Authors: Blackheart
Nesta rubbed her breasts against him, causing her nipples to pebble the bodice of her homespun gown. "Aye.
Does her belly not soon ripen with child, Lord Kinthorpe vows come the autumn he will commit her to a convent and take another to wife."
Bernart intended to cast Juliana aside? Though it could be taken as justification for stealing her from Tremoral, something festered at the back of his mind.
" 'Tis sure to happen," Nesta continued, "fer m'lady is frigid and most certainly barren. No son will she give Lord Kinthorpe."
Frigid? Hardly. Barren? Perhaps.
Else the blame lay with Bernart... The festering at the back of Gabriel's mind sprang forward. He recalled the second night when Juliana had come to him and determinedly coaxed his seed from him, and last eve when she would have again had he not lost himself in her and freely given it. It was a child she sought. A child whom she would claim as Bernart's to secure her place at Tremoral.
Once more, anger opened a place in him. Juliana had used him, had professed to have feelings for him when all she wanted was for him to sire a child on her. But why him? Why not another? Revenge as he'd first believed? That she might present her faithless husband with a child whose veins coursed with the blood of his enemy? There could be no other explanation.
Gabriel turned his hands into fists. For a deceitful whore he would have risked everything. Would have bared himself as he had done for no other woman. What excuse would Juliana have given for refusing to return to France with him? Honor? Fear of excommunication? How she would have laughed when he was gone from Tremoral!
Gabriel pushed Nesta aside and, amid her sputtering, forced a path through the crowd. Ahead, Juliana stood before the great doors, her back to him as she conversed with a neighboring baron.
"My lord husband sends his regrets, Lord Payne," Gabriel heard her say. "I fear he took ill during the night and is unable to leave his bed."
The baron, who looked as if he ought to have remained in bed himself, thanked Juliana for the fine festivities, took his wife's arm, and guided the graceless woman toward the doors.
Juliana turned as Gabriel reached her. She looked momentarily surprised, but in the next moment wary. She had cause to fear him.
It being all Gabriel could do to keep his arms at his sides, he said in a hiss, "We must needs speak."
She moistened her lips, then glanced left and right. "I have guests, Lord De Vere."
"So you do. Would you like them to hear what I have to say?"
She swallowed, then looked again to see if they'd fallen beneath the regard of others. "The garden," she said low. "I will meet you there."
"Do not keep me waiting." He turned on his heel.
Juliana's heart pained her as she watched Gabriel's long strides carry him across the hall, his pack over his arm. What had happened between last eve and this morn? What wrath must she now suffer and for what reason? Dreading the answer, she began to make her way toward the corridor that led to the gardens. Lest she was watched, she paused to direct servants and chat briefly with one of the ladies, then slipped into the corridor. The door at the end was ajar. She braced herself and stepped through it. Gabriel's pale gaze went through her.
Braving it, she closed the door. "Of what do you wish to speak?"
"Come nearer."
Barely ten feet separated them and he wished her to come nearer? To look more closely upon his seething anger? "I must return to the—"
"Nearer!"
In that instant, she realized he knew her secret. Dear God, what had revealed her? Though instincts urged her to flee, she knew there would be no escaping his wrath. Somehow she must convince him he was wrong. Her in-sides trembling like leaves in autumn, she lifted her skirts and stepped onto the path.
"What is it?" she asked, halting before him.
His nostrils flared as he lowered his gaze to her belly. "I know the truth."
She swallowed hard. "The truth?"
He swept his unforgiving gaze back to hers. "That you are a liar, Juliana Kinthorpe. A whore. A thief."
It was true. She was all of those things, as Bernart had made her. She clasped her hands at her waist. "I have already apologized for last eve," she feigned misunderstanding. "Truly, I did not come to your chamber that I might lie with you."
His hands fell to her arms and gripped them so fiercely she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. "Of course you did. Now the only question is whether you gained that for which you came."
She shook her head. "I do not understand."
"Aye, you do. You came to steal a child from my loins!"
Did he feel her trembling? "A child? Whatever do you speak of?"
