Juliana Garnett (2 page)

Alais peered into a small mirror and nodded with satisfaction. “I think the scarlet ribbons look best in my hair, don’t you? Your hair is such a dark red that the blue ribbons look best on you. Now, come. We shall be late for Mass if we do not hurry. You know how ill-tempered Père Francois becomes if we arrive late.”

“It seems to me,” Annice murmured as she tucked her hair beneath the folds of an ermine-lined hood, “that Père Francois is much too fond of being ill-tempered.”

Alais broke into a peal of laughter. “Yea, but he enjoys it so. One should suffer the whims of the elderly, I suppose.”

Annice smiled faintly and went to warm her hands at the fire while Alais began to scold the ladies still gathered around it. A quick, hard slap or two was administered; then the group left the main chamber for the small chapel in the bailey.

Gray light filtered through the mist in shifting patches. Early-morning chill was still in the air. Even in her mantle of wool and ermine she was cold, and Annice slid her hands beneath the long cuffs attached to the sleeves of her cotte to keep them warm. Her lamb’s wool gloves had been lost recently,
and she suspected that one of the girls Thurston had sent as attendants for his young wife was responsible for their loss. Poor Alais. She pretended not to know why her husband sent her the girls, when everyone else was well aware of Thurston’s penchant for casually tumbling serving wenches. It wasn’t that Alais wasn’t pretty, for she was; her complexion was fair and unblemished, her hair a golden blond that men seemed to favor, and her body pleasingly rounded. Yet Thurston of Seabrook favored lowborn sluts and common serfs in his bed instead of his wife. Why, Annice often wondered, were men such rutting beasts?

Père Francois was already waiting impatiently on them and cast a severe glance at the group of giggling girls with Annice and Alais. Alais gave the nearest girl a harsh pinch, and the giggling ceased at once as they entered the chapel.

It was so cold in the chapel that Annice’s breath formed frost clouds as she knelt to pray. First she prayed for the repose of the souls of her parents, then, more dutifully, for her husband. Candlelight flickered over gray stone walls, embroidered hangings, and the gilt threads in the elderly priest’s surplice. His voice seemed to drone on forever. The responses Annice made were reflexive, learned by rote and spoken by rote. As usual lately, her thoughts turned to her situation instead of to the priest’s homily.

These were perilous times for her. She had pleaded with Luc not to listen to the discontented barons mouthing treason, but her husband had refused to hearken to her. When the plot against King John had been discovered, some barons involved had been fortunate enough to escape to France. Luc had been one of the less fortunate. He’d lost his life, and his wife had lost her home. And her freedom.

Good fortune, however, had rescued Annice. Her father had been one of the few who had kindly tolerated the child John. Even after Hugh’s death ten years before, the king had not forgotten the kindnesses shown to a prince. It was a stroke of sheer whimsy that John had recalled Hugh de Beauchamp’s daughter, but that recollection had saved Annice from prison or worse.

It was at the king’s order that she had come to Seabrook to stay with her cousin. Luc d’Arcy had been the Earl of
Seabrook’s vassal, and his death had left her Thurston’s responsibility. The earl had appointed a steward to care for her lands until he settled a suitable husband on her.
Husband
.

Annice hoped that it would be a long time before a husband was found. She had been betrothed in her cradle and wed at the age of thirteen to a man she’d never seen before; though Luc d’Arcy had not been an overly cruel man, neither had he been a good husband. Her first reaction to Luc’s death had been fear for her own safety, then irritation that he had so foolishly cast his own life away. Annice had observed the proper period of mourning with little emotion.

She blew warm breath over her icy fingers. In the eleven years she’d been wed to Luc d’Arcy, she had spent many hours in prayer. Not, perhaps, as she should. How many times had she knelt on cold stones to pray that she might have a child? More times than she could count, yet she had never conceived. That she was barren had always been a bitter draft to swallow, yet now she hoped it might dissuade at least some suitors for her hand in marriage. She had seen enough of men and marriage to last her an entire lifetime. If possible, she would rule her own lands and spend the rest of her years in happy solitude.

