The Reckoning - 3 (4 page)

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who had believed in Simon, she was a fitting mate for one who'd soared so high, and they embellished her story until it took on epic proportions, until no oneperhaps not even Nellcould distinguish the woman from the myth.
The sun was high overhead as they rode into the convent garth. The nunnery was small and secluded, an incongruous setting for a woman who'd lived most of her life on center stage. Their arrival stirred up immediate excitement, and by the time they reached the stables, Bran's squire was awaiting them. Hugh knew all about him; the sixteenyear-old son of a Norman knight, Noel de Pacy had been in Bran's service for two years, had been sworn to secrecy about his lord's hazardous mission in England. As their eyes met, Hugh smiled, but the other boy did not. Without saying a word, he was conveying an unmistakable message, one of jealousy and suspicion, and Hugh realized that his entrance into Bran's household would not be as smooth as he'd hoped.
Noel acknowledged the introductions with a formality that just barely passed for politeness, and at once began to assail his lord with questions. Bran fended him off good-naturedly, quickening his step, for his mother stood framed in the doorway of the hall.
She was smaller than Hugh expected. He'd instinctively cast Simon's lady as an
Amazon, larger than life, and he was vaguely disappointed to find only a handsome woman in her mid-fifties, so simply dressed she might have been a nun. The stark black of widowhood suited her, though; she had the coloring for it, fair skin and blonde hair, scattered with silver. If she no longer had the light step and the svelte waist of her youth, the additional weight was still becoming, rounding out her face and sparing her that brittle tautness, that look of gaunt, attenuated elegance too common to aging beauties, those unable to make peace with time. As she and her son embraced warmly, Hugh decided he liked the way Nell de Montfort now looked, although it was difficult to imagine this matronly, sedate widow wed to an eagle or holding Dover Castle against an enemy army. But as the embrace ended, so, too, did the illusion.
She stepped back, and suddenly those serene blue eyes were searing, filled with fury.
"Have you gone stark mad? Jesus God, Bran, why did you do it?"
Before Bran could respond, a shame-faced Noel began to babble a garbled apology; they could catch only "had to tell" and "my lady made me . . ."
Men were wilting before Nell's wrath, backing off. Hugh was star^g, open-mouthed, awed by how swiftly the matriarch had become a Valkyrie. Bran alone appeared unfazed by his mother's rage. Grinning, he cuffed Noel playfully on the back. "You need not fret, lad. It would kke a foolhardy soul indeed to face down my lady mother in a temper!"

.**.
Iff-'

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"I am glad you find this so amusing, Bran," Nell said scathingly. "Does it amuse you, too, that I lay awake each night till dawn, seeking to convince myself you were still alive?"
Bran's smile faded. "I know the risks I took," he admitted quietly. "But I had to do it, Mama."
After a long pause, Nell nodded. "Yes, I suppose you did," she conceded, no less quietly, and to their sympathetic spectators, the morrftait was all the more poignant for what was left unsaid. Nell hugged her son, clung tightly. "I
should warn you," she said, "that if you ever scare me like this again, your homecoming will be hot enough to be held in Hell Everlasting." And although she laughed, none doubted that she meant every word, least of all, Bran.
As they entered the hall, the rest of the de Montfort servants and retainers surged forward, engulfing Bran in a noisy, chaotic welcome. One young woman in particular seemed so happy to see Bran that at first Hugh thought she must be his sister, Ellen. But a second glance quickly disabused him of that notion, for Ellen de Montfort was said to be very fair, and this girl was as dark as any gypsy. By the exacting standards of their society, she was no beauty, for not only was her coloring unfashionable, she was short and voluptuous, and theirs was a world in which the ideal woman was a tall, slender blonde. But
Hugh could not take his eyes from her, perhaps because her allure was so very exotic, so alien. She looked verily like a wanton, like a Saracen concubine, he decided, and then blushed bright-red when Bran introduced her as Dame
Juliana, his sister's lady-in-waiting.
Suddenly face to face with the object of his sinful lust, Hugh found himself hopelessly tongue-tied. At times it seemed to him that his male member had a lifeand a willof its own; he'd even given it a name, Barnabas, in rueful recognition of its newly independent ways. But never before had it focused upon a woman of his own class, a lady. Unable to meet Dame Juliana's eyes lest she somehow read his mind, he averted his gaze from her face, only to find himself staring at her very ample bosom, and blushed anew, this time as high as his hairline.
"I suppose I ought to have warned you, Juliana, that the lad is a mute!"
"Bran, hush!" Jabbing Bran with her elbow, Juliana held out her hand, and it took no more than that, a touch and a smile, to vanquish Hugh's discomfort. He smiled too, shyly, as the bedchamber door burst open.
"Bran!" At sound of his name, Bran swung about, then staggered backward under the onslaught. The girl in his arms was the prettiest creature Hugh had ever seen, with burnished masses of reddish-gold hair, emerald eyes, and flawless, fair skin. She was tall for a woman,

