Purebred (2 page)

His wife kept her eyes on her bowl,
her hands cupped around it. Nothing about her calm expression
suggested she even heard her husband's insults.

"Then why don't you?" Alonso asked,
setting down his cup. He knew the answer, of course, for Louvet
talked of it almost every night.

"She's a witch," the Baron hissed,
leaning closer. "She keeps a doll of me and stabs it full of pins
to keep me in these agonies every day. If I sent her back to her
father, who knows what she would do."

Alonso struggled to hide his smile.
"Mayhap she would be glad to go home. She does not seem content
here."

"No woman is ever content, d'Anzeray.
They're all miserable wretches. No, no, I gave her father fifty
head of cattle in exchange for the woman. He won't want her back
again. So I must make the best of it."

The Baron's wife raised a cloth to her
lips and dabbed them dry with a stiff, dainty gesture. She had long
fingers with clean nails and soft, smooth, pale skin. Her eyes were
a very light shade of green, her lips a fragile pink. Since she
always wore a wimple Alonso would never have known how dark her
hair was until he saw it that day when she stood at her chamber
window with her long, wet locks spilled over her shoulders. It was
a shocking discovery. All that lush, sable extravagance tumbling
around her solemn face had made him stare up at her longer than he
should.

He remembered thinking her plain the
first time he saw her. But that was months ago. Now, each time he
looked at her prim face he found something new and interesting.
Almost as if she revealed herself slowly to him, piece by teasing
piece. Today, standing at her chamber window she had let him see
her hair. He knew what a concession that must be for such a tightly
bound young woman of noble birth. To let him, a mere mercenary
soldier — a man whose existence she barely lowered herself to
acknowledge— see all the luxury of her thick, dark hair, that alone
was improper.

Then she dropped her fleece and he saw
her naked body, from head to thigh. He should have looked away. But
Alonso was not the sort to deny himself pleasure. He lived his
life, each day and night, to its fullest and made no apology for
it.

She showed. He looked. Why she showed
him he had no idea; why he looked was obvious.

The Baron proclaimed her to be a witch
who had sewn his soul up in a straw doll, cast a spell upon his
manhood, and robbed him of the ability to mount her. Alonso had
always dismissed the story as drunken rambling. He didn't believe
in witchcraft.

Not until today, that is.

He was more ready to believe it now,
after seeing her stand nude at that window. For what man with his
parts in working order would not have impregnated this fine woman
by now? The Baron apparently enjoyed tupping with other women about
the place and only his lady wife remained untouched. It did seem as
if she might somehow be keeping her husband at bay
deliberately.

Yes, she was very thin, but with a
little care and good food that would change. And she was tall with
long bones, which suggested she was naturally slender. It seemed
cruel of the Baron to constantly insult her about her figure. But
then, if it bothered her she would eat more. Her appetite was
meager to say the least. If she ate more, he mused, the Lady Isobel
might be a happier person in general. She might—heaven
forbid—actually smile once in a while.

Well, that was none of Alonso's
business. He was there to rout persistent rebels from the Baron's
land and collect his good fee. That was all.

The Lady Isobel, a woman with
challenge in her eyes and apparently ice in her veins, was no
concern of his.

"My wife holds my balls over a candle
every night," Louvet complained in his ear. "I mean, the balls she
has sewn on that doll. 'Tis why I can't take a piss without it
burning."

Alonso picked at his teeth with a
slender strip of bone. "Why not take the thing away from her then?
This doll she made."

"She keeps it hidden. I know not
where."

"Make her give it to you. She is your
wife and as such she must obey you."

"Ah, to you it seems simple, eh? But
you have no witch for a wife."

He chuckled. "True. Nor will I ever. I
prefer obedient, sweet-tempered wenches who know when to be
grateful for the hand they've been dealt and don't think themselves
too grand to be touched. A wife would never keep me from her bed,
doll or nay."

She must have heard that for she
glanced his way very slightly and her green eyes flickered with
disgust.

"I'd soon have her tamed." Alonso
expelled a low, rumbling, satisfying burp. "And bred."

Louvet croaked with laughter, wine
leaking out of his mouth and down his beard. "I daresay you would,
young scoundrel. But I was once like you too and now look at me.
Old and broken before my time, all my fine days lost to history.
Make the most of your youth, d'Anzeray. We none of us keep it for
long."

Alonso looked over the other man's
head and saw Lady Isobel's lips purse, her eyelids lower wearily.
She was, he'd heard, a daughter of the Duc de Bressange. Her mother
was a descendent of Charlemagne. Her uncles filled seats at the
king's court, and one of her brothers had married a daughter of the
Count of Anjou. Her lineage was impeccable. And she knew
it.

Every pert sigh and scornful glimmer
made her superior status clear without a word passing her
lips.

How she came to be sent there to marry
Louvet, a man twice her age and half her family's consequence, was
something of a mystery. Alonso, familiar with the dealings of
noblemen, suspected Louvet must have called in a favor, or else had
something with which to blackmail Bressange into giving away his
daughter. Whatever the reason for her presence there, she was
plainly resentful of it.

Perhaps he
could
imagine her
thrusting sharp pins into a small effigy of her drunkard husband,
he thought, darkly amused.

When a page brought her a tray of
fruit, she dismissed it with a terse shake of her head. She had
barely eaten anything but broth all evening. He wondered if the
pious lady was fasting again. Alonso had seen her once —when she
thought no one was looking—nibble like a mouse at the sweet crust
of a pie before she sent it away. He'd witnessed the guilty gleam
in her eyes. It was as if she punished herself for some
reason.

