”

Ceara stared at him suspiciously. “What do you want with me?”

Robert shook his head. “Naught, my lady, I swear it. I just thought to meet the woman brave enough to put a sword to Luc’s throat, and resourceful enough to keep her life afterward. Is that your wolf down in the kennels?”

“You have seen her? How does she fare?”

“The wolf fares well. The hounds are nervous, and the stable lads swear most foully that the horses will bolt, but the wolf seems content. A bit restless, perhaps.”

She sighed. “Sheba is not meant for a cage. Nor am I.”

Robert studied her a moment in the light afforded by the single lamp and a tiny window high overhead. “I find you to be an unusual woman, my lady. Word of your deeds has run rampant through the castle, until there are those who swear you are King Harold returned in female form, and others who would swear you are a … ah,
une putain
who seeks only to escape justice.”

“The last man who used that word to me bled for near two miles,” Ceara said mildly, and saw Robert’s surprise. Then he grinned.

“Parlez-vous français?”

“I do not have to speak French in order to know a few words here and there.” She turned, and began to pace in short steps across the wood floor. “I have not seen Luc since our audience with the king last week.”

Robert remained silent. She turned to look at him, and he was watching her with his head tilted to one side, a faint smile curving his mouth. He shrugged at her regard.

“Luc is … unhappy.”

“No, Luc is angry.”

Robert grinned. “Furious. Outraged. I have not often seen him so angry.”

She eyed him curiously. “How long have you known Luc?”

“Since he first came to Normandy when we were boys. He was sent as page to my father’s house, and being older than I by only two years, we became friends. We belong to the same group of knights in William’s service.”

“So you are good friends.”

“In Normandy, knights bond in groups of twenty-five, and are together for life. We have ridden together a long time now.” Robert rubbed a thumb along the underside of his jaw, his gaze keen. “I wanted to meet the woman who is to be Luc’s wife, and discover for myself if the rumors are true.”

Her chin lifted. “And have you?”

“Perhaps.” He rose from the stool, his tall, lean presence not intimidating, but making the chamber seem much smaller. “An odd turn of events, I think, that leads you to ride into York in chains, yet leave a Norman baron’s wife.”

“I rode into York a
Saxon
baron’s daughter, sir, so I do not feel that the change is entirely to my advantage.”

Robert laughed appreciatively. “A quick tongue, my lady, as Luc said. You will hold your own with him, I think. As long as you do not try to rule him.”

“If that is meant to be a warning, it is unnecessary. I have no desire to rule Luc. I just want to go home.”

She hadn’t meant the last to sound so wistful, but saw from Robert’s sympathetic smile that it had. She turned away, angry with herself for displaying emotion. “I am told the wedding is to be in a fortnight.”

“The king wishes the festivities to be complete before the calends of December. The bishop of St. Peter will conduct the ceremony, I am told.”

“A Norman bishop.”

“As are most now, save a few who follow the church’s old precepts.”

“While William plunders the churches? I am surprised the pope countenances it.”

Robert frowned. “The king does not wantonly burn churches, my lady, no matter what you have been told. St. Peter was in the path of the fire that raged out of control and it could not be helped. The Danes have long looted the churches with total disregard, but not the king. William is no fool. He knows he must have the church’s approval and the pope behind him to successfully hold this land.”

Waving an impatient hand, Ceara shook her head. “This has naught to do with me. I am here as prisoner until my wedding day, I presume, or until the king’s whim dictates some other entertainment.”

“William is not a man prone to whims. More like, firm convictions. You will be wed, my lady, make no mistake about it. Unless a reason is found for the marriage to be denied, you will be wed to Luc soon enough.” He paused, then added softly, “I think you will find it not so grim a fate, no matter your feelings at this moment.”

Ceara did not reply. Was this not all her fault? She had worked for this very thing, yet now that it was to be, she was afraid. She would return to Wulfridge, but would it be worth the price she would pay?

Luc was furious. She had known he would be when she began, but discounted the extent of his anger. Not until he had escorted her to this cell had she begun to see the full range of his fury. She still shuddered to recall his terse reminder that what she had wrought, she would bear.

