Castles in the Air (22 page)

He ignored his mother, pushing maidservants aside and seeing Juliana’s face light up at the sight of him.

“Raymond, we’ve discovered an escape from this disastrous marriage of yours.”

Geoffroi’s ringing voice garnered not only Raymond’s attention, but the attention of the entire hall. The chatter ceased. A rake rattled to the floor. Denys put his mug down. Ella tumbled off the bench, and her startled wail broke the silence and Raymond’s paralysis. He pivoted and started toward Geoffroi, his hands flexed in a killing circle. Juliana caught his arm before he’d taken two steps. “You can’t murder your own father.”

Taking a grip on his patience, he looked at her upturned face. She wasn’t daunted by the attack. Her
cheeks, freshly washed, shone with a rosy blush. Her hair, unbound, still sparked with color, and unwillingly beguiled, he asked, “Why not?”

“Because the priest would assign you penance for years.”

“It might be worth it.”

“The penance would probably be”—she tapped her chin and thought—“sexual abstinence.”

His indignation collapsed. “You have saved my father’s life. I won’t murder him. But for a penny—” He swung on his parents and shouted, “Why do you want to end a marriage sanctioned by the king?”

“Henry only sent you here for his own selfish reasons,” Isabel said.

“To care for his Welsh concerns,” Geoffroi added.

“He’s always in need of coin,” Isabel continued.

“And if we pay him, he’ll get over his irritation at having his plans thwarted,” Geoffroi concluded.

In falsely shocked tones, Isabel said, “Raymond, she cavorted with that man.”

Raymond’s hands bunched into white-knuckled fists.

“I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before,” Geoffroi enthused. “Lady Juliana was shamed before the whole country.”

“Think of the priest,” Juliana said, rubbing Raymond’s arm up and down, trying to soothe the biceps that clustered.

“Most important, her father wanted her to marry him,” Isabel said. “He arranged for the priest to call banns on Sundays and holy days.”

“And it is rumored he had a betrothal drawn up,” Geoffroi added.

Juliana’s massage stopped, then jerked into motion
again, but a tranquil smile still curved her lips. “It was never drawn up. I wouldn’t agree to it.”

“Of course you would say that.” Isabel’s lips pursed in a contemptuous moue.

“Did the marriage pledges take place on the church steps?” Raymond prodded.

Juliana seemed to struggle with speech, and at last said, “They did not,” in smooth, well-modulated tones.

Raymond threaded his fingers through hers and put his other arm around her. “Then the banns and the betrothal served no purpose.”

“But they did,” Geoffroi said. “Don’t you see? A betrothal is as binding as a marriage…almost, and we can declare previous union bonded by previous consummation.”

“Nay,” Raymond answered.

The hand in Raymond’s tightened in sudden, painful tension, and she stiffened in pain and rage. “Annul our marriage? It’s impossible.”

Smug as a priest on the first day of Lent, Geoffroi smiled. “What’s the use of being related to the pope if we can’t get a simple annulment?”

Juliana’s chin dropped. She took long breaths to recover her equilibrium, and when she raised her head she’d made a momentous decision. Calm and smiling, she said to Raymond, “I won’t let you hurt them. But you can throw them out.”

Juliana shaded her
eyes against the sharp winter sun and watched as Geoffroi, Isabel, and all of their entourage followed the winding road down the hill. They were bound for the coast, to catch the next ship that crossed the channel, and she couldn’t work up regret at their going. Beside her, Raymond dusted his hands in excessive satisfaction, and she said, “May I ask you one thing?”

He beamed at her. “As you wish.”

“Are you really related to the pope?”

His smile disappeared, and he grumbled, “The Prophet Mohammed is my uncle, Charlemagne is my brother, Saint Thomas Aquinas is my godfather, and the apostle John is a dear friend.”

Juliana laughed at his droll expression, and Raymond said, “It’s my turn to ask a question. Why did you say you shared blood lines with Sir Joseph?”

