Stuart, Elizabeth (6 page)

"So
you agree. It is
my
den?"

"Lands
in England belong to whomever is strong enough to take them and hold them these
days."

Amusement
flickered briefly in his eyes. "You would do well at court, madam."

"I
think not."

He
turned away from the loom. "You see to the household, have taken over in
the absence of the bailiff, I'm told, yet your sister is the elder by a year.
How is it this task falls to you?" His eyebrows rose. "Another of the
things the lovely Adelise isn't good at?"

Jocelyn
kept her face emotionless, her voice even. "My mother died when I was ten.
My father was seldom in residence at Warford Castle where I was raised. I
learned early how to manage a keep, how to see to the running of a manor. It
was necessary for survival. My sister does well enough at Montagne where she is
known and loved for herself. Here, however, the situation has been quite
different."

"Yes.
Amazing, isn't it?"

She
ignored his sarcasm. "What is it you want of me?"

"I
want you to take me through the castle, show me what's laid by for winter, go
over the account books with me." He paused thoughtfully. "They tell
me you read and write and handle household accounts yourself. I didn't believe
it of a woman at first. Is it true?"

"I
speak and read four languages. I can write a bit in all four as well."
Jocelyn lifted her eyebrows, a perfect parody of his mocking expression.
"And how many do you read, sir?"

"Enough
to get by." He motioned toward the door, obviously unimpressed.
"After you, madam clerk. We've work to do this morning. We'll be preparing
for a siege."

Jocelyn
swung around in surprise. "A siege?"

"Certainly.
You don't think your lord father is going to ignore the fact that I'm here, do
you? With any luck we'll have two days, three perhaps, before he discovers the
message from Lord Borthwick was a ruse, before he comes racing back here to see
what's afoot."

A
ruse? So the whole thing had been carefully planned all along.

Jocelyn
forced herself to ask a question, one that had kept her sleepless till dawn.
"And what of us? Adelise and myself?"

"Why,
we'll discover what you're worth to Montagne, of course." De Langley
smiled grimly. "And I warn you, madam, I plan to set a humiliatingly high
price."

"I
see."

"Such
an excessively learned woman, I thought you would."

Jocelyn
forced herself to ask one more question. "And if he doesn't choose to pay
your price. What then?"

The
man met her eyes, but this time the look in his was chilling. "Like you,
I've learned to do whatever is necessary for survival. Let us hope, madam, for
both our sakes, that we don't have to find out what that is."

Jocelyn
sized up the man who stood across from her. The blood and dirt of last night
were gone, so too the dangerous glitter of destruction and death in his eyes.
But his casual assurance this morning was even more chilling.

Whatever
is necessary for survival.

She
hadn't a doubt that he meant it. She hadn't a doubt either that her father
would do little to ransom his half-Welsh daughter, the daughter of a repugnant
marriage wrought of greed and politics. The daughter who had been nothing but
an embarrassment to him all her life.

She
kept her voice steady by a major effort of will. "Belavoir had a good
harvest this year. If you wish to see the stores, we'd best be about it. It
will take us some time."

She
moved toward the door and shoved it open without looking back. But her heart
had begun an unsteady pounding, her pulse throbbing in a way that made rational
thinking impossible. She could hear de Langley's soft tread behind her, was
overwhelmingly aware of the man at her back, of the sheer animal threat she was
responding to on some instinctive level.

How
could anyone not fear such a man? How had her father dared steal his lands?

She
stepped into the corridor. Two soldiers standing guard stared curiously as she
walked past. Down the hall, two servants were scrubbing at a brownish stain on
the floor. She hesitated.
Blood. Blessed Christ, it was blood! A whole pool
of it.

One
of the women glanced up, started to smile, but Jocelyn was rushing past, trying
not to think of what she might find downstairs in the hall. Her pace picked up.
She was almost running, but couldn't stop herself.

At
the head of the stairs de Langley caught her arm. "Wait."

She
swung round to face him, eyes wide, breath shallow and fast.

"I
said I was in a hurry, madam, but I don't require such haste as this." His
words were calm, but his eyes probed hers questioningly. "You've not yet
broken your fast, nor have I. Perhaps we would both be the better for a bit of
good ale and some bread to steady us before we start."

Jocelyn
stared at his hand. She felt the warmth of it through her sleeve, the strength
in his grip.

His
gaze followed hers and his hand fell away.

The
fingers were long and graceful, the hand well-shaped and clean. It took Jocelyn
an instant to realize she was studying it for blood.

"Did
you really think that I took Belavoir without loss of life?"

