Castles in the Air (32 page)

He roared like a wounded bull elk. “I’ll kill the puny bugger!”

“Nay, you won’t.” Smugly, she mocked him. “Your compassion won’t allow you to kill a man for
performing his duties.” She released his ear, but he still stood bent, with his mouth hanging open.

Then he shut it with a snap and looked around for something to vent his displeasure on.

Crossing the drawbridge was a scrimpy creature, covered from head to toe with mud, mumbling Gallic curse words.

Papiol had arrived at last.

The master castle-builder froze at the sight of the wall, a moue of distaste on his pudgy countenance. In high, amazed tones, he queried, “That is the wall we’ve come to christen? Nay.” He stepped backward. “Nay, nay, nay.”

He started toward the keep, and Raymond caught his arm. “What do you mean, ‘nay’?”

Looking up at the warrior towering above him, Papiol’s conviction warred with his fright. But his conviction won. With the lightning swift judgment of a skilled courtier, he both grovelled and replied. “You are a great lord. A greater lord than I will ever be castle builder. I do not dispute this. No one disputes this. But you are not a master castle-builder, and I will not be a party to this farce.”

“What’s wrong with my wall?” Raymond asked, a warning in his voice.

Papiol ignored the warning and told him the truth. “The stones are not set correctly. Inexperienced workmen.” Touching the wall, he rubbed a bit of rubble between his fingers, and it fell to dust. “The mortar is crumbling. Cold weather. And you did not even use a batter.”

Raymond’s forehead crinkled. “A what?”

“A batter!” Papiol waved his arms. “A sloping base which strengthens the foundation and creates a surface
on which to bounce stones. Nay, I will not remain while you christen this”—his lip curled—“this wall.”

“Won’t you?” Raymond picked up the ceremonial cup. “We’ll see about that.” He flung the contents at the stones, and the ruby wine splashed back at the force of his arm.

All parts of Papiol not already covered with mud were then covered with red, and he hissed in voluble exasperation. “Barbarian!” he accused. “English barbarian.” He kicked at the stones. “That for your wall!”

“Be careful,” Raymond warned.

Like a French peasant dancer, Papiol kicked, and kicked again. “That! And that for your wall.” Then he danced away. “I would not stand there, my lord, for the wall will surely tumble from the impact of my little toe.”

“Watch this!” With a grunt, Raymond picked up the bride gift.

Papiol sobered abruptly. “Nay, my lord, I beg you!”

Grinning like the bear on his shield, Raymond mashed the carved stone down on the waist-high part of the wall and ground it down until it sat securely, facing the world with a snarl.

“At least let us move Queen Eleanor,” Papiol begged.

His distress seemed so genuine, Juliana looked up at the rock towering above her head. Every head followed hers, and the whole court, her whole household, held their collective breaths and waited.

Nothing happened.

More time. Nothing happened. Glances were exchanged, giggles stifled.

Raymond stood planted in front of the wall, hands on hips, and his gloating smile grew.

Papiol grew pale. “My lord, I tell you, your wall will fall ere much more time passes. The ground, she is saturated. The wall, she is on a hill. Only the best foundations—”

Juliana heard a pebble fall inside the wall.

“Only the best foundations—” Papiol repeated, but his fascinated gaze was now pinned to the wall.

The fall of one pebble was followed by a shower. Juliana stepped back. Nothing moved on the facade, but inside…

Eleanor called, “Raymond, perhaps you should move.”

“I will not. This wall is as steady as—”

Papiol squealed, “My lord!” and threw himself at Raymond, knocking him aside as the bear and all the rock around it collapsed. The main portion of the wall remained, but it was no longer steady. As if a great snake lay beneath it, it trembled in ripples, then in waves. The stones groaned; the queen’s attendants screamed.

Papiol no longer had to push Raymond; Raymond dragged Papiol, and when he reached her, Juliana, too, to safety. Unsupported by bedrock, loosened by the rains, the sandstone that formed the facade tottered. In a cacophony of noise, the line of boulders at the bottom of the wall slid away. Then the next line, then the next, skidded on the liquid mud—all the way down the hill. Madness ensued as the court, the servants, and Queen Eleanor herself scrambled to avoid the runaway rocks.

When the rumble subsided, the new wall lay flat as a Roman road, and a suspicious silence blanketed the
crowd of people, broken only by Fayette’s plaintive words. “Apple Tree Man mustn’t have approved.”

Raymond stared.

His wall. His beautiful wall. Flat. The rubble inside exposed and still escaping in little avalanches. All his work. All his construction. All his dreams of making Juliana’s castle the most secure along the borderlands.

