Authors: Blackheart
Bernart quaked as he nudged his destrier around to face the one he dreaded. But was it coincidence that England's king took himself from the construction of his beloved castle, or had Gabriel called him to aid? Bernart would not have guessed the latter. Never had his friend-turned-enemy called upon others to do his battles, but men changed, as Bernart knew well. If Gabriel had, could this mean Juliana had revealed the truth of what had happened at Tremoral nearly a year past?
The dread possibility caused Bernart to sweat more profusely into his chain mail, and more so when he recalled her defiance this morn. A moment later, sharp pain shot through his groin. He grunted, squeezing his fists to keep from clutching himself. Would Juliana have risked her sister? With Gabriel's brother dead, she could not know that the meager-minded Alaiz was gone from Tremoral.
Bernart closed his eyes. Pray, let his secret be safe, let it be chance that placed King Richard at Mergot, or that Gabriel had turned coward. But if the latter, what hope had Gabriel that the king would allow him to hold another man's wife?
"What have you not told me?" the dark Faison quietly demanded as he drew alongside.
Bernart glanced sidelong at the irksome baron who would suffer well to be put through with a sword. "I am as surprised as you,
friend."
Faison pushed his barbed blue gaze to Bernart, flexing his armless shoulder as if his own thoughts ran with Bernart's. And perhaps they did, for his left arm came across his body and his hand turned around his sword hilt.
Bernart tensed, but reminded himself there was little to fear from one whose sword arm had long ago rotted upon infidel soil. Faison could pull the sword from its scabbard, but to swing it on an unbalanced body would be laughable. And the baron must have known it, for he carried his threat no further.
Bernart looked back at the approaching army, feeling a tic start at his eye, then his mouth as the one at the fore neared. Whatever Richard's reason for coming to Mergot, he would not be pleased that his vassal made war on another of his vassals. Bernart ought to have sought his permission, but though he could be forgiven for laying siege to one who'd stolen his wife, he'd feared that bringing the king into the fray might result in the question of who'd fathered Juliana's son.
A few moments later, the king halted his grand destrier less than ten feet from Bernart.
Bernart bowed his head. "Your Majesty."
The ensuing silence opened up rivulets of perspiration down Bernart's torso. Would his mail rust before the king gave response?
"Kinthorpe," Richard clipped.
Bernart swallowed, lifted his head, and met those fiery eyes a moment before they swung to Faison.
"Ah, Faison, we ought not to be surprised." The king spoke in the language of the French, so thickly accented Bernart had to strain to translate the words of England's king, who it was said knew not a word of English.
"It follows, hmm?" Richard taunted.
Faison inclined his head, but that was all. No other acknowledgment or respect did he give.
Surprisingly, the fiercely redheaded king grinned. "We will speak later, Faison." He looked to the castle walls. "Now we settle this matter between Kinthorpe and De Vere."
What knew he of it? Bernart wondered with a new rush of fear.
"Join us." Richard turned his destrier to the walls. Bernart and Faison followed, the former clutched with dread, the latter darkly silent.
The devil!
Bernart silently cursed the man who was as if untouched by fear. Did he not care if he lived or died? Was his pain truly so raw? And what knew he of suffering? True, an arm he had lost, but still he had the get between his legs, still he could plow a woman's belly and grow it large with child.
The lowering of the drawbridge swept aside the clat-terings of Bernart's mind, forced him to consider that which awaited him—Gabriel and Juliana.
Betrayers!
But the king would make good his claim. Come the morrow, Juliana and the babe would leave this place with him. All he must concern himself with was convincing the king that what Gabriel had done was so grievous as to warrant severe punishment. Death? Dared he hope? Unfortunately, from all he heard, Gabriel was among Richard's favorites.
Bernart pressed his sweat-soaked shoulders back and cocked his chin in terrible anticipation of again meeting Gabriel.
Chapter Twenty-five
Juliana sprang up from her knees, spinning around to face Lissant where she stood in the chapel doorway. "The king?"
"Aye, he comes."
Juliana listened, realizing the commotion without the walls had ceased. He had come!
"Lord De Vere would have you make ready for the king's arrival in the hall."