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as lissome and sleek as a pampered, purebred cat, and when Bran called her
"kitten," Hugh thought it an inspired endearment. If Juliana aroused male lust, this girl stirred gallantry in even the most jaded of men, and as she spun in a circle, heedless of her dishevelment, her flying hair, Hugh fell utterly and helplessly under the spell of Simon de Montforf s daughter.
Watching as Ellen laughed, sought to smother Bran with sisterly kisses, Hugh could think only that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd must be one of God's greatest fools.
THEY passed that first night at Nell de Montforf s small house, Hugh bedding down in the great hall with the other servants while Bran stayed up till dawn, talking with his mother and sister. He'd slept late the next day, then startled Hugh by insisting that they take up lodgings in the village. The move made no sense to Hugh, and he was still puzzling over it several hours later, while helping Noel to unpack Bran's belongings in an upper chamber of
Montargis's only inn.
"If we'd stayed at the nunnery, it would have been easier for our lord to visit with his lady mother and sister, so why"
"Jesu, what an innocent you are!" Noel slammed a coffer lid down, giving Hugh a look of withering scorn. His initial wariness had congealed into open hostility, all chance of rapport gone from the moment he overheard Bran telling the women that he owed Hugh his life. "What would you have Lord Bran docouple with a wench under his lady mother's own roof? That might be the way it is done by you English, but the French have more style!"
Hugh swallowed the insult as best he could. "You mean he has a whore in the village." He sought to sound knowing; nothing less than torture could have gotten him to admit to the supercilious Noel that he was still a virgin.
"A whore? Well, the priests would call her that, for certes, though she lays with no man but Lord Bran. I daresay he could tumble her in a church if he wished, so hot is she for him!"
"You are describing a mistress, not a whore," Hugh objected. "She lives in
Montargis, then?"
Noel's smile held a glint of mockery. "No . . . the convent."
Hugh stared, and then flushed. He was not easily provoked, and had been willing to overlook Noel's snide barbs, his lordly asides, for he had no false pride, knew that he was a green country lad with much to learn in the ways of the world. But enough was enough. "I am not so simple as that," he snapped.
"Did you truly think I'd believe so outrageous a lie? Lord Bran would never seduce a nun, for that would he a mortal sin and he'd burn in Hell!"

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Now it was Noel's turn to stare. But after a moment, he roared with laughter.
"You dolt, I was not talking of a nun! I was talking of the Lady Juliana!"
Hugh gasped, then took a threatening step forward, "Liar! Take that back!"
Noel jumped to his feet, suddenly aware that the younger boy was four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. "Make me," he said, and grabbed for the nearest weapon, a brass candelabra. But Hugh was surprisingly fast for his size. He got to the candelabra first, jerked it out of Noel's reach, and flung it across the room, where it crashed into the opening door, missing Bran by a hairsbreadth.
For an endless moment, Bran looked down at the candelabra, then back at the horrified boys. "Playing catch with a candelabra? My brothers and I always used a pig's bladder football," he said lightly, and Noel's relief was such that he almost made a serious blunder.
"It was Hugh's" He choked the accusation back just in time, as Bran's head came up sharply. Noel knew that Bran did not give a fig for what his squires did between themselves, was not likely even to notice unless the blood began to flow in earnest. But he had only contempt for those who tried to divert blame onto others. "Nothing, my lord, nothing," Noel said hastily, chalking up one more debt to Hugh's account.
Bran's smile was sardonic. "Well, if you lads are done with this game of yours, you'd best be off, Noel. I told Juliana you'd be there by Vespers."
"I'll have your lady here in a trice, my lord," Noel promised, shooting Hugh a look of triumphant malice as he headed for the door.
Bran moved to the table, poured himself ale. "There are some sugared quinces here, Hugh. Help yourself if you fancy any," he said, and the boy mumbled his thanks. Sugared quince was a rare treat, but he had no appetite for it now. He was genuinely shocked that Bran should be bedding a woman of good birth; it was not seemly. As he busied himself in tidying up the chamber, he tried not to look at the bed, tried not to imagine Juliana and Bran sprawled naked upon it. Thinking now of Juliana, of her sultry smile and midnight-black eyes, he realized that some of his indignation had been fueled by his own guilty lust.
And it occurred to him, too, with a jolt of dismay, that he was going to have to offer the loathsome Noel an apology for having called him a liar. Honor demanded as much.
JULIANA was a light sleeper. Although Bran's moan was soft, muffled by the pillow, it was enough to awaken her. Sitting up, she pulled the

