“This is your most important occupation at
Wroxley.” Alda flung her arms around his neck and, when Brice did
not readily lower his mouth to hers, she pulled on his neck,
forcing his head downward. “You are to keep me happy.”
“An impossible task.”
“If you are too weary after fulfilling your
duties to Wroxley to spend time with me, perhaps I will find a
younger, more vigorous lover and make him seneschal in your
place.”
“I am seneschal here by King Henry’s
appointment,” Brice reminded her. “You cannot alter the king’s
command.”
“Then I shall have to encourage you to
greater efforts on my behalf.” Taking her hands from around his
neck, Alda applied them to a different part of his body.
Brice stood quietly, letting her fondle him,
knowing his flesh would respond to what she was doing. It always
did. He had loved Alda once. He still admired her strangely
unchanged beauty. He might even marry her if it could be proven
that her long-absent husband was dead. But only if marrying Alda
meant that Wroxley Castle would be his, at least for a time, and
that the rich estate she had brought as a dowry to her marriage to
Gavin of Wroxley would become her second husband’s permanent
property.
Alda had a son, Warrick, who was Lord Udo’s
grandson and therefore the next heir to Wroxley if Gavin was dead.
Warrick was much too young to hold an important castle in a
dangerous area of England. However, a seneschal who had proven
himself reliable and loyal to King Henry, a seneschal who was also
the boy’s stepfather—surely that man would not be removed from his
post? And in the years before Warrick reached an age to take
control of Wroxley there would be ample opportunity for a clever
seneschal to amass a fortune. Brice already had a small, secret
hoard of silver plate and jewels.
Alda lifted his tunic and loosened his lower
garments. Her fingers worked skillfully on his exposed manhood. She
was an avid lover. She knew how to drain him like a sponge squeezed
dry. For the sake of the physical pleasure she gave him and for
control of Wroxley, he could afford to ignore her uncertain temper
and the black emptiness that lurked behind Alda’s lovely,
golden-brown eyes.
“Easy,” he said, removing her hand. “My
beautiful lady, if you want me to give you pleasure and not just
take my own, then you must leave me some control of my body.”
“Brice,” she panted, wrapping herself around
him, pushing her hot, moist womanhood against the hardness she had
created, “hold me. Kiss me and touch me all over. Make me
forget.”
“If adultery troubles you so much,” Brice
said coolly, “perhaps you ought not to commit it.”
“Not that. What does Gavin matter? He has
been gone so long that I scarcely remember how it felt to have him
inside me. I am sure I was bored by his lovemaking. But you are so
strong, Brice, so vigorous.” Alda writhed against him, moaning.
Her contortions were having their effect.
Brice could feel his blood rising. He caught her by her long,
golden hair, bending her head backward. Quickly he kissed her
slender throat, taking care not to leave marks on it. The necklines
of Alda’s gowns were always cut low. There was no point in
embarrassing either of them with flagrant evidence of their affair.
But Alda’s breasts would not be seen in public.
Alda cried out in pleasure, arching back
against his arm, her hips thrusting forward to meet his rigid
manhood. Brice began to work his way toward the bed. He fell onto
it with Alda beneath him. Thanks to her wriggling he was perfectly
positioned so, as he landed, Brice drove hard into her.
“Don’t stop,” she cried, eagerly meeting his
cruel thrusts. “Oh, Brice, help me, make me forget—yes! Yes!”
Alda’s eyes closed. Only in the throes of
passion, when she was totally caught up in what was happening
within her own body as she was now, only then was the petulant
expression absent from her face. At such times she looked once more
like the innocent girl Brice had first known, long ago, before she
had married Gavin of Wroxley. For the sake of that young Alda he
would have been more gentle with her, but she screamed, bucking
beneath him, crying out to him to pound harder into her, and harder
still, until his ears rang and his sight blurred and his seed
poured forth in a hot stream of passionate release that left him
exhausted.
“I do not know why, in more than a year, I
have not got you with child,” Brice said later.
“There are ways to prevent conception.” Alda
moved restlessly on the bed beside him.
“Mirielle would never give you herbs for such
a purpose. I hope you have not upset her by asking her for
them.”