Juliana forgot the pope in a rush of embarrassment. Clasping her hands behind her back, she whistled once in a short, sharp exhalation. “Oh, didn’t you know? He’s my uncle.”

“Nay, I didn’t know.” He mimicked her fake innocence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well.” Abashed, she laughed a little. “He’s not the sort of relative to brag about. He’s the eldest son of my grandfather by a serf.”

“He’s a bastard?”

“Of course, or he would have been heir to my lands.”

His eyes were watchful. “Let’s see, Sir Joseph is your uncle…so there was never any chance of a marriage between the two of you.”

Shocked, she cried, “Oh, nay, that’s ridiculous.”

“’Tis not so ridiculous. At your father’s death, Sir Joseph had domination over the castle.”

She shuddered in disgust. “Don’t speak of such a thing. ’Twould have been a dreadful sin. Why, when the king sent word he’d given me to…” She stammered to a halt.

“Aye?” he encouraged.

“To a member of his court—”

“Tactful,” Raymond approved.

“Sir Joseph supported my decision to avoid the marriage.”

“Your chief man-at-arms urged you to defy the king? Did you believe he did that in your best interest?”

“I…never thought…”

“I guessed that. Your uncle has much to answer for.”

“He was tender about his birth, although ’tis no shame. One hundred years ago William conquered England, and he was a bastard, also.”

“I know,” Raymond answered. “He was my cousin.”

She opened her mouth, reconsidered, and shut it.
She didn’t want to know if her husband was truly related to the first Norman king of England.

Raymond grinned at her caution. Hands on her waist, he picked her up and lifted her until their faces were level. She kicked at him, careful not to inflict serious damage, as he teased, “We’ll work most assiduously until we have another legitimate heir for our lands. Do you not look forward to that, Lady Juliana?”

“Put me down,” she commanded in a grand manner, and he slid her down his body in a long, slow tease. The breath stopped in her lungs, and, ever a warrior, he leaned closer to take advantage of her weakness.

His hand stroked the vein in her throat, a vein that leaped at his touch. “Let us go to bed.”

“’Tis daylight.”

“The better to see you.”

“There’s work to be done.”

“It will keep.”

“The castle builder.”

Taken aback, he repeated, “The castle builder?”

“The real castle-builder,” she clarified. “Listen.”

Raymond listened, and heard the shrill babble of Poitevin French from the trench below. Exasperated, he asked, “What is that madman screaming about now?”

“I don’t know.” She pointed down the hill. “But I think you’re about to find out.”

Papiol and Tosti were storming toward them, shouting in different languages and making gestures that crudely translated their messages.

Papiol, with his high voice and arrogant manner, spoke in his rapid French. “My lord, this imbecile has at last broken his head. Do you know what he wants to do? Do you know?”

“What’s he tellin’ ye?” The flushed Tosti bunched
his fists. “Can’t he speak a decent language like th’ rest o’ us?”

Revealing an understanding he forswore, Papiol spat out the words, “You stupid Englishman. French is the only civilized language in the world. Poitevins are the only civilized people in the world.”

Tosti, too, divulged a comprehension he denied, and in a broken French he’d previously disclaimed, asked, “Can ye speak English?”

Papiol lifted one finger and posed nobly. “Never!”

With a beatific smile, Tosti asked, “Well, how does it feel t’ be stupider than an Englishman? Huh? Huh?”

Raymond wheeled away, overcome with a sudden onslaught of laughter. Papiol sputtered, and Tosti danced like a fighter in a circle around him.

“That’s enough,” Juliana said sharply. “This is my wall we’re discussing, not some trifling matter which can be dismissed by laughter and insult.”

Raymond subdued his amusement. “Lady Juliana is correct.” He pointed at Papiol. “Now, what has disturbed you?”

Gathering the shreds of his dignity, Papiol declared, “This dolt has sabotaged the curtain wall, my lord. Without consulting me, the king’s master castle-builder, this peasant has ordered the digging stopped.”

Tosti threw up his arms in disgust.

“’Twas on my order—” Raymond began to say.