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bed hangings back, groped for the bedside candle, and held it over her lover's face. It was as she suspected; Bran's breathing was rapid, uneven, his mouth contorted, dark hair drenched in sweat. She placed the candle in a niche of the headboard, then touched him gently on the cheek. "Bran?"
He jerked upright, eyes wide and staring, chest heaving. "You're all right, beloved," Juliana said soothingly, "you're awake now." After a moment, he reached for a corner of the sheet, wiped the perspiration from his face, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. She watched as he crossed the chamber, moving barefoot through the rushes so as not to awaken his squires, snoring on pallets by the hearth. When he returned to the bed with a wine flagon, she was touched to see that he'd remembered to bring a cup for her. No matter how much he was hurting, she thought sadly, his manners never failed him.
After Bran propped pillows behind his back, Juliana rolled over into his arms.
She knew better than to ask questions, for in the three years that they'd been sharing a bed, only once had he been able to share with her the dream, too.
But she had no need to hear it again. She could still recall each and every word he'd uttered, haunted by that one harrowing glimpse into the desolation, the guilt-ravaged depths of Bran's soul.
She knew that bad dreams came to all men, dreams of demon spirits, a dread of the unknown. But not for Bran such phantom fears and shadows. For him, reality was the nightmare. It was not enough, she thought bitterly, that he must live with the knowledge that he'd failed his father and brother when they'd needed him the most. No, the fates had decreed that he must also reach Evesham in time to see his father's head on a pike.
Her anger was unfocused, futile, for whom could she blame? She loved this man so very much, and yet that love was tearing her apart, for she could not help him. She could do naught but break her heart trying.
She knew Bran would not be able to sleep again; he never could after one of the Evesham dreams. She sought now to banish drowsiness, to keep him from dwelling upon his own dark thoughts. "Tell me more about Ellen's Welsh
Prince," she teased. "What does he look like? Is he handsome? Would I be smitten at sight of him?"
That coaxed a shadowy smile. "Well, I cannot say that he set my heart aflutter, but I suppose women find him pleasing enough to the eye. He is tall for a Welshman, and dark, of course. Ah, and he is cleanshaven, save for a mustache, after the Welsh fashion."
She leaned over, touched her lips to his cheek, for he, too, was dean-shaven.
Most men wore beards, but not Bran, for Simon had not.

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"Why do you think Llewelyn has never married? Passing strange, is it not?"
Bran shrugged. "In earlier years, I suspect he was too busy fighting his brothers for control of Gwynedd, then defending what he'd won against the
English Crown. I suppose he would eventually have taken a wife had he not been compelled to make peace with Davydd. Scrape away the gilt from Davydd's promises and you'll find naught but dross, t^welyn knew that as well as any man, knew he had to imprison Davydd for life or else make it worth his while to stay loyal. And so he offered to make Davydd his heir, which is either an act of sheer inspiration or one of utter desperation."
"Which do you think it is?"
He shrugged again. "You'd best ask Ellen that. When it comes to Wales, she is the family sage, not I." He drained his cup, set it down in the floor rushes.
"You called Llewelyn 'Ellen's Welsh Prince.' Was that a jest, Juliana? Or does
Ellen still harbor false hopes? She always did dote on those foolish romances, those minstrels' tales of love unrequited and eternal. Does she still see
Llewelyn as one of those gallant heroes, a Tristan or Lancelot?"
Juliana did not respond at once, pondering his query. She felt no conflict of loyalty between her lover and her friend, for she knew how much Bran loved
Ellen. She sometimes wished he loved his sister a little less, for she knew, too, that each time he looked at Ellen and his mother, he could not help thinking of all they'd lost, lost because of him. And neither Nell nor Ellen nor Juliana had been able to convince him otherwise. Indeed, it seemed to
Juliana that the less they blamed him, the more he then blamed himself. Amaury de Montfort had once told her of a powder made from the opium poppy, a strange powder that men craved more than food or money or women. Juliana occasionally found herself wondering if grieving, too, could possess a man's soul, become a habit impossible to break.
"Juliana?"
"No, I think not, beloved. Oh, I grant you that Ellen did spin fantasies once, pretend Llewelyn would one day send for her, honor the plight troth. She had to have hope, something in which to believe. But you're talking now of a woman grown, not a lass of thirteen. I think she will always take an interest in
Llewelyn and in Wales, but no more than that. You need not fear for her, Bran.
Our Ellen was never a fool, and she is no longer a starry-eyed child."
Bran's relief was obvious. "Last year, when she balked at Guy's offer to find a husband for her, I feared she might be deluding herself about Llewelyn."
Juliana felt no compunctions at breaking a confidence, for she was