"I know, Juliana. I know that Bernart intends to rid himself of you do you not soon provide him with an heir."
Where had he heard that? Was it Bernart's doing? In the two months prior to the tournament, he'd talked openly of his quest for a son so that all would know he was attempting to get a child on her and would not be surprised when she swelled. But that he intended to send her away if she did not conceive was something she had not heard. Not that he would truly send her away. If Gabriel's seed did not take, he would simply find another to prove his stolen manhood.
"Who told you that?" Juliana asked past a tightening throat.
Gabriel lowered his face near hers. "As 'tis the truth, it matters not. You have no feelings for me as you claimed to have, Juliana. You feel only for yourself."
How she hated that he thought so ill of her. How she wished she could tell him everything. But, as always, there was Alaiz. The two sisters had only each other, and that was more important than this man who so readily condemned her. She raised her chin. "You are wrong, Gabriel De Vere."
The corners of his mouth turned up into what could hardly be called a smile. "I was not drunk the second night. I remember how you mounted me, clung to me, held me inside."
Shame warmed her face. She lowered her eyes to his chest. How she remembered! Like the whore and thief Gabriel named her, she had sought and taken what he had not wanted to give. She was a poor liar. No matter how she denied his accusation, never would he believe her, but neither could she confess to seeking to steal a child from him. What was she to do? As she frantically searched for an answer, a voice resounded above the commotion in the bailey beyond.
"Juliana!" Bernart bellowed. With a gasp, she looked up. Though the lord's solar was not visible from the gardens, she knew it was from there the shout issued. If she did not answer it, Bernart would come looking for her. And he would be wrathful, suffering from such ale-passion that any who crossed his path would regret it. Dreading the spectacle he would make of himself and fearing the confrontation sure to ensue if he found her with Gabriel, she looked back at the man whose anger was his due. "I beg you, Gabriel, leave Tremoral. Now."
His anger no less palpable, he stared at her, searching her face. "Leave without thanking my old friend for his hospitality? For the gainful sport, the food and drink, the warm bed, for sharing his wife?"
Tears touched her eyes. He could have no idea how near the truth he was. "Have you any heart, Gabriel, you will go."
"Heart," he repeated with a sardonic grin. "I fear not, but I will leave." He dropped his hands from her. "However, this I vow: I shall be back."
She did not have to be told. Gabriel De Vere was not a man to be made a fool of and then simply walk away. For certain, one day she would pay for her sins. Fortunately, Gabriel was without influence. Though he had been awarded a demesne in France, he was not the great baron Wyverly would have made him—he lacked the power Bernart enjoyed in England. Thus he had no recourse. To accuse a noblewoman of Juliana's rank of having lain with him would only see him the worse for it. Still, he
would
return, God willing many many years from now. It was a day for which she would have to prepare. Feeling suddenly cold, she hugged her arms about her.
Gabriel retrieved his pack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. "And when I come," he continued, "I will take whatever you have stolen from me."
Heaven have mercy on her.
He strode to the gate. There, he looked over his shoulder and stared at her as if to forever impress the moment upon his mind. "Pray 'tis you who are barren, not Bernart," he said. He threw the gate open and stepped into the bailey.
Juliana felt her knees begin to buckle, but as much as she yearned to sink to the ground and surrender to her emotions, she refused herself the weakness. In the days, months, years to come, there would be much time to agonize over the ill she'd done Gabriel and its consequences.
With trembling hands, she pushed back the tendrils of hair that had escaped her plait, then smoothed her skirts.
"Wife!" Bernart shouted.
Silently praying he would not see her fear, Juliana hastened into the donjon.
Gabriel issued Sir Erec and the accompanying squires no warning. With a sharp pull of the reins, he drew his destrier to a halt atop the hill and turned the animal around. In the far distance, the towers of Tremoral pierced the morning mist that overlay the castle walls. Within those walls, Juliana Kinthorpe thought herself safe. She was not.
Soon he would return, and when he did she would discover he never made a vow he did not keep. And what of Bernart? His fury mounted as he recalled the honed sword his old friend had nearly put through him. He would not be spared the truth. He would know of his wife's treachery, drown in it for all Gabriel cared. It was something to look forward to. Something to fill his angry days and nights.