While at the same time, Papiol said, “He claims he acted on your order.”

They stopped and stared at each other. Papiol’s consternation was palpable as he exclaimed, “My lord, this is not possible! There must be a strong foundation for a strong wall, and this trench is neither deep enough nor has it reached an underlayer
of rock. As I told you, in the spring the digging will be easy, and the wall will be—”

“Finished before then,” Raymond said smoothly.

Papiol pleaded, “My lord, you must listen.”

“Nay, you listen.” Raymond leaned down until he stood face to face with Papiol. “You claimed no more digging could be done in the winter, but I proved you wrong. You claimed the building stone could not arrive in winter, but I proved you wrong. Why should I believe you about this?”

Papiol wrung his hands. “Perhaps I made some miscalculations, but my lord, about this there is no mistake.”

“What will happen?” Juliana asked.

Papiol shifted his attention to her. “The wall will not stand without an adequate foundation.”

“So as soon as I put the wall up, it will fall down?” Raymond asked, skepticism ringing in his tones.

“Not immediately, but
oui
, it will fall down.” In an excess of frenetic emotion, Papiol fell to his knees and raised his clasped hands high. “Please, my lord, you must believe me.” When Raymond turned his head away, he walked on his knees to Juliana. “My lady, this curtain wall cannot be depended upon. Perhaps in battle, perhaps one day without cause, it will collapse.”

Troubled, Juliana glanced at Raymond. “He
is
the king’s master castle-builder.”

Raymond folded his arms across his chest. “’Tis your keep. Do what you think is best.” Her doubts didn’t truly offend him, but he was a man with a mission. He knew the process of castle building could be refined; he knew he was the man to refine it, and he experienced no compunction at using unfair tactics to sway Juliana for the chance to prove it.

Walking to the end of the drawbridge, she looked out on the work in progress, then over the sweep of her lands. “This is important to me. I want a wall twelve paces wide, with two arrow slits in each merlon and a tower on either end.”

Raymond strode to her and grasped her hands. “’Twill be the safest castle in the west of England.”

“I want the safest castle in England.”

“So shall it be. I have made it my goal to protect you and all that is yours. You have given me so much, and I have given you so little. Let me build your wall.”

Her nostrils glowed with the cold, and wisps of hair escaped the scarf that bound her head. With an inquiring tilt of her head, she weighed his sincerity against her fears, and he waited, tense with anticipation, for the results. It seemed the sun would dip below the horizon before she answered, but at last she said, “It will be as you say. Build the wall.”

He marvelled at the trust she’d placed in him. Not a complete trust, for she strode into the keep before she could change her mind. But from the woman who’d knocked him arsey-versey the first time she’d met him, this declaration was greater than any he’d hoped for.

“My lord.” Papiol still knelt on the frozen ground, an agonized frown puckering his forehead. “My lord, what have you decided?”

“We’ll build the wall.”

“After the hole has been dug deeper?” Papiol asked hopefully.

“Immediately.”

Papiol dropped his head into his hands and rocked back and forth. “This is madness. If you insist on proceeding with this plan, I cannot in conscience remain here. My reputation would suffer. Although I dread
the voyage across the sea in the winter, I would leave, and so I beg of you—”

His perturbation seemed so sincere that, for a moment, Raymond doubted his own judgment. The castle builder lacked the arrogant disdain he’d shown, and he was, after all, the king’s master castle-builder. Maybe, just maybe…

“Ye heard th’ master.” Tosti sneered. “Get ye gone. Ye’re nothin’ but a pompous bladder filled wi’ th’ air o’ a flatulent cow.”

All Papiol’s candor disappeared as he leaped to his feet. Venom hissed from him in a stream of French. “Son of a pig! Worthless bird-turd! You know less than nothing. You insult the king’s master castle-builder with your mere presence.”

“Yah, yah,” Tosti chanted.

The absurd little man ruffled up like a capon, and Raymond ignored the pang which his inexperience presented him. Papiol had probably bought the position of master castle-builder from Henry. “Do what you must, Papiol,” he said, “and I will do what I must.”