But that, she knew, was not likely to happen. Luc’s treason had wrested his lands from her grasp but left intact her inheritance. Though not a great fortune, it was substantial. Her only kin, a half brother raised in Normandy, would not dare interfere with the English king who was also his Norman overlord. As her overlord, Seabrook earned a tidy sum from her estates. She was a valuable pawn to the earl. With her dowry lands as prize, more than one man would press his suit.

When, finally, Mass was ended, Annice followed Alais and the others outside. The sun was higher now, burning off the mist. New green buds sprouted in the garden beyond the small fence, and she could hear the faint bleating of lambs. Spring at last, when everything was new and promising after the cold, bleak winter.

“Annice,” Alais said, nudging close to her, “let us hurry to the hall to break our fast. Mayhap we will actually see this grim Dragon who haunts our forest.…”

The hall was chaotic, as always. A fire burned huge logs in the center of the room, smoke spiraling up to blacken the rafters. Well-trained birds of prey perched on the blackened beams, and an occasional feather drifted downward. Huge tapestries hung on the walls and fluttered slightly in elusive drafts. High windows filtered gray light. Torches sputtered in wall sconces, and branched candle holders glimmered at intervals on the long tables. The lord’s table was placed at the head, with more tables set up at right angles down the length of the hall to accommodate knights and guests. Servants scurried back and forth from the kitchens to the tables, bearing massive platters of food that was usually cold by the time it reached those crowded at the tables.

Lord Seabrook favored a substantial morning meal; with the usual bowls of porridge and milk, he required meat when it was not Lent, eggs, and large quantities of white bread. Annice ate sparingly. Seated at the lord’s table with Alais and her husband, she had the vantage point of viewing the entire hall. It was always interesting to her to observe the others who gathered of a morn. Some of them were knights in Seabrook’s service, and she recognized one or two of his vassals, as well as one of her own vassals. She knew few men seated below the saltcellars. There was no sign of the Dragon.

Dogs quarreled beneath the long tables, fighting among the rushes for scraps of food. An occasional yelp was heard when a booted foot made contact with a particularly quarrelsome dog. The hum of conversation ebbed and flowed around her.

It was a relief to Annice when the morning meal was over. Knights and vassals departed, and servants began to clear the tables. She started to rise. Alais quickly grabbed the trailing cuff of her sleeve and gave a sharp tug.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Don’t you want to see the Dragon?”

Annice hesitated. Curiosity prompted her to linger, but prudence bade her flee to her chambers. The less she knew of Thurston’s affairs, the better she liked it. The little she’d heard since she had been at Stoneham Castle was more than enough to convince her that she did not truly care for the
earl’s method of dealing with his villeins or the barons loyal to him. But this meeting did hold interesting promise. As a matter of courtesy, Rolf le Draca should have been invited inside the castle to break his fast with the earl. That he had been kept waiting outside until the meal was over was an open insult.

“Aye,” she murmured, sitting back down on her stool, “p’raps I shall stay.”

Alais smiled and squeezed her arm. It was a conspiratorial gesture; if Annice had departed the hall, Thurston would have probably sent his wife away with her. As it was, he seemed not to notice either of them as he gave the signal for business to begin. Tall, thin, and with the sharp face of a hawk, Seabrook took his seat in the high-backed chair behind a small table and waited. Torchlight flickered over his dark head as he drummed his fingers impatiently. A scribe stood just behind him, holding a ledger and quill.

Trestle tables were being removed and stacked against the walls until the next meal, and only a few benches were left scattered among the rushes. At the far end of the hall, the massive wooden doors were guarded by men-at-arms. Annice noticed that some of the knights had returned to the hall wearing chain mail and bearing weapons. They lounged with studied indifference against walls and in small groups. There was an air of expectation in their stances, almost of eagerness. ’Twas plain they anticipated trouble.

Annice’s hands tightened in her lap when the double doors swung open at last and the Lord of Dragonwyck was announced. The atmosphere in the hall was charged as if with summer lightning when he stepped into the vast chamber. Alais muttered something under her breath that sounded like a prayer, and even Annice fought the pressing desire to cross herself as if to ward off a demon.