Chapter Ten
England, September 1195
The priest reminded her of Gabriel, though only his dark looks. Father Hermanus was younger, light of heart, and easy to rouse to laughter. Did his vestments not proclaim him a member of the clergy, he could pass as one of the knightly class. Even Tremoral's chaplain, a man who rarely smiled, could not help but be affected by the traveling priest who'd arrived at the castle late this afternoon to request lodging for the night. In fact, if Father Daniel was not more mindful, he was going to break a smile.
Juliana turned her attention from the table, where her guest sat amongst Tremoral's men-at-arms, and looked at the scrap of embroidered linen in her lap. She ran a finger over the stitches she'd painstakingly worked these past nights. Though she had not begun it with the thought of fashioning the material into an infant's gown, there was little else it could be used for. It was so very small.
She resisted the impulse to touch her belly and turned her gaze to the fire before which she sat. It beat warm upon her face, but could not touch the chill fear in her breast that grew with each passing day, nor the pain.
The desire was too great. Surrendering to it, she touched the gentle swell that evidenced her nights with Gabriel. Though four months pregnant, she had only begun to show a fortnight past. It was then that Bernart had gathered his household knights and left for London and the court of the ever-absent King Richard. How he hated her for giving him what he so badly wanted. Though, in the presence of others, his boasting of imminent fatherhood was without end, when he and Juliana lay in bed at night his true feelings strained the space between them. It was as she'd warned him: he would loathe another man's child born of her body. What would it be like when the babe arrived? Would she fear for its life?
Laughter, so out of place in the depths of her despair, reverberated through the hall. She looked around.
The young priest's head was flung back as he and the others heartily enjoyed whatever mischief he'd imparted. Even Father Daniel chuckled.
To be born a man, Juliana reflected, to do as one pleased and control one's life. Absently she stroked her belly, prayed the babe was a boy. Not only would his life be easier, but Bernart would be more accepting, though that did not mean he would be kind to Gabriel's son. As Juliana fought to protect Alaiz, she would have to do the same for her little one.
She pulled herself back to the present and, in doing so, realized she'd fallen beneath the regard of the man her gaze was fixed upon.
Father Hermanns inclined his head and shifted his attention to her hand upon her belly.
As if it were a sin to touch her unborn
child,
she snatched it away and hurriedly looked at Alaiz, who lay with her head pillowed upon the hearth and eyes closed.
Why this sudden disquiet? Juliana wondered. She had nothing to fear from the priest. Though he was unlike any clergy she'd previously encountered, he seemed kind and sincere. Indeed, rather than expect to be waited upon as many visitors did, Father Hermanus had offered his assistance in the preparation of the evening meal. Then, at the urging of Tremoral's chaplain, he'd said grace before supper. His impassioned words had moved Juliana as she had not been moved in a long time.
There was naught to fear, she assured herself. She was tired, that was all. She suppressed a yawn behind her hand. Darkness was not long upon Tremoral, yet she felt more fatigued than usual. It must be the baby. She laid her embroidery aside and stood. Though it was usually difficult to rouse Alaiz from sleep, it proved even more so this eve. Finally she peeled back her lids.
"We should go abovestairs," Juliana said.
Alaiz levered herself up, rubbed her eyes. "M-may I sleep with you again?" Her voice was thick and slurred.
"Of course." As Bernart had not returned from London and had yet to send word as to how long he intended to remain absent, there could be no harm in it. Juliana put a hand to her sister's elbow to assist her to stand. With Alaiz leaning against her, she turned to the tables, bid all good eve, and started toward the stairs. Minutes later, still fully clothed, she lay down beside Alaiz and slept.
Voices. Wondering whence they issued and to whom they belonged, Juliana tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt as if weighted by stone. The voices drew nearer: men's voices, the words of which she could make no sense. Had Bernart returned? She tried to form his name, but her tongue filled her mouth. She attempted to turn toward the sound, but her body was as if one with the mattress. What was wrong with her? Was it the babe?