Authors: Blackheart
"Who?" Bernart shouted.
Alaiz started violently. Who? Who what? What did he ask? Her breath coming in gasps, she searched backward, grasped at their previous discourse.
Bernart gripped her upper arm and shook her. "Imbecile! I swear, do you give me one moment of grief, I shall turn you out." He thrust her from him and swung away.
If not for the chair behind her, Alaiz would have tumbled to the hearth. Shaking as if taken with chill, she stared at her brother-in-law's retreating back. A moment later, she remembered his question: Who would have stolen Juliana?
Ought she to reveal her suspicions? She considered doing so only a moment before deciding against it. As much as she longed for Juliana's return, and dreaded life at Tremoral without her, something told her it was best she said naught. Best Bernart believed her an imbecile.
"None to watch over you, Lady Alaiz?"
She looked up. Before her stood Sir Randal, his eyes bright with something Juliana would not have liked. Alaiz glanced past him and saw that Bernart had gone, leaving her alone with this knight whom her sister had not trusted, whose gaze Alaiz too often felt.
Show not fear,
she counseled herself.
He would not dare bother you.
Would he? "Excuse me, I-I must rest until the n-nooning meal."
He was slow to stir from her path. Only after he'd slithered his gaze over her did he step aside. "Rest well, my lady."
She could not go from his sight quickly enough. Once inside her chamber, she barred the door. She was safe, but only for the moment. The question was how she was to remain safe while she dwelled in the home of a man who so disdained her. Bernart was her sister's husband, but he would not protect her as Juliana had done. As he'd warned, if she caused him difficulty he would turn her out. Which would be worse? To remain at Tremoral among men like Sir Randal who looked at her the way he did, or to be a woman wandering the countryside amid outcasts and thieves who would as surely take advantage of her? The latter, she concluded. Thus she must preserve her place here, must protect herself.
She wiped her moist palms down her skirts, straightened, crossed to the chest at the foot of her bed. She knelt and raised the lid. At the bottom she found what she was looking for: the jeweled dagger her father had given her before his death.
Who dared come into his home and steal his wife from his bed? It was the same question Bernart had repeatedly asked himself since word of Juliana's disappearance had reached him in London. And still he was no nearer the answer.
He wiped a forearm across his brow, wetting his sleeve with the excessive perspiration he owed more to his considerable weight gain these past months than the hard ride from London.
He was tired and badly wanted to seek his rest. As he longingly eyed the bed from which Juliana had been stolen three nights past, the question rushed at him again: Who had taken her? He imagined a dark figure entering the solar, standing over her, lifting her. Had she struggled? Cried out? Had ill befallen the child she carried, the son he had sacrificed all to gain?
He slammed a fist against the bedpost, grunting as pain exploded through his hand. Where was she? Whose bed was she in?
Nursing his hand to his chest, he dropped to the mattress edge and stared sightlessly at his surroundings. He had always prided himself on possessing a woman so desirable that any man who saw her instantly wanted her, but never had he believed any would dare steal her. Who would be so bold?
Without a doubt, the visiting priest had been part of the plan, but he had not done it alone. Who had engaged him? Bernart plodded backward through his wretched memory to the days of the tournament. Not one of the participating knights had been able to keep his eyes from Juliana— except, of course, Gabriel.
Gabriel. Once more he entertained the possibility that his enemy was responsible for her abduction. Had Gabriel discovered it was she who'd shared his bed, believed the child she carried was his? His brother
was
a priest.
Bernart shook his head, denying the impossible. Gabriel did not know who had come to him those nights. Juliana had assured him of it, had told him Gabriel had simply taken that which she'd offered and not asked her name. Nay, if he was to find Juliana, he must look elsewhere.
Could it be Sir Henry? The handsome Sir Morris? The lecherous Sir Arnold? One by one, Bernart considered the multitude of knights who'd come from near and far to gain the purse Gabriel had taken for himself. Any one of them could have done it, could this moment be spreading her thighs.
Bernart's stomach constricted, cramped, threatened to expel the ale he had recklessly quaffed a half hour earlier. He swallowed hard, and again. Finally the nausea subsided enough that he was able to gain his feet.