Framed in the open doorway and quite alone, the Dragon paused to survey the hall before approaching. Annice’s first impression was of a much larger man than she’d supposed him to be. P’raps it was the armor he wore—or his demeanor. It was rumored that he descended from the fierce, huge Northmen who had raged along England’s shores at one time. The resemblance, it was said, was
especially notable in battle, when he fought as one of the wild berserkers feared for their savagery and strength.

Annice thought now that the rumors must hold much truth. Despite the intimidation of the earl’s armed men in the chamber, the Dragon’s manner was casual, almost indifferent. Even, she thought with growing amazement, slightly amused as he looked around the hall.

He did not wait to be beckoned nearer. Rolf le Draca strode forward with the arrogant bearing of a king, ignoring the stir he made amongst those watching. There was none of the air of a humble petitioner about him, as one might have supposed. Nay, this man had the insolence to approach the table where Seabrook waited without performing the courtesy of a formal address.

“You know why I have come,” le Draca announced without preamble, and Annice shivered at the hostility in his rasping tone.

There was an odd unsettling in her stomach, as though she had eaten too many green apples. The Dragon was not at all what she’d expected; his massive shoulders were covered with chain mail and a surcoat that bore a rampant gold dragon against a field of black. A scarlet mantle swung from his shoulders, and a sword was belted at his side. He had removed his gauntlets and held them loosely in his hands. He wore no helmet, and his hair was a blaze of golden blond cut short over the ears and on his neck. His dark brown beard was neatly trimmed. Instead of the brutish, coarse man she had anticipated seeing, this man projected a leashed ferocity and aristocratic bearing that was startling. There was none of the butcher in his appearance; nay, he could have stepped from the verses of a romantic tale of knightly love. High cheekbones and a straight nose, large eyes beneath dark-blond brows, and a well-chiseled mouth that was now set in a taut line gave him the look of an archangel more than of a savage barbarian. Could this be the same Rolf le Draca whose name had been coupled with whispers of murder and vile excesses? It seemed unlikely, yet there could be no mistake.

The Dragon shifted impatiently when Seabrook did not reply; his spurs clinked. “Well, my lord?”

At last Thurston reacted, his voice light and faintly amused. “You have a novel method of begging a boon, Lord Rolf. ’Tis not my wont to discourse on such things in so terse a manner.”

A dark-blond brow rose abruptly. “Nay? ’Twas my thought that you would prefer not to discuss this at all, Seabrook. Yet I have brought you a recommendation from the cardinal that you release my son to me.”

“Have you?” Thurston leaned forward, clasping his hands on the surface of the table and smiling blandly. “Which cardinal, may I ask? As you know, there has been some contention as to who is the proper ecumenical authority in England.”

“Robert Curson,” was the growling reply, and Seabrook’s smile broadened.

“Ah. He is now the legate in France, is he not?” Thurston gave a careless shrug. “Though Curson may negotiate with kings, he has little power to sway me.”

“He is English born, and an ecclesiastical power. I have proved my oath of fealty to the king. Now I would have my son returned to me.” Dragonwyck drew in a deep breath, and Annice studied him more closely.

Tension cut deep grooves in his face, and his eyes were slightly narrowed and intense. Beneath thick brown lashes, his eyes glittered a hot green that revealed tightly held fury. Yet there was something else there that intrigued her, a look almost of pain. His hands twisted his gauntlets into a tight coil as he waited for Seabrook’s response, and Annice was suddenly, inexplicably, sympathetic.

“I would see the document signed by the cardinal,” Thurston said after a moment, and le Draca withdrew a sheaf of folded parchment from a pouch on his belt. He stepped forward to place it on the table before Seabrook. There was an immediate reaction from the armed knights, a faint clink of swords and chain mail as they stirred. The Dragon paid them as much attention as he would have one of the huge hounds lurking under the tables. He stood impassively while Seabrook unfolded and read the missive.

Only Dragonwyck’s eyes moved, registering those around him with an alertness bred into well-trained knights.
When his gaze shifted to her, Annice caught her breath. There was a faint flicker in his eyes; then he looked past her to the others at the table and beyond. She felt herself flush at his casual dismissal. There had been no interest in his gaze, only the recording of her presence as unimportant. It had been a long time since she had been so summarily dismissed.