She
looked up. Was she really so obvious? "No, I..." She willed her
breath to a steady rhythm, forcing herself to hold his unnerving gaze.
"It's just different seeing it this morning. Wondering if it might be
someone I knew."

Wondering
if a few days hence it might be my own.

"They
were all given quarter if they threw down their arms. Something my garrison
here wasn't offered when your father took control. Sir Edwin de Beouff was
castellan then—a good fighting man, a childhood friend. Though they knew I
couldn't hope to come to their aid, my people held out here for over six
months. When they were too weak from hunger to fight, Montagne took the
castle."

De
Langley's eyes were flat and cold and lifeless. "The knights he allowed to
be ransomed, but Sir Edwin was put to death along with all of the men-at-arms.
Here in the bailey. As an example. An example of what happened to men loyal to
me."

Jocelyn
found her voice with difficulty. "I didn't know."

He
turned abruptly and started down the spiraling stairs. "Now you do."

They
reached the hall, and Jocelyn was amazed to find everything clean and running
smoothly. It was filled with hurrying servants and deferential, well-behaved
men-at-arms. Save for the different faces, she would never have believed
fighting had taken place here only last night.

At
de Langley's order they were served ale and cheese and some good white bread
Jocelyn knew had been baked for her father. She was surprised to discover that
despite her fears, she was overwhelmingly hungry. The food tasted good, the ale
even better. She stared at it suspiciously.

"Cheshire
ale—the best in the west country," de Langley said. "I brought it in
with me last night."

Her
anger rose at the arrogance of the man. "You brought your own ale on a
sortie to take a castle?"

"Actually,
I was pretending escort for a cart train of supplies from Shrewsbury. It got my
men and myself through the gates."

"The
salt," she said. "The salt we've been waiting for."

He
nodded. "I had a bit of trouble persuading the real escort to abandon it.
Unfortunately for them, they had little choice."

"So
that's how you took the place so easily."

"I
assure you, madam, there was nothing easy about it." He took a long sip of
ale, his eyes meeting hers mockingly above the rim of his cup. "Take care
or you'll diminish the legend."

"I
suspect," she responded coolly, "that the legend is growing, even as
we speak. But what of the garrison commander? Edgar of Tutbury, by name."

"Dead,
madam." He frowned. "I'm sorry if his death distresses you, but the
man was a fool."

Now
it was Jocelyn's turn to take a long sip of ale. Men had died last night. No
doubt more would die once her father arrived. And she and Adelise would be
caught in the middle. "The death of any of God's creatures distresses
me," she said. "But some more than others. Sir Edgar was a man I
neither liked nor trusted."

"How
is it, then, that he was left here responsible for the castle? For you and your
sister? God's blood, if he's the best Montagne can field against us, my men and
I have nothing to fear."

Jocelyn
almost choked on her ale.
Sir Roger! Sir Roger and the men from Montagne
were coming.

She'd
forgotten in all the excitement. The men might be here by evening, by morning
at the latest. How could she best use the knowledge?

She
reached for the bread, forced herself to offer it to the man across from her,
then calmly tore a piece off for herself. "Most of the men went with my
father to Oxford. It's widely known Belavoir is impregnable. Even with a small
force as garrison, my father thought us safe behind these walls."

She
raised challenging eyes to his. "Besides, who would dare risk attacking
us? My father's only real enemy was thought dead."

"Yes,
with me dead, with that traitorous pact he and the earl of Chester have to
refrain from attacking each other, he must have thought he had nothing to
fear." De Langley smiled, that smile she had hated so last night.
"How satisfying to disappoint him. There's much to be said for coming back
from the dead."

They
were quiet for several moments, eating, and Jocelyn studied him covertly.
Robert de Langley had been a legend within his own lifetime. When word of this
leaked out—of his return from the dead and his easy success last night—he would
only become more so.

She
watched him eat, watched him lift his cup to his mouth. Unable to contain her
own curiosity, she asked, "How did you do it? How did you get out of that
burning church and survive all this time with none the wiser? They say your
body was found, that Henry of Anjou even wears the ring they took from your
hand."

He
was silent so long, she thought he had chosen to ignore her. Then he held out
one hand, stared thoughtfully at his long bare fingers. "Yes, Henry has
this annoying passion for stealing things that belong to me. Personal things.
If I read you a list of them, madam, I'm quite certain it would astound
you."

He
hesitated, his eyes narrowing, hardening. "I did hate to lose the ring,
though. It belonged to my father. Perhaps I'll get it back one day, when I take
it off Henry's corpse. What a sweet day that will be."