Juliana nodded. "A moment, please." She turned back to the altar before which she'd knelt until she could scarcely feel her knees, then clasped her hands before her. 'Thank you, Father." She squeezed her eyes closed. "Pray, guide my tongue." She lowered her arms and swept around. "Gabrien sleeps?"
"He does, my lady."
"Then come." She hurried past the woman, traversed the corridor, and descended the stairs. Upon stepping into the hall, she halted. Save for the servants who were dragging tables and benches from the walls and gathering debris from the rushes, the room was empty.
"Where are the villagers?" she asked.
Lissant came alongside. "Gone outside, my lady—'tis an audience of few the king seeks."
Of course.
"And of the injured?"
"Moved to the storeroom, my lady."
Juliana nodded. "Good." She looked around and settled her gaze on a servant who yawned widely as she picked a bone from the rushes. "Ann! Prepare the sideboard." Juliana hoped the woman would not argue with her as a few continued to do, though she was now mother of Gabriel's heir. "Lay it with whatever cook can manage."
Ann inclined her head and bustled toward the kitchens.
"Cloths upon the tables," Juliana directed another servant. "And the salt cellar." She turned to Lissant. "Tend the fire."
The maid turned to the hearth.
Juliana looked around. All was provided for—or would be shortly. Now she must change her clothes.
Her hope that the babe would sleep through the coming of the king was doused when the creak of her chamber door brought forth a cry.
She hurried forward, lifted him from his cradle, and held him close.
He calmed and waved a fist as if to admonish her for awakening him.
She smiled past her worry. "King Richard is here, little one." She kissed his brow.
He gurgled, nuzzling her bodice.
It seemed the king would have to wait.
Who had sent for Richard? Gabriel wondered as, with a tightening of fists, he waited for the king to pass over the drawbridge. Bernart? Juliana? Blase? Nay, not his brother, and though Juliana had wanted to, she had no means of sending word. Bernart, then. What he could not take himself he had brought another to do. Though Gabriel had not denied the king entrance, as he'd momentarily considered, he would not surrender Juliana and his son. Be it by arms or a revelation he did not wish to make, he would hold them.
Damnation!
He ought to have taken them and fled France. But to leave his people to Bernart's wrath, to ever be running...
As the king passed beneath the raised portcullis, he thrust his gaze to Gabriel.
Gabriel swept beyond him to Bernart and Faison, then grew stiffer. The stink and filth of war upon him, he looked again to Richard and bowed.
The king reined in. "It has been long, De Vere."
Would that it could be longer,
Gabriel straightened. "Your Majesty, you are welcome at Mergot."
"Hmm." He picked his gaze over the debris-strewn bailey, then lifted it to the holed walls. "We trust there is good reason for this, Kinthorpe."
Bernart sat taller in the saddle. "A good reason, Your Majesty. De Vere has stolen my—"
"We did not ask for an explanation," Richard snapped.
Gabriel watched the color rise in Bernart's face, embarrassment razing his smug expression.
'To the hall," the king commanded, and spurred his horse ahead.
Following, Bernart put hating eyes to Gabriel. "Mine," he said, loud enough that only Gabriel might hear his claim to Juliana and the babe.
Gabriel stared at Bernart until he was past.
As for Faison, the baron needed no words to express his feelings for the one who'd been awarded his brother's lands—but then, no words were needed for enmity so deep.
Bracing himself, Gabriel followed.
The villagers who crowded the inner bailey were silent as he strode past, watchful as if aware of the import of what was to be spoken in the hall, hopeful as if it would soon see them returned to their homes.
When Gabriel entered, the great hall was empty save for King Richard, who had taken the lord's high seat, as was his privilege; Bernart and Faison, who stood left of the dais; and four of the king's guards. No Juliana. Was it as the king wished? Gabriel wondered as he positioned himself to the right of the dais.
Richard flexed his shoulders, settled deeper into the chair, and looked to Gabriel. "Where is Lady Juliana?"
Then he had not sent her from the hall. Struggling to keep his face expressionless, Gabriel said, "Likely abovestairs, Your Majesty."
The king's brow gathered. "Summon her."
Gabriel hurled his gaze against Bernart and caught his old friend's smirk.
Damn Bernart for bringing it to this!
