Lady Fortune (7 page)

She would have agreed to almost anything at that point. “Yes, Father Paulus,” she muttered.

“Almighty Father…” the abbot continued, speaking as one would speak to a slightly deaf, unreliable old dependent, “these wicked, wanton creatures have heard your will…”

He went on at great length, and Julianna closed her eyes, blotting out the sound of his nasal voice. The abbot was clearly a misguided fool, but a dangerous one. If he looked into her calm face and saw wantonness, then he would see it in the face of the Holy Mother as well. There was no lust in her heart, nor, she suspected, in her mother’s heart either.

But it would be wisest to keep silent and let him drone on, convinced that he had saved her from a life of lovemaking. Little did he know she had already determined never to have to undergo such torture again.

For some reason the vision of Nicholas’s back came to her once more. The bed he was given was wide, seemingly more comfortable than the one she would probably share with her mother this night, if Father Paulus would ever let her stand up again. It was a good thing—with his wounded back Nicholas would need all the comfort he could find.

Bogo would see to it, doubtless. Perhaps he’d find a soft, plump serving maid to further his comfort. From her limited experience, it seemed to Julianna that men, all men, were desirous of women no matter what their condition, be they whole or wounded, fool or wise man.

She shook her head again, to drive the notion away once more. She wouldn’t think of Nicholas again. With luck, she wouldn’t even see him again. Father Paulus seemed to believe she would be best living in retreat, speaking to no one and seeing no one. That would suit her splendidly.

It seemed like hours before the priest finally finished his interminable haranguing with a disobedient God. When it seemed the abbot was finally satisfied that the Almighty had gotten his instructions, he rose, his bones creaking.

“Go and sin no more,” he said abruptly. And it took a moment for Julianna to realize that he’d finally left them, alone in the chapel.

She scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stiff and aching body. Lady Isabeau was moving more slowly, and after a moment’s hesitation Julianna moved to her side, holding out a hand to help her.

For a moment Isabeau didn’t move, looking up at her daughter with a quizzical expression in her brown eyes, so like the very ones Julianna saw in her own reflection. And then she put her small, soft hand in Julianna’s, letting her draw her to her feet.

“I don’t think my husband is going to be happy with the abbot,” she said in a quiet voice.

For some reason a part of Julianna’s anger had vanished. Perhaps it was simply the act of sharing the last few unpleasant minutes that had lessened some of her resentment. “Then he’ll get rid of him, and we’ll all be a great deal more comfortable,” Julianna said.

“I’m afraid not. The abbot of Saint Hugelina was sent by the king, and one can’t disobey the king’s edicts without expecting retribution. He’s here to stay. As is the king’s fool.”

And Julianna wasn’t certain which one made her more uneasy.

Three hours later she lay beside her sleeping mother, watching the shadows flicker over the tapestried walls of the room they shared. There had been little conversation between them on the long walk back from the chapel, and once in the room the serving women had been there to undress them and brush their hair, chattering cheerfully of the upcoming wedding and what a fine, manly man Hugh of Fortham was, how he’d beget many strong sons.

Isabeau had sat very still beneath their ministrations, saying nothing, and when she’d climbed into the bed in her long shift, her golden hair braided in one thick plait, she’d looked like a little girl, younger than her own daughter. By the time Julianna climbed into the high bed, Isabeau was breathing the deep sighs of sleep, and the two chattering servants had lain down on pallets outside the door.

Julianna lay in bed, sleepless, listening to her mother breathe, listening to the snores of the servants nearby, listening to the sound of the wind beyond the shuttered window as it beat against the rocky foundations of the castle.

She told herself she missed the gentle hills of Moncrieff, missed the household she had ruled so well. But in truth, she only missed Agnes and her children. Moncrieff had always belonged to her husband, and while the people had loved her, they had known she wasn’t truly one of them.

She didn’t belong here either. And her family home was long gone. She had three paths open to her. She could stay in her mother’s household as a dependent, growing old and useless. She could be wed to another man, though a match seemed unlikely, given her inability to bear children. Or she could beg her mother or Lord Hugh to pay her entry to a convent, where she’d learn to be silent and dutiful and no man would ever touch her again.

Or she could run away. Bundle up her meager belongings, the few jewels that she owned, and take off into the autumn night. She could join the gypsies, or even better, leave with the traveling mummers who came for Christmas revels, and no one would ever find her.

It was a strangely beguiling thought. To dress in costumes and masks and bells and wander the countryside…

In sudden horror she thought of just who fit that description far too well. Nicholas Strangefellow would have been just such an itinerant entertainer until he’d caught the eye of a king and found himself a comfortable living.

But she was too tired to fight the notion. It was already growing light beyond the shutters, and she closed her eyes, drifting into the faintly alarming dream. No one would ever know—she could weave the most bizarre fantasies and soothe herself into a long-denied sleep.