"You have not congratulated us on
today's victory over the rebels, Lady Isobel," he called out to her
boldly, determined to make her look at him tonight.

"I think you congratulate yourself
enough to make up for it," she muttered, her eyes focused across
the hall to where the minstrels played. "I fail to see any good
cause to shriek with joy every time men spill more blood in the
name of conquest. How clever you are to subdue your enemy by
silencing them forever. I would be more impressed if you learned to
live together in peace."

It was rare for the lady to speak up
this much with her opinions. He wondered why she did so tonight.
Why she revealed yet more of herself to him in this way. Perhaps
the rains that came that day and ended the dry spell had brought
new life to her as it did to the land. Everything was revived by
the rain.

Except the Baron. Between them her
husband slumped drowsily in his chair, humming to himself, lost in
his own world.

"Some do not even bother to learn the
Saxon tongue," she continued. "Without some effort of communication
we may as well all be beasts. Why bother with clothes and laws and
churches? The Saxons are people too. They are not ignorant animals,
and yet that is how they have been treated. Rounded up and
slaughtered, their homes and fields burned." She shot her
inattentive husband a quick, disdainful glance and then looked away
again. "I have seen it many times in my years here."

Alonso's eyes narrowed as he watched
the woman over her husband's bowed head. "It appears you favor the
Saxon cause over your own people, Lady Isobel."

"A sweet accusation indeed," she
replied swiftly, "from a man whose loyalty is bought and paid for,
who would fight for anyone offering the right price."

"I am Norman."

"But not full blood." At last she
turned to look fully at him. "You are part Spaniard, are you not?
And god — or the devil—only knows what else you might
be."

"Aha! Been asking about me, have you?"
He grinned.

"It was not necessary to ask. Your
reputation preceded you."

"A word of advice, my lady...believe
everything you hear. And more besides. Even worse and wicked
things." He winked.

Scornful, she looked away
again.

The Baron sighed. "A witch, d'Anzeray,
mark my words. Never wed a witch or you'll be stuck, afeared to be
rid of her for what spells she might conjure in
retaliation."

"Don't they burn witches?" Alonso
muttered gruffly, sliding another sly glance at her.

"Not when they are daughters of the
Duc de Bressange," came the bitter retort.

He curbed the urge to laugh. "I will
certainly pay heed to your advice and never marry a
witch."

"Never marry at all. Stay free and
unfettered. Spread your seed where you may."

Alonso held out his cup for more wine
from the serving wench. "Well, I am already married, Baron Louvet.
Perhaps you've heard."

Again the Lady Isobel's interest was
piqued. In his peripheral vision he saw her pause with her fingers
in the water bowl.

"I have two wives," he reminded the
Baron. "I share with my brothers."

The lady's lips parted in a crisp,
haughty sigh, and she flicked her fingers rapidly in the
petal-scented water.

"Ah, yes," the Baron exclaimed. "Two
wives. You young men must be gluttons for punishment."

"We haven't finished yet."

"But tell me, d'Anzeray...these
wives..." The older man blinked, tried resting his chin on his
knuckles and almost punched himself in the jaw instead. "They do
not mind the sharing? They do not sulk and whine?"

"Why would they? They have seven
husbands to protect them and fulfill their every need. They have no
cause to complain. Believe me, they are kept well
content."

Louvet considered this for a while,
his wine-soaked mind struggling over the concept of keeping a
multitude of wives. Finally he said, "I wish you well of it, but
this venture of collecting brides sounds like a great deal of work
to me. One wife has nearly put me in my grave as it is."

Alonso caught the sliver of a wry
smile bending the Lady Isobel's lips, but she hid it hastily in her
wine. Louvet was too drunk to notice, but he was not. Alonso would
never tolerate a disrespectful woman. Too many times had he
witnessed this woman's prideful manner and the contempt for her
husband, which she took no pains to hide. Clearly she'd been
permitted too much rein. Superstitious, ignorant Louvet was afraid
to reprimand her because of this foolish belief of witchcraft. A
belief she apparently kept alive and flourishing, never even trying
to deny it.

"You find your husband's ailments
amusing, madam?" he asked, irritated by her smug face.

"No," came the steady reply. "Just
your shameless boasting."

Oh, that pricked his temper further,
but she was not yet done.

"It seems you choose women
who are easily pleased if they can be kept content with the little
bit of
your
attention that can be spared away from yourself and your own
wondrous deeds."

"When I am with a woman I give her all
of my attention, Lady Isobel," he replied, terse.

She rolled her eyes. "How lucky for
her."

Alonso was incensed. She
might have got away with this behavior in the past, but she would
not do so in his presence. "Lucky for
you
, my lady, that you are not one
of my wenches."

To that she had no answer, but if he
was not mistaken her cheeks had flushed.

"Be wary, d'Anzeray," the Baron
mumbled, "or she might make a doll of you too."

He smirked. "I suppose she has the
time on her hands to waste. I prefer real playmates."

Pity she was another man's wife, he
mused. He might have enjoyed awakening Lady Isobel to pleasures
beyond her sheltered experience and teaching her that there were
other ways to keep a man under her spell than pretending to seal
his soul in a pin cushion.

Chapter Two

It was late, and she should have been
abed, sleeping, but Isobel was restless. Gentle rain had begun to
fall again, but it was too light, too soft, more of a mist than
separate drops. She waited for the hard, thrusting downpour that
must surely come soon and had been hinted at all day in the clouds.
There were no stars that night and perhaps this added to her sense
of being smothered by the waiting dark. The usual wide expanse of
sky, peppered with gleaming stars, was not visible tonight. All was
still, silent, heavy with portent.