Such humiliation Juliana would suffer—and their son if the truth of his getting were revealed.
"Summon Lady Juliana," the king harshly repeated.
Gabriel started to turn.
"I am here, Your Majesty."
Gabriel sucked in his breath at the sight of Juliana as she stepped off the stairs—auburn hair dressed in luminous plaits and coils, brown eyes large and traced with thick lashes that caused shadows to flutter against her cheekbones, bowed lips parted to reveal straight, white teeth. A more beautiful woman there was not—would never be again. And when she was old, she would be as captivating. Adding to the sight was her gown. Fashioned of profuse blue cloth that, in what seemed another life, was to have been made into a surcoat for him and trappings for his destrier, it embraced her figure as she crossed the hall with chin up and her gaze stuck to the king. Not once did her eyes waver toward Bernart. It was as if he were not even present. From Bernart's change of color, her slight struck center.
Juliana came to stand at Gabriel's side.
A longing to put an arm around her, that all would know she did not belong to Bernart, pulsed through him. But it was enough that she stood with him.
"Your Majesty," she said, and bowed.
Richard lifted an apple from the platter of viands set before him. "Arise."
She straightened, and for a moment met Gabriel's gaze. Though misgiving darkened her eyes, no more would she allow Bernart to manipulate her to his will.
The king looked from Juliana to Gabriel to Bernart, and twice more. Finally he took a bite of the apple and swung his feet to the table. One boot crossed over the other, he gave the appearance of having gathered his subjects to speak of hunting. "A siege in the winter of spring," he clipped. "A siege that has snatched us from an undertaking we hold most high." His eyes settled to Juliana. "Who will tell us what is of such import, hmm?"
Gabriel stepped forward. He would do the telling—all of it, if need be. Guilt for what he could not change had no place where he and Juliana and their child were concerned. "Your Majesty—"
"Nay," Richard barked, though still he held Juliana with his gaze. "We have not asked you, De Vere."
Bernart issued a derisive snort, causing Gabriel to jam his fingers hard against his palms to keep them from his sword hilt.
"Speak!" King Richard demanded. "Surely there is another who might tell?"
Confidence expanding his chest, Bernart put a foot forward. "Allow me, Your Majesty. I—"
Richard slammed his hands to the chair arms, sending the apple bounding across the table and into the rushes. "Nor have we asked you, Kinthorpe!" For all his wrath, he kept his gaze upon Juliana.
Bernart's jowls worked, his eyelids fluttering. He slipped back to Faison's side.
Beneath the king's heavy regard, Juliana's mouth parched. Only she and the rebel baron remained to give answer. However, it was not Faison he called upon.
"We wait!" King Richard said scathingly.
She moistened her lips. "I would speak, Your Majesty."
Eyebrows jogging his brow, he said condescendingly, "That was not so difficult," and joined his hands upon his chest.
Not difficult? Only did one compare it to birthing. "Your Majesty, what I have to tell is but for you. Could you not send your men from the hall?"
"Naught that is told here shall leave," he said without consideration. "My men are trusted."
She glanced to the one beside Bernart. "The same is said for Baron Faison?"
Richard's eyebrows dipped. "Ah." He glanced at the rebel. "Indeed you have cause for concern, but surely the baron ought to know for what he gave men and machines to your husband's cause."
Battling the longing to put her shoulder to Gabriel's and slip her hand into his, Juliana said, "That I cannot argue, Your Majesty, but still I would ask it."
"Very well, this we shall grant you." The king's gaze went to Faison. "Await without."
The baron glowered, turned, and strode across the hall. A few moments later, Juliana, Gabriel, and Bernart were as alone as it was possible to be with England's truant king.
"Now tell, Lady Juliana," Richard said, "for what did you send Sir Erec to summon us to Mergot?"
Beside her, Gabriel went stiff. Now he would be angry. She only prayed he would forgive Sir Erec for carrying her message. She stepped forward. "As was told you, Your Majesty, Bernart Kinthorpe brings war to Mergot that he might steal the son of Gabriel De Vere."
As hard as Bernart's gaze was upon her, she ought to have been felled by it, but she refused to look to him, to see the threat in his eyes of what he would do to Alaiz.