God’s teeth. Juliana.

Escaping from the Saracens, fighting in bloody battles, participating in sieges, being beaten and chained, nothing had ever alarmed Raymond as much as facing Juliana.

Her jaw askew, she gazed incredulously on the ruin of her curtain wall. She gulped, and he thought she was going to cry. She gulped again and seemed to be struggling against some great emotion. Then, just like the wall, she collapsed—with laughter. Sitting down hard in the mud, she shrieked, she wiped tears from her eyes, looked again on the wall, and laughed. “Master castle-builder?” she sputtered. “
Master
castle-builder?”

Raymond went from being worried to being offended, from being offended to being…pleased. Dropping down on his knees in the mud beside her, he took her hands in his. “You really do love me, don’t you?”

She sobered, although her eyes still gleamed. “I really do.”

“You trust me to keep you safe?”

“I do.”

“Enough to have an eight-foot-wide curtain wall?”

She tried to look severe. “No more than ten.”

For her, he was as mushy-soft as the mud around them. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” She took his earlobe again, but this time she struggled to release the golden ring that pierced it. Holding it in her palm, she showed it to him. “I don’t think we need this symbol of your bondage anymore, do we?”

He touched it one last time. He’d sworn to wear it as long as he was enslaved by memories—memories now as broken as the curtain wall. “No. We don’t need it anymore.” Taking the earring, he threw it into the pile of gravel and masonry.

With tender fingers, she pinched his freed earlobe and brought it—and him—toward her.

When her lips touched his, he forgot. Forgot the mud and the wall, forgot the Saracens and his parents. She tasted like bread to a starving man. Her hands reached for his shoulders, crept around his back, clasped him as if she could never let him go. He pulled her toward him and they knelt, body to body, exchanging breath and life and promises without words, and she made his battered soul whole again.

A loud round of applause dragged Raymond and Juliana from their sensual mist, and like swimmers surfacing after a dive so deep they were giddy for lack of air, they looked out at their audience in astonishment.

Juliana collapsed back onto her heels and smiled at her husband, and he realized how much he’d missed her smile. “You won’t leave me?” she asked.

“If I did, who would build your wall?”

Looking thoughtful, she said, “That’s right. You’re bound to me until I have a curtain wall.” She glanced at the flattened wall and started laughing again. “A…a
standing
curtain wall.”

He wrapped his arm around her neck. “I’ll let the king’s castle builder do it next time,” he promised. “It’ll
take him two years to do it right. The little gazob.” He turned her to look out over her lands. “But you don’t really need a curtain wall. Here is your bulwark against fear. Acres of good English soil, dozens of good English people.” Placing a smacking kiss against her neck, nuzzling her while she giggled, he added, “And me. I am your sword, your shield, and your right arm.”

“And you,” she agreed. “You are the love for my lifetime, and the foundation for my dynasty.”

His grasp tightened, holding her as if she were a richness of spice, a cache of jewels. “You want me for my breeding purposes, only?”

“Nay, not only for that”—she leaned into the hand that caressed her waist, and pointed to the gravel still skidding down the ruins of the wall. “I want you to clean up this mess.”

She leaped away, and he leaped after her, chasing her toward the keep.

Eleanor sank painstakingly onto a sandstone boulder and rocked to see if it was steady. “They’ll secure the marriage bed against all comers, I trow, so bring the bread and cheese, and open the ale. If we can’t celebrate the wall, then we’ll celebrate their marriage.”

As the courtiers and the servants gathered around, only Papiol remained apart. Hand tucked into his belt, he strolled to the bear that peeked out of the mud. “I told you it would not stand,” he said, and kicked it.

The block of stone lurched. Papiol stared. The mud shifted. Papiol squeaked. With a noise that sounded obscurely like a growl, the bear skidded. Papiol scampered back, but the current of mud caught him and carried him, screaming and yelling, all the way to the bottom of the hill.

My grateful thanks to my editor, Carolyn Marino, for taking the time and energy to teach me the skills of a professional writer.

To my critique group: Pam Zollman, Anna Phegley, Paula Schmidt, Barbara Putt, and Thomasina Robinson; thank you all for your continued enthusiasm and support through so many pages and so many seasons.

Christina Dodd’s novels have been translated into ten languages, won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA® Awards, and been called the year’s best by
Library Journal
. Dodd is a regular on the
USA Today
,
Publishers Weekly
, and
New York Times
bestseller lists.
The Barefoot Princess
is the second book in her classic new series, The Lost Princesses, following her enormously popular novel
, Some Enchanted Evening
.

Christina loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.christinadodd.com.

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