“You love Mirielle more than you love me,”
she accused.
“There is no reason for you to be jealous.
Mirielle is my blood kin and like a daughter to me.” Yes, I love
her, in an innocent way that you would never understand.
“So am I your kin,” Alda said, pouting.
“On your mother’s side, by marriage and not
by blood, and a distant connection at that,” Brice reminded her. He
swung his legs over the side of the bed. “It is time to dress for
the evening meal. I understand we have guests. They can entertain
you with their stories.”
“Mirielle reports that they are only
pilgrims. Their stories will be dull ones. Brice, you cannot be
leaving me so soon?” she whined, seeing him begin to straighten his
clothes.
“I want to wash and put on fresh clothing
before I present myself in the great hall,” he said. “It is only
courtesy to our guests.”
“You will change your clothing for strangers,
but you come to me with the sweat and stench of the stables still
on you.”
“You love it when I smell like a stallion.
You have told me so many times.” He bent to touch one of her
nipples, eliciting a whimper of renewed sensual interest from her.
“Shall I send your maidservant to help you dress?”
“She knows when to come to me.”
“Then she knows I am here. Alda, you really
should be more discreet.”
“Why?” Alda reached toward him, to caress and
cajole him into returning to the bed. “Everyone in this castle
knows we lie together.”
“Still, it would be better if you did not
flaunt the fact. The same folk who might overlook a quietly
conducted liaison often voice loud objections to an affair whose
participants flaunt it in public.” Brice pulled away from Alda’s
searching fingers. His clothing in order once more, he ran a hand
over his hair to smooth it. Without a backward glance he let
himself out of the room.
Left alone, still sprawled naked on the bed,
Alda shuddered. There were shadows in the corners of the room. If
she were alone for very long, they would begin to encroach upon her
and she would not be able to breathe. For some reason on this
particular evening the shadows were darker and more threatening
than usual. She could see their shapes and their movements.
Alda knew of only one way to keep the shadows
at bay. After an hour in his arms she smelled of Brice, of the
stables and the horses, just as he did. She wished he were still
with her, still hard inside her. She would order him to come to her
again later after the evening meal was over and she would see to it
that he pleasured her again and again. She would keep him with her
all night long.
In the meantime… She let her hands slide down
to the place where Brice had been, her fingers rubbing and
pressing, and for a little while the menacing shadows retreated
into the corners once more.
“Gentle sirs,” said Robin, appearing at the
guestroom door, “I am sent to conduct you to the great hall for the
evening meal.”
“I am surprised to see you here,” Giles
responded. “I thought you were a stableboy.”
“No, sir.” Robin’s face was freshly scrubbed
and beneath a tangle of damp, reddish-brown curls his gray-green
eyes were bright. “My father was the seneschal here at Wroxley
before Sir Brice. My mother is seamstress now to Lady Alda and I
should have been a page, but Lady Alda took a dislike to me and
told me to get myself off to the stables and occupy myself there. I
am good with horses. I cared for yours very well.”
“I am sure you did, lad,” said Hugh. “Tell
me, why is your father no longer seneschal here?”
“He died soon after Lord Udo. They had the
same disease.” The cheerfulness faded from Robin’s face, but he
seemed to be a boy who held a positive outlook on life and he soon
brightened again. “Then Sir Brice came to Wroxley and brought Lady
Mirielle with him. She is teaching me to read and she begged Lady
Alda not to send my mother away.” Robin’s face glowed as he spoke
of Lady Mirielle.
Giles thought of the scene in the stable with
Robin on his knees to the plain, middle-aged woman. Once again he
wondered about Mirielle’s true appearance. Perhaps when Robin
looked at her he saw something Giles and Hugh were not permitted to
see.
“Sirs,” Robin asked, looking from one man to
the other, “will you come with me now?”
“Of course we will,” Giles said. “Lead on,
Robin. I am hungry.”
“At evening we usually eat the cold meat left
from the midday meal, with cheese and bread,” Robin informed them
as he showed them the way along a narrow stone corridor, the walls
of which were pierced at intervals by arrow slits. The boy
continued down a stone staircase with the two men following him.