Catching her face between his thumb and fingers, he’d held her head still to add softly, “I will wed you because the king commands it, but you will know no joy of it.”

She had not seen him since, and been glad of it. Save for the servants who brought clean garments and food, she had seen no one but the guard until Robert’s visit.

Robert was looking at her with an enigmatic expression on his face when the door opened. The guard was alert as Robert
stepped into the hallway. Turning back to her, Robert said softly, “You have great strength. Use it. He will respect nothing else.”

Then the door closed with a solid bang, English oak against English oak, a heavy sound that reverberated through the tiny room almost like a physical blow. The smell of lamp oil made the room stuffy, and the high window over the narrow bed let in only thin bars of light and very little air. Dimly, she could hear the sounds of life going on outside her prison. She shivered, curling her arms around herself.

It was cold. English winters always were. She wished she were at home, in Wulfridge’s great hall, with familiar faces around her, the smell of the sea surrounding her instead of this stifling gloom. This world was so different, more than she had thought it could be while yet on England’s shores. How had William made an English town seem so Norman? All around her were striking differences, not just in the language spoken, but the dress, the furniture, the food. Nothing was the same. Even Luc was different from the savage warrior she had first met, garbed now in fine clothing and expensive linen.

Yet there was still that spark of feral beast in him, glimpsed at the audience with the king, the fierce stare he had bent upon her both a promise and a threat. Beneath his rich tunic and careful manners still lurked the ruthless man she had first met.

Ah, Luc. Would he never come? Did he hate her for being forced into a marriage he did not want? She pulled a rough blanket around her legs and feet. No matter. It was not her ideal either. Yet she did what she had to do, just as he would, just as most did to survive. It was the way of things. If she let herself dwell on the objectionable aspects, she might lose sight of her goal. That, she could not do. She would not do. There was too much at stake.

Yet she wondered, as she watched the bars of light dim and fade into night, why Luc had not told the king the truth of it. She’d expected him to deny her claim, to tell William that she had tempted him, as indeed she had. Why had he not done so?

Why had he not told the king how, in truth, she had gone willingly into his arms?

Leaning her head back against the wall, she thought of Wulfridge and the sweet sea air brushing through tall grass and over familiar, beloved stone walls. Yes. It would all be worth it.

L
UC LAY AWAKE
, staring at the high ceiling draped with cobwebs and listening to the others snore. The past few weeks he had spent in energetic activity intended to keep him too busy to think. Days he left early on patrol to scour the countryside and lay waste to pockets of rebellion, driving those who defied William’s rule from their lands. The king brooked no further opposition.

But the nights … ah, the nights. He should have fallen into exhausted slumber, for he drove himself hard during the day. Yet too often he found himself lying awake and thinking of the girl who was soon to be his wife. His moods swung from fury to grim resignation with alarming speed. Never had he been a man to lose sight of his goals because of a woman. None had been able to tempt him from his hard-held purpose. Yet, Ceara de Wulfridge had done so with astonishing speed. It still amazed him. Worse, he still wanted her—in his bed, if not to wife. He’d not been able to put from his mind the softness of her skin, the faint scent of lavender that clung to her, her sweetly yielding curves.

This night, it became unbearable. Restless and unsettled, he
rose from his cot—tucked between two others filled with snoring men—and went out into the cold, clear moonlight. He wandered aimlessly, then found himself at the kennels, where the wolf was kept in her cage away from the hounds. The beast looked up when he approached, her lips curling into a faint snarl, but her tail thumping warily. A tame wolf. The term seemed contradictory. Especially now. With some meat on her bones from regular feeding, she looked more like a predator than before. He moved closer. The deep, gold-brown eyes regarded him without blinking, fringed by white lashes and unafraid.

It could not help but remind him of Ceara, that same steady regard, the lift of the head as if to ask what he intended. They were like, the Saxon wolf and the Saxon girl. Wary and waiting.

“I gave my word I would not harm you,” he muttered to the wolf, and was awarded with another thump of the tail. Sheba whined, then put back her head and howled, a long, vibrating expression of misery that he felt like echoing.