Now to begin his search. Regardless how long it took— a fortnight, a month, a year—he would have Juliana back. Would have the son owed him. He tightened his sword belt around his sagging waist, crossed the solar, and threw the door wide.
Chapter Thirteen
France
No daylight penetrated the shutters, but Juliana knew it was morn from the sound of activity ascending from the bailey. She pushed aside the covers, shivered as chill air swept her bare skin, and clenched her jaws to prevent them from chattering. Dragging the fur coverlet around her shoulders, she lowered her feet to the floor.
As she stepped toward the windows, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She peered closer. Someone lay on a pallet at the foot of the bed. Though it was not light enough to make out who it was, she knew it must be Lissant.
A true lady's maid. Not only was it a long time since she'd had one, it was even longer since one had been so readily available. Lest the distance Bernart put between himself and Juliana in bed give credence to the rumors, or prying eyes discover the truth of him, he'd allowed neither male nor female servant to bed down in the solar. It was going to be odd, indeed, to be waited on as befitted a lady.
Juliana frowned. Of course, it was customary for a maid to rise in advance of her mistress. She looked to the shuttered windows. It must be early, likely not even dawn. Clutching the coverlet around her, she stepped to the nearest window and opened the shutters.
The breath of night, that would soon yield the dawn, nipped at her nose and cheeks. She huddled more deeply into the fur and looked out across the torchlit inner bailey. Her gaze settled to the right of the drawbridge, where workers had already begun their day's labor to restore the integrity of the inner wall.
Would it be needed? If so, when? As she stood there dreading what would happen if Bernart came, a familiar figure entered her vision. Gabriel. Even from on high he was imposing, shoulders beneath his mantle broader than any other man's, long legs quick to close the distance between himself and the workers. He halted before the scaffold, but though his voice carried to Juliana, she could not discern the orders he gave his men.
Her stomach rumbled. Having eaten little on the night past, she would have to go belowstairs and see if she could find something to fill this emptiness. However, she soon discovered her garments were missing. Likely Lissant had taken them to be laundered. So what was she to do? She could not venture from the chamber wrapped in naught but fur.
The chest. She knelt beside it and pushed the lid back. The contents were barely distinguishable in the bit of light cast by the torches outside, but they were women's clothing and, from the feel of them, of the finest material. She drew forth a bliaut and a chemise, then dug deeper and located hose and slippers. The latter were too small and narrow, but they were the least of her concerns.
She straightened and held the bliaut against her. Unlaced, it might accommodate her increasing girth, but it would reveal her ankles and lower calves. Whoever these clothes belonged to had been of smaller stature than she. Disappointed, Juliana turned to replace the garments. She paused. Gabriel had said Isolde Waltham had the freedom of the donjon, yet had not provided her with a means of leaving her chamber. Would he mind her roaming about in clothes that shamelessly bared her lower legs? He would. Dared she?
She dropped the coverlet and donned the garments of a lady who would have been fortunate to reach Juliana's nose. In tightly stockinged feet and a gown that strained its unlaced seams, she made her way to the hall. Not surprisingly, the household servants were still scattered upon their pallets and benches.
She crossed to the sideboard. Only ale and unappetizing scraps were left of last eve's supper. Guessing the kitchens were located down the corridor off the hall, she retrieved a torch and shortly entered the cavernous room. It was well-appointed, and as untouched by the siege as were the rooms abovestairs.
As expected, the pantry was locked. Juliana retrieved a stool, positioned it to the side of the pantry, and climbed atop. The key was beneath a pot. Within minutes she sat down to a meal of bread and cheese.
A stout man entered the kitchens. Hair tousled from recent awakening, circles beneath his eyes, clothes rumpled, he halted. "Who are you?" he demanded in an accent as thick as cold stew.
Juliana reminded herself of the name Gabriel had given her. "I am Lady Isolde Waltham."
He squinted, looking closer. Fortunately, the table concealed her undersize garments. Of course, eventually she would have to come out.