They would travel on foot, of course, since he was afraid of horses. The children would walk with them, except for the little ones. She’d carry one in her arms; he’d have the next oldest on his back. And they’d sing, quite loudly, in the still, empty forests, and dance for their supper, and when winter came they would find a spot at some rich lord’s castle, perhaps in
Spain or
Normandy
, and speak in rhymes and songs and never want for anything.

And he would kiss her, quite sweetly. She wasn’t going to think about what else he would do in order to get those children, because in truth she knew there would be no children for her. While she was eschewing reality she could dismiss it with a vengeance, and lie in his arms and smile.

It was a silly dream, madness, of course. But it soothed her like a mother’s lullaby, and just as the household was stirring she finally slept.

And dreamed of kissing a fool.

The morning of the wedding dawned clear and frosty, and Julianna awoke, still exhausted from her fitful sleep, to find she was alone in the bed, alone in the room. The shutters were still closed, but she could see a gloomy daylight beyond the ill-fitting wooden planks. A castle should have tight-fitting shutters to keep out the wind and the light, she thought, not moving, her housewifely urges coming to the fore.

But she had no house, she was no wife, and if she wanted an air-tight room she could stuff rags in the cracks, or wait for her mother to notice. In the past Isabeau had been a wise and diligent doyenne, but ten years had passed, and Julianna’s memory might be faulty.

As well as her current perceptions, she thought with an unwanted trace of fairness. For ten years she had blamed her mother for not protecting her, for not caring enough to save her from a horrible marriage. For the first time Julianna was beginning to consider the possibility that perhaps it wasn’t lack of concern, but the simple inability to stop her stubborn father once he had his mind made up.

It was something to consider, whether she wanted to or not. Isabeau of Peckham might not be the heartless, abandoning mother Julianna had believed her to be. At the very least, Julianna owed her courtesy. And perhaps even a trace of friendliness on her wedding day.

She climbed down off the bed and moved across the floor to the shuttered window, pushing it open to reveal an overcast day. The courtyard lay below her, bustling with activity. She could see Isabeau’s new husband, storming past everyone in seemingly no good humor. Isabeau was nowhere in sight, but perhaps she was offering up prayers for her upcoming marriage. She must be thanking heaven that the abbot had forbidden her access to the marriage bed, though she hadn’t said anything about it. If Julianna could only be sure of just such a prohibition, she might view the thought of another marriage with more equanimity.

Not that it made sense. Marriage was for property and procreation, and as far as Julianna knew there was no other way to conceive children. She should be safe enough—she had no property and no ability to procreate. In truth, she was nothing but a liability.

Not that Isabeau had had property—upon her husband’s death, the king had promptly taken possession of it, but in return he’d provided a decent dowry for Isabeau. Julianna lived in fear that he’d decide to do the same for her.

She dressed herself before one of her mother’s servants could reappear, plaiting her thick hair tightly and covering it with an enveloping veil, and thanked heaven her clothes were all plain and demure. She wanted nothing to call attention to the bride’s widowed daughter. At least Father Paulus would have no cause to complain, though she had no idea how she would manage to spend five hours a day on her knees, repenting of sins she couldn’t imagine.

She was far-sighted—a disadvantage with needlework but a decided gift in spotting who was down in the courtyard, unaware that she was watching. She could see Bogo, Nicholas’s servant, sneaking around the side of the courtyard, and she could see Lord Hugh’s men training, even on such a festive day.

And her gaze sharpened as she looked down on the tall, unexpectedly graceful form of Nicholas the Fool, dressed in brightly colored, mismatched clothes, moving through the crowds for all the world as if his back weren’t a raw mass of welts. She could almost think she heard the tiny bells on one sleeve, but she knew there was no way such a sound could travel so far upward over the clashing noise of swordplay and the shouts of the knights.

She watched him from her tower perch, unseen, as he moved among the men. And then he stopped, turned, and looked up, directly at her tower window, as if he knew she was watching him.

Of course he could have no idea what he was looking for, she reassured herself as she shrank back into the embrasure. The tower was a maze of windows, and few people were as gifted as she was with good eyesight. Even if he saw a figure at a window, he wouldn’t know it was she, and he could never be sure exactly what someone was looking at in the crowded courtyard. She had nothing to be worried about.

She leaned forward again, peering out the window, her thick braids brushing the stone outcropping. He was still staring upward, directly at her window, it seemed. As she reappeared a broad, wicked smile crossed his face, and he blew her a kiss.

Julianna stumbled backward, tripping over her voluminous shift. So he might know a woman was watching him.

He certainly wouldn’t have been able to tell it was Julianna. And if by any chance he could, she would simply say she wanted to make sure he was healing properly after her ministrations, and…

She sank down beside the fire, putting her cool hands on her flaming face. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Was the man a magician as well as a clown? They said that some fools had special powers, to heal, among other things. Was Master Nicholas acquainted with the black arts? Surely there must be some explanation for her unusual response to him?