“For tonight Lady Mirielle has ordered special dishes prepared in
your honor, so we will feast on roasted fowl. There is a pigeon pie
freshly made, and an almond custard. I do like almond custard.”
“I take it you are allowed to roam the castle
at will,” Hugh said. “You range from the stables to the kitchen to
the great hall.”
“My favorite place is Lady Mirielle’s
workroom,” Robin said. “Mother tells me to stay out of Lady Alda’s
way and she never goes to the workroom, so it is quiet there. Sir
Giles, is it true that you are suffering from an old battle wound?
Would you tell me the story of how you got it?”
“Warfare is not as exciting as it is made out
to be,” Giles said. “But if there is time while I’m here, I will
tell you of my adventures.”
“Sir,” Robin asked Hugh, “are you a knight,
too?”
“Only when I cannot avoid it,” Hugh said. “I
prefer more scholarly pursuits.”
“Then you must talk with Lady Mirielle,”
Robin told him. “She knows everything. She is a most learned
lady.
“Here we are,” Robin continued, leading them
into the hall and toward the dais. “Lady Mirielle said you are to
sit at the high table. Now, if you will excuse me, gentle sirs, my
place is below, with my mother.” With a bow Robin left the two men
standing beside the benches set at the high table.
“He has fine manners for a boy who spends his
days in the stables,” Giles noted. “Is it the result of Lady
Mirielle’s training? It would seem she has informally made him her
page after he was denied that position by the mistress of the
castle.”
“I rather think his mother has had something
to do with Robin’s manners.” Hugh indicated one of the lower
tables, where Robin had joined a woman of graceful bearing, who
wore a plain, brown woolen dress. From under the woman’s neat
wimple a few curls escaped that were identical to Robin’s in color
and curly texture. “She looks to be a gentlewoman and the folk near
her treat her with respect. Her son is a credit to her.”
“I believe our host is coming now,” Giles
said. “And the ladies with him.”
A man and two women were just entering the
hall. Lady Alda came first, her well-buffed fingertips resting
lightly on the wrist of a dark-haired man of impressive build.
Alda’s golden hair was bound into a net of gold threads no brighter
than the strands they enclosed. A wide gold circlet topped the net.
The deep green of her gown was calculated to show the glory of her
hair to best advantage and the low-cut neckline revealed most of
her white bosom. Contrary to custom she wore no underdress.
Behind this pair a second woman walked, and
the dark- haired man’s head was turned toward her as he said
something. The woman was listening to him and was not concerned as
yet with the guests awaiting them on the dais where the high table
was set. Thus, Giles saw Mirielle with his eyes unclouded by the
illusion she had cast at their first meeting.
“Now there,” said Hugh in a reverent whisper,
“is a woman worthy of young Robin’s devotion.”
“And of any grown man’s admiration,” Giles
added.
She was gowned in unadorned blue wool,
high-necked and long-sleeved over a cream colored under-dress. The
loose robe ought to have concealed her figure but in fact it
offered hints of delicious curves with every graceful step Mirielle
took. Her hair was a gleaming blue-black, bound into two braids
that fell almost to her knees. The circlet on her brow was of thin
gold, set with a single, glowing garnet. The smooth, rounded
surface of the red stone caught and seemed to hold within itself
every flicker of light from each torch in the hall and every candle
on the high table. The light thus collected surrounded Mirielle’s
face and form with a rosy aura.
Mirielle saw Giles and Hugh and lifted one
slender hand as if to trace the former veil of illusion over
herself once more. Then her hand dropped to her side again and a
faint smile curved her lips as she realized there was no point in
trying to hide her true appearance from anyone who had already
glimpsed it.
“Welcome to Wroxley Castle.” The dark man
bowed courteously to the guests. “I am Sir Brice, seneschal here
and in charge of the castle in the absence of the late baron’s
heir.”
“We thank you for your generous hospitality.”
Giles studied Brice, detecting in the man’s manner a strong sense
of his own importance, as if Brice thought of himself as more than
a mere seneschal who had been temporarily appointed by King
Henry.