Lord of My Heart (20 page)

She wanted to cry,
Why not?
But now she knew why. The Baddersley people knew him as Golden Hart, and one of them was a traitor who might recognize him and betray him to the king. No, she reminded herself, Golden Hart was the traitor. The informer was true to King William. She couldn’t want to marry a traitor. She couldn’t.

He read her face. His thumb stopped its tender movement, and his face set hard. “I admit you have a wanton power over me, demoiselle, but I still despise you. Don’t think you can marry me and rule me with lust.”

Madeleine pushed free of him and turned away to fight her tears. “I have no intention of choosing you. I’m going to marry Stephen.”

He spun her back, studied her searchingly, then nodded. “Good,” he said grimly.

They just stood there.

She looked at him and saw a faery prince, a tender outlaw, a cruel traitor. .

He looked at her and saw a dusky maiden, a wanton wench, a cruel bitch.

They frowned at each other as their bodies swayed irresistibly closer . . .

Someone cleared a throat.

They broke apart and looked around to see Count Guy surveying them. “You have made your choice, demoiselle?” he asked dryly.

Aimery and Madeleine looked at each other. Their eyes held for a moment before he turned on his heel and stalked over to his horse. “She’s made me very happy,” he said. “She’s going to marry Stephen.”

With that he rode away and took all Madeleine’s hopes of happiness with him.

He helped her into the saddle, and they moved off. Count Guy said, “Did he hurt you?” and she could sense the anger in him. It would be easy to get revenge by saying yes and letting this man punish his son, which he surely would.

Revenge for what?

“I can’t answer that,” she said accurately.

“Demoiselle,” said the count sharply, “it is clear there is more to this situation than I know, but it is your life you are deciding here, yours and that of my son. I ask you to take care.”

“I know it!” she exclaimed. “But what am I to do?” She turned to him in appeal. “Will the king give me more time? More choices?”

Count Guy shook his head. “He has many other matters on his mind, Lady Madeleine. This one must be settled.”

They rejoined the rest of the hunt, which had halted for refreshment. Aimery was with his brother. As Madeleine swung off her horse, she was the focus of curious glances, but nothing was said. Both Odo and Stephen looked sour, but when she made no attempt to join their rival they relaxed.

Stephen soon sauntered over to her side, stroking the hawk on his wrist. With grim determination she smiled at him. As Aimery had said, what did a little philandering matter? It would mean he’d be less often in her bed.

“This is fine country,” he commented, and couldn’t totally hide the greed in the remark.

“Yes,” she admitted, “it is beautiful.”

“And fortunately not in a royal forest. The lord here may actually hunt his own deer.” He might as well have said, “
I
will be able to hunt my own deer.” Madeleine told herself he was her only choice and worked on her smile.

“That is very fortunate,” she said. “Mismanaged as the manor has been, I fear we will need to hunt to survive this winter. Perhaps we can sell extra venison to buy corn and other necessities.”

She saw him note the “we” and preen. “Surely the place must produce enough to feed the people,” he said idly, as his eyes took possession of her. “They seem few enough.”

“But we need more,” she responded, then realized she’d taken a step backward under the pressure of that covetous look. This would never do. She planted her feet firmly in place. “They will have to be fed over the winter.”

He shrugged that off. “They’ll keep themselves. They always manage somehow or other, like wild beasts.” He stepped closer, and she made herself stay still. He put a hand on her arm and looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry, my angel, I’ll—”

A heron flapped up from the nearby river. With a cry of excitement he turned and loosed his peregrine. Now all his attention was on his bird’s flight. It was as well, Madeleine thought wryly, she did not seek his devotion.

She was rather touched by that charming endearment, “my angel,” but knew she was relieved that the intimate moment had been cut short. She could not wipe away the thought that if ...
when
she married him tomorrow it would be carried through to its natural conclusion. His tongue would invade her mouth, his hand touch her breast, and she could not imagine that it would bring the magic she had experienced in other arms.