Tosti smirked and strolled away, strutting like a peacock, but Raymond’s lingering doubts convinced him to say in English, “Dig the foundation just a little deeper, Tosti.”

Tosti whipped around and glared, but Papiol didn’t understand or notice, and Raymond didn’t care. His own sneaking, gloating pleasure embarrassed him, yet it couldn’t be denied. When Juliana’s curtain wall was finished and she surveyed her mighty bulwark against intruders, she would know only one man was responsible, and that one man was Raymond.

Her gratitude would be worth any amount of work and worry, and would surely bring him forever into
the golden inner circle of Margery, Ella, and Juliana.

Papiol begged. “My lord, please reconsider.”

“If you hurry, you could cross the channel with my parents and save yourself the agony of trying to engage a passage by yourself,” Raymond said.

“Your parents?” Papiol looked stricken. “You would send me with your parents?”

“They’ll travel directly to Henry’s court,” Raymond assured him.

“I would like to go there directly, my lord,” Papiol said faintly, “but for the matter of the fire in the kitchen.”

Raymond swung to stand before Papiol. “What do my parents have to do with the fire in the kitchen?”

Distressed, with tears in his eyes, Papiol said, “I know nothing, my lord, but you did ask me to examine the fire pit with a view of making it safer. Somehow the mortar around some of the stones had been scraped away.”

“Are you sure?”

“In no way could it have been removed and scattered without a man’s help.” For all of his disclaimers, Papiol looked and sounded very positive.

“What has that to do with my father?” Raymond asked.

Papiol looked up at the sky, down at the ground, anywhere but at Raymond. “My lord, your parents arrived in the kitchen almost before the fire took place. They were smug and most vocal in their criticism of your bride.” He shivered and wrapped his velvet, fur-trimmed cloak close around him. “It’s getting colder, don’t you think, my lord?”

Raymond drove toward the truth. “So you think my father arranged the trouble?”

“I would not accuse so lofty a nobleman of such deception,” Papiol answered.

“Nay, you had best not.” In sooth, Raymond realized Papiol intended no insult. “You’re right, it is getting colder. Spend another night here, and I’ll send you after my parents tomorrow. You’ll not have to travel with them except on the ship, and can separate immediately upon landing in Calais. We’ll pay you the wage we owe you, plus your travelling expenses for your trouble.”

“Many thanks, my lord.” Papiol bowed and wandered toward the keep, a pathetic yet dignified figure.

Raymond didn’t notice. His mind was bound by this newest horror. Had his parents tampered with the fire in the kitchen in hopes the keep would burn to the ground? They would have lost everything—or would they? None of their clothing and household equipment had been unpacked. Such a fire would have lost them nothing, and gained them all.

Raymond stared out at the lands stretched before him, and found them appealing—but not as appealing as the lady who awaited him inside the keep. What was the last thing his father had said before riding for Henry’s court—and perhaps for the Vatican? “We would do anything to end your marriage. Anything.”

Aloud, he answered his father’s vow. “And I will do anything to keep my marriage. Anything.”

“Surrender, knave.” Raymond pressed the point of his sword against the Adam’s apple of the trembling Denys.

Denys tried to nod his head, and Raymond pulled the sword back. “Nay, Denys, when steel is pressed
close against you, it is imperative you do not move. Signify your agreement with a single, ‘Aye,’ briskly given. That way ’tis clear that though you are defeated in fact, you are not in mind.” He sheathed his sword and extended a hand to the youth on the ground. “Come, let’s go or Lady Juliana will give us nothing but old bread and sour wine.”

Trembling with fatigue, Denys allowed Raymond to hoist him to his feet. With a despair only too obvious, he asked, “Will I ever defeat you, my lord?”

“Not soon, I hope.” Raymond flung his cloak around his shoulders, then picked up Denys’s cloak. “When you practice sword work in the cold,” he lectured, “make sure you warm yourself afterward.”

Denys wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. “I am warm, my lord.”