Then again, she’d never met a fool before. Perhaps they were all able to work charms on people, and therein lay their power. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. The sooner Master Nicholas returned to the king, the happier she would be. Unless she was lucky enough to leave first.

She wasn’t coming back to the window again, and Nicholas shrugged, moving away with a jaunty whistle. He was enjoying himself far more than he had expected during this exile, all because of a quiet lady with frightened eyes. He was normally a fast healer, but he was feeling surprisingly good, given the damage the saintly abbot of Saint Hugelina had inflicted on his all-too-human flesh. That was one debt he had every intention of repaying before he was finished here, Nicholas thought with a faint, predatory smile.

And finishing here had become a high priority. He’d been in residence one day only, and already he was missing his life. He had a very clear plan for what he wanted, and it didn’t include wasting time at a small, strategic fortress at the backside of nowhere.

It didn’t include spending years at the beck and call of a capricious sovereign either. He’d served Henry well. With luck, if he carried off this latest task, he would be able to claim his reward and be free.

Very few people were free nowadays—even the king had obligations and people to answer to. But Nicholas prided himself on being far more clever than the king, and he had no doubt that he’d be able to achieve anything he wanted, particularly when his wants were relatively modest.

King Henry wanted the blessed chalice, and Nicholas would deliver it to him, with the help of whatever confederate Henry had chosen to send on ahead of him. He had only a short time to accomplish it—Henry wasn’t known for his patience—but accomplish it he would. And he would use Julianna of Moncrieff to do it.

He’d originally thought to seduce Lady Isabeau. A simple enough plan—Isabeau was lovely, fragile, and clearly the light of Lord Hugh’s life. If he were betrayed by his new bride, his common sense would desert him, leaving him vulnerable to Henry’s greed. And the saints knew it would be no hardship for Nicholas—Lady Isabeau was beautiful, tender, and not many years older than he was. He could enjoy himself tremendously in the bargain.

But during the long hours of last night he’d come up with a far better plan. Seducing a lady away from a virile new husband was not an impossible task, but seducing the lady’s beloved, newly widowed daughter would distress the mother, which in turn would worry the husband. And while he enjoyed dalliance as well as the next man, he had a particular interest in getting beneath Julianna of Moncrieff ‘s drab skirts.

She wouldn’t know the weaknesses of her stepfather’s household any more than his new wife would, and her knowledge of the Blessed Chalice would be nil. It didn’t matter. She was a curious soul, and he could prime her to find out what she could without ever realizing she was being manipulated. He could count on Bogo to weasel his way around the castle and seek out its vulnerabilities, while he himself concentrated on the nobles within. Human, emotional strategies were far more interesting than battle tactics.

He threw back his head, not bothering to wince as a stray shaft of pain shot through his back. The serving women by the well were watching him, and he gave them an exaggerated bow, the tiny silver bells jingling.

The women giggled, whispering among themselves, and he immediately picked out the most bedable—a buxom, saucy creature with the mouth of a woman who knew about pleasure. If Julianna took too long to seduce, he could always manage to assuage his hunger with this one.

An older woman leaned over, whispering in the girl’s ear. Probably warning her about the dangers of giving birth to a by-blown idiot, or that fools were cursed with deformed equipment that caused pain rather than pleasure. She shook off the warnings, bless her, and winked at him.

To hell with Julianna, he thought, taking a step toward her, when Bogo caught his arm in a none-too-gentle grip. “There’s no time for that,” he whispered. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

“There’s always time,” Nicholas drawled, turning to look down into Bogo’s swarthy face.

“She’ll keep,” Bogo said. “This won’t. Gilbert de Blaith is here.”

This was interesting news indeed. “Henry has sent Gilbert on ahead of us? How very interesting. Does Lord Hugh have any idea what kind of viper he’s nursing in his bosom?”

“Apparently his lordship is fond of the lad. Sees him as a son. He’s been here for quite a while now, worming his way into the household.”

“Which young Gilbert does so well,” Nicholas murmured. “I wonder why Henry saw fit to send us as well? After all, Gilbert’s talent with a blade is unequaled. If Henry wants a simple assassination, then he has no need of my particular gifts.”

“Who knows what goes on in the minds of kings?” Bogo muttered.

“Very true. Did young Gilbert see you?”

“I don’t think so. But he knows we’re here—you’re the talk of the household. They’ve never seen an idiot before.”

Nicholas smiled faintly. “I take leave to doubt that. It’s more of a trick to find someone who’s not a total idiot.”

“I don’t like that Father Paulus neither,” Bogo said darkly. “There’s something not quite right about him.”

“I can’t say I’ve developed any great fondness for him. I’ll tell you what, you can cut his throat if you want when we’re finished. I’m sure the saintly man will count it a blessing. Hurrying him up to heaven.”

“I doubt that’s where he’s going,” Bogo said. “And I’ve got better uses for my blade. Leave it to someone like Gilbert, who enjoys it.”