Her eyes hungrily sought Aimery de Gaillard and easily stripped him naked to her faery prince . . .

She reminded herself sternly that there was more to marriage than two bodies in a bed. Stephen would be a good husband . . . Then she remembered his casual attitude toward the welfare of the people. At least, she thought desperately, he was loyal to the king.

His bird overshot, and the heron was snared by another hawk. When the bird returned to his wrist he said, “Dogsmeat,” in a peevish tone and shoved its hood on roughly.

Madeleine gritted her teeth. She must stop focusing on his lesser qualities. No man was perfect. She had at least learned that lesson.

She would go to the king now, announce her decision, and have it done.

The huntsmen had found the best and most dangerous sport—wild boar. Two sows and ten well-grown sounders were penned in by the snarling dogs. A feast if they could all be killed. The men surged forward on horseback to hem the beasts in further. The long boar spears were grabbed from the servants. Madeleine hung back. She had no suitable weapon, and an angry boar was a dangerous beast. Its tusks were razor sharp, and it knew no fear of man.

The squealing sounders were easily speared from horseback, but the two adults would have to be taken on foot. There was no other way to kill a full-grown boar. Men cried out for the honor of making the kill, but the king flashed a wolfish smile at Madeleine and called on Odo and Aimery de Gaillard to make the kill.

She was supposed to view this as part of the test, but of course it was irrelevant. She was going to marry Stephen.

Both men swung off their horses and took a spear. Madeleine thought Odo looked anxious, and he had cause. Men were often killed by boar. As if to prove her point, a hound lunged in too close. Tusks slashed, blood sprayed, and the hound screamed as it was thrown aside, mortally wounded.

A huntsman quickly slit the beast’s throat.

Madeleine swallowed and fixed her eyes on Aimery. He showed no nervousness, but she was terrified for him. He was a couple of inches shorter than Odo, and lighter. His easy movements suggested agility, but she found it hard to imagine him withstanding the charge of an enraged boar.

“What fun!” Madeleine looked to her side and found Stephen there, bright-eyed and flushed with excitement. He carried a dead sounder on his spear like a trophy, blood running down onto his hand. “Perfect kill,” he announced.

What skill did it take, she wondered, to spear a piglet? “What a shame you don’t have a chance to take one of the sows,” said Madeleine, turning her attention back to the action ahead.

He laughed. “Such bloody work. Perhaps the animals will kill off my opposition, though, and here I am with you while they’re down there sweating.”

Madeleine glanced at him with a frown. She couldn’t imagine Stephen enjoying dirty, sweaty work, and that was what Baddersley would demand. She looked away quickly before she thought of anything else about him to disappoint her.

The boar were maddened by the circle of shouting men, and by the slaughter of their offspring, but hadn’t chosen a target yet. They charged a few steps one way, then another. Sometimes they ran at the horses, which were danced out of the way. The horsemen were careful, however, never to leave an escape route.

The hot little eyes turned left and right, the long, wicked tusks quivered, and froth ran off their jaws.

Aimery called and shook his spear to snare the attention of one of the beasts. It worked. The smaller one fixed its gaze on him and his flashing jerkin.

It dug up the woodland floor with its sharp hooves, then charged. But a sudden move by Odo deflected the animal to him. Hastily, Odo lowered his spear and braced it in the ground, angled to take the animal clean in the chest. Aimery turned his attention to the other animal. He shouted again, but it would not charge. He stepped closer, all his attention on the beast.

Madeleine’s heart was thundering. She flicked a glance at Odo. The raging boar was hurtling toward him. He looked calm, but at the last moment he backed away slightly and flinched. The spear caught in the shoulder instead of the chest. The impaled animal squealed and thrashed. Odo hung on, but was swept sideways and crashed into Aimery.

Madeleine cried out as Aimery was knocked to the ground. The snakes on his jerkin flashed fire as he rolled through a shaft of sunlight. The other beast finally charged.