"So you are," he said. "What do you in my kitchens?"
Then he was the cook. "I am eating." She held up a crust of bread.
He glowered. "You could not wait an hour longer?"
She was not accustomed to being spoken to so rudely by a servant. Even Nesta, with all her impertinence, had never challenged her so. Was it because the child she carried was ill-gotten? That the only conclusion to be drawn from it was that she was a whore? It had to be. Would Gabriel allow such ill treatment of her? If so, her time at Mergot was going to be more wretched than she had anticipated. Denying the man an answer, she popped a piece of cheese into her mouth.
He turned on his heel and crossed to the hearth. It wasn't long before the glowing embers sprang to life and licked at the kettle suspended over it. Shortly, several kitchen maids entered the kitchens and set about their duties. Though curiosity carried their gaze to Juliana time and again, and they tittered and spoke behind their hands, none addressed her as the cook had done.
Juliana had barely satisfied her hunger when the kitchen door burst open.
A man-at-arms stood there. When his gaze lit upon her, relief lightened his expression. "She is here, my lord," he shouted over his shoulder.
Then Gabriel had discovered her missing and set the garrison searching for her.
Juliana pushed the remains of her meal aside and clasped her hands on the tabletop.
Heavy footsteps resounded in the corridor. A moment later Gabriel appeared. Head and shoulders filling the height and breadth of the doorway, he settled his eyes on her. He was vexed, as evidenced by the set of his jaw, the lowering of his brow. "Leave us," he ordered the servants.
They were quick to comply.
He stepped within and closed the door. "What do you here?"
Was he as dense as the cook? "Is it not obvious?" She nodded to the bread and cheese that remained. "You thought that perhaps I had escaped you again?"
If her words pricked, he did not show it. He strode forward. "I will not have you wandering the donjon."
His
words pricked. She slipped off the stool. "You said Isolde Waltham had the freedom of the donjon. 'Twas the bargain we struck."
He halted before the table. "So it was, and it holds. However, at all times I will know where you are."
"That is your freedom? That I be ever under watch? Why do you not simply lock me away?"
He pressed his palms to the table. "If that is what you prefer, 'tis easily done."
Though she did not doubt his threat, she disregarded it. "You fear I might slip past your men? Is that it? You have no confidence in their ability to guard your walls?" Another thought struck. "Or is it their loyalty you question?"
His lids lowered, his eyes glittering through the narrow slits. "You will find no allies at Mergot, Juliana. The castle folk are loyal to me."
Were they? After all, most of them were likely of French descent and had served the previous baron, who'd fallen to King Richard's siege. Had they no loyalty to their fellow countrymen? No resentment toward the Englishman who had supplanted King Philip's baron? "If you are so confident of their fealty," Juliana said, "why do you deny me a measure of privacy?"
A bitter smile etched his mouth. "One cannot be too careful where women are concerned."
She remembered the last night she'd spent with him, when he had revealed far more than he had wished to. "I suppose I have your thieving mother to thank for the fetters put on me."
His eyes darkened. "You have only yourself to blame for that.
Your
deception."
How she hated the revenge he was set on regardless of who might be destroyed. Aching for her sister, she stepped around the table. "Should my jailer seek me, I shall be in my chamber."
Gabriel caught her arm, sweeping his frowning gaze from her straining bodice to skirts that came nowhere near the floor. "What manner of clothes are these?"
She pushed her shoulders back, lifting her chin. "My own garments were gone from my chamber when I awoke. Thus I borrowed these from the chest. You object?"
"Object that the mother of my child looks more a trollop than a lady?"
She cocked her head. "I thought you would find it fitting."
His fingers tightened around her arm. "I know what you are, Juliana, but I will not have my child raised with gossip that wanton displays such as this rouse."
"You do not think servants already talk? Come, Gabriel, I am Lady Isolde Waltham, not Isolde De Vere. Do you succeed in taking my babe, all will know it for what it is. A misbegotten child. A bastard."
His black heart shone from his eyes. " 'Tis a burden the child will have to bear, but all the more reason you do not weight its shoulders more heavily."