He
flashed her another smile, short and bitter, as he pushed back from the table
and rose to his feet. "It's a long and ugly story, madam. One scarcely fit
for such pretty ears. Besides, we've no time. Drink up. We've a great deal of
work to do this morning."

And
work they did. Jocelyn and the lord of Belavoir spent the morning trailing over
the castle and outbuildings, peering into every niche of every storeroom,
tramping through the bakehouse, brewhouse, dairy, stables, smithy, and even the
empty pigsty. The man astonished Jocelyn with his appetite for detail, with his
insistence on seeing everything for himself. With the way his quick mind took
in a roomful of grain, making the lightning calculations to decide how many
mouths it would feed for a month.

He
was obviously a man well-used to command, accustomed to responsibility for the
welfare of others. He would be a good lord for this place. Far better than her
father had ever been.

They
ended up midday in the dead bailiff's office. Jocelyn took out her keys and
opened the chest where Belavoir's records were stored. De Langley caught up a
parchment roll and opened it, his eyes scanning quickly, thoughtfully, down the
page.

So
he did read. Enough, as he had put it. Not that she wouldn't have expected it
by now.

He
glanced up and caught her smiling. "A private joke, madam?" he asked,
lifting his imperious eyebrows.

"Private,
no. I was only thinking that enough to get by in Normandy is certainly better
than much of England can boast."

For
a moment he looked puzzled, then a flash of comprehension dawned. "My
father believed in education. Surprisingly, yours must have as well. I'd not
have thought it."

"My
father, no." Jocelyn shook her head. "My mother made it possible for
me to learn to read and write, so I'd not find myself at the mercy of some
dishonest cleric or bailiff some day."

"A
wise woman. Rare as hen's teeth in my experience."

Jocelyn
met his eyes, then glanced away self-consciously. Her eagerness for learning
had been an object of scorn to her father, her near-magical facility for
languages another cause for his fear and suspicion. She wondered if Robert de
Langley would feel the same.

"I'd
something of a gift for languages," she said. "By the time I was
three, I'd learned to speak not only French, but English and Welsh from the
servants and nurses I'd had. At six the priest in our household began
instructing me in Latin, much against his better judgement, I might add."

"Don't
tell me. You threatened him with your dagger."

His
words were so obviously said in jest Jocelyn couldn't resist a smile. So Robert
de Langley had a sense of humor. "No, but as I recall, one of my mother's
brothers did. We Welsh are a godless lot, you know. No fear of Rome, more's the
pity."

The
man laughed outright. It was a beautiful laugh, deep and generous and somehow
at odds with his usual, guarded look. Years of bitterness dropped away. With it
went much of her fear. She'd never talked this easily with any man save Edward
of Pelham, and him only because he'd been bent on wooing Adelise.

"I
think I'd enjoy meeting these Welsh kinsmen of yours," de Langley said.
"We might find a few things in common."

Jocelyn
was still smiling. "Remain here in the marches long enough, sir, and I'm
certain you shall. They've a tendency to come calling on Englishmen—usually
after dark. Come to think of it, you'd probably all get along quite well."

De
Langley laughed again. Then his eyes caught hers and the laughter abruptly
faded. They narrowed, changed, some new emotion flickered to life in their
depths, something powerful, earthy and completely incomprehensible. Something
that made her heart slide into her throat, that set every nerve in her body
tingling.

For
a moment neither spoke. In the silence Jocelyn could hear the measured sound of
her breathing, the erratic beat of her heart. A current of something dangerous
and uncomfortable eddied around her. It was like that moment last night when
she couldn't move, couldn't look away.

De
Langley glanced down and broke the spell. "There's a great deal here to go
through, but it's getting late, and I've much to see to. Get back to your room
and take your meal with your sister. I'll send for you if I need you
again."

Jocelyn
nodded. She was ashamed she hadn't thought of Adelise. Her sister would be
wondering what had happened to her. She would be even more terrified by now.

"We'll
get back to this tomorrow or the next day perhaps," de Langley was saying.
"This afternoon will be far too busy."

"Oh?"

"As
you most reasonably pointed out this morning, we've no meat put away for the
winter. A little matter of a dead bailiff and some salt I was holding hostage.
A fortress without meat isn't a fortress for long."

He
turned. "This morning some of my men along with some servants and
swineherds began to search the woods for Belavoir's hogs. By afternoon the
first of them should be getting back. There'll be good eating tomorrow for
all."

Jocelyn
moved toward the door, her fertile imagination picturing the events now in
motion. When Sir Roger and the men from Montagne arrived, those woods would
become a killing ground. And to what real purpose? They couldn't hope to take
the castle. Not with her and Adelise inside.