Men shouted to distract it, but the tusks were aimed at the glittering target on the ground, and the beast was deaf to all. Even as men leaped down to plunge swords into the wounded sow and still it, Aimery rolled to his knees and brought his spear between himself and the animal.

There was no time to brace it.

The spear bit true into the center of the chest. The animal’s own speed carried it squealing up the weapon to the cross bar, blood gushing from wound and mouth. Under that force, however, Aimery couldn’t maintain his hold. The spear burned through his grip until his hands crashed against the cross-bar, against the muscular, thrashing body.

In a final malevolent death spasm the boar tossed its head. A tusk ripped into the back of Aimery’s right hand and rose, a flashing gold bracelet captured in gory, Pyrrhic victory.

Silence, then an outcry as people ran forward.

Madeleine sat stunned. If he were dead . . . He could not be dead. Surely an animal so close to death must be weak.

“Definitely glad I missed that honor,” said de Faix cheerfully. “Shall we ride down to the river, my angel, and look for more fowl?”

Madeleine stared at him. “I might be called upon to help,” she said, only then realizing it was her duty to offer assistance. She urged her mare forward.

The group of men parted, and she saw Aimery de Gaillard on his feet, a cloth roughly wound around his hand and arm. It was heavily bloodstained, and he looked pale, but the wound could surely not be too serious. Relief turned her dizzy.

“Lord Aimery must return to Baddersley and have his wound attended to,” said the king. “His father and brother will accompany him, but will you go with him, too, Lady Madeleine? I understand you have training in medicine.”

“Of course, sire.” She could swear de Gaillard looked as if he would protest. Surely, she thought sadly, he could not detest her so much he would not let her tend a wound.

“Do your best,” said the king heartily. “I need every loyal right hand available.” With that the hunt rode off. Madeleine reflected on the king’s parting words and wondered if it was her duty to botch her treatment so as to deprive a traitor of his sword hand. When had she become so certain that Aimery de Gaillard masqueraded as a Saxon outlaw?

In his arms, when her senses spoke undeniable truth . . .

Leo fussed as he helped his brother onto his horse.

“Give up, Leo,” said Aimery with a sigh. “You’re as bad as Mother.” He turned to Madeleine. “It’s not a deep wound, Lady Madeleine. There’s no need for you to sacrifice a day’s sport over it.”

All her bitterness returned. He’d made himself perfectly clear earlier. “It’s no sacrifice,” she said flatly. “I am pleased to have an excuse to return to Baddersley, but your hand can rot for all I care.”

Without a word he turned his horse and headed back toward the castle. Leo moved to ride at Aimery’s side, and Count Guy accompanied Madeleine.

Count Guy was studying her. His hand went to his wrist, and she saw he had placed Aimery’s bracelet there. He pulled it open and passed it to her.

He offered no explanation, but Madeleine was disinclined or unwilling to question the strange act. The bracelet was warm from Count Guy’s body, and very heavy. The gold was nearly half-an-inch thick at the wrist edge, and yet it had been buckled by the boar’s tusk. That had doubtless saved Aimery’s arm. The bracelet had been roughly cleaned but still had traces of blood on it—his or the boar’s.

“It looks old,” she said. “It is very beautiful.”

“It is old,” said Count Guy. “And valuable. And dangerous. It is an ancient jewel of Mercia, given to Aimery by Hereward, who is a traitor to the King of England. Hereward also gave him his sword, much of his thinking, and the ring he wears on his right hand. The ring on his left comes from William, to whom he has sworn absolute loyalty on the cross. His rank and most of his training come from me. He is a man struggling under too many allegiances, demoiselle. I have tried to break his ties to some of them, but it is impossible. One day they may tear him apart.”

It was as good as an admission that his son was a traitor. “Why do you tell me this?” she asked. “It does not make him an attractive husband in troubled times.”

His green eyes, so like his son’s, were direct. “As I said before, I understand nothing and I hope I am wise enough to realize it. You should know what you are dealing with.”

“I will not choose him,” she said and meant it. She would not marry a traitor.

He nodded. “That is your right. And judging from what I have witnessed, it may be wise.”

When they arrived back at Baddersley, Aimery again tried to dissuade Madeleine from tending to his hand. “This bandage has stopped the bleeding,” he insisted. “There’s no need to disturb it.”

He appeared pale and tense, which wasn’t surprising in view of the blood he had lost and the pain he must be suffering. She wondered if he was already afflicted by wound-fever, for he was making little sense. Despite her angry words earlier, she could not let a man die in her house of wound-poison.

Leo snorted. “He’s always been a terrible coward.”

“Stop this foolishness,” said Count Guy. “Let Lady Madeleine see to it. An animal wound can easily fester.”

With a foul look at his family, Aimery snapped, “So be it, but I’m not going to have witnesses when I cry. Go away.”

With humorous looks, the two older men obeyed.

They were alone. Madeleine flashed Aimery a wary glance, but he was clearly not in any state for amorous attack. She called for clean water, both cold and hot, and led him to her room where she kept her medical supplies.

“Sit by the window in the light,” she said crisply, then realized she was still clutching his bracelet. She handed it to him. He laid it carelessly on a shelf, then sat as she had directed.

“Take off the bandage, please.”

He did so, ripping the last sticky part off without hesitation. She leaned close to study the wound. Though he appeared calm, she could sense tension in him, but ignored it. Many a brave man feared the healer’s touch.

Madeleine concentrated on her task. It was a messy wound, but not serious unless it festered. The tusk had ripped a finger’s length up the back of his hand and arm through a skin design. What the design was there was no way to tell, and it was unlikely ever to be quite the same again.

As he’d said, the gash wasn’t deep, doubtless because the bracelet had absorbed most of the force. There was a bruised welt where the top edge had bit into him before it was wrenched free, but that would heal of itself. A weaker arm would have broken in that struggle, however. She was very aware of the muscular strength of the arm under inspection.

“Have you full movement in your arm?” she asked.

Obediently he moved elbow and wrist. Fine muscles moved sleekly under the skin. The movement caused some bleeding, but not a dangerous, gushing flow.

“It will do well, I think. I just need to clean and stitch it.” She rose to instruct the servants who had brought the water.

When they left he said, “Don’t stitch it.”

“You’ll have an ugly scar,” she objected. “It would stiffen your wrist. If I stitch it, it may heal very well.”

“I don’t want it stitched.”

Madeleine stared at him in exasperation. The great and noble warrior was scared. She walked briskly out into the hall. “Count Guy,” she said, “your son refuses to let me stitch his wound, and it must be stitched.”

Guy raised his brows but returned with her. As soon as Aimery saw him, he looked as if he’d like to throttle someone, doubtless her.

Count Guy studied the wound and grimaced. “It must certainly be stitched. No more nonsense, Aimery.”

Aimery sighed. “Very well.” His father nodded and left.

Madeleine frowned at her patient. He’d given up the argument at a word. Strange man. She poured him some mead. It wouldn’t make the process more comfortable, but it might soothe his nerves.

She set St. John’s wort and pimpernel to steep in mead in one pot, and soaked iris root, fenugreek, moon-wort, and dwayle in honey and hot water in the other. Then she took a clean cloth, dipped it in water, and gently cleaned the edges of the wound, waiting anxiously for him to flinch or even strike out. Perhaps she should call for his very large brother to hold him when it came to the stitching.

A glance showed her he looked, if anything, preoccupied with other matters.

With a shrug she lifted the mead decoction. “This will sting,” she warned. She gripped his wrist and angled his arm downward, then poured some of the fluid to stream down the wound. His fist clenched and he caught his breath, but he made no attempt to wrench away. Feeling those muscles flex, she knew she would have had no way of stopping him.