“He wasn't talking to me but to Sir Synclair, who is newly returned from the north.”
“I noticed such.” Biddeford paused for a moment while he considered that fact. “Synclair desires your sweet body.”
“He does not.” The words left her mouth too quickly and too sharply. Justina turned her face away and sat her hat on top of a table to conceal her expression while she struggled to regain her composure.
The viscount clicked his tongue in reprimand. She heard his steps behind her and she stiffened as revulsion went through her. He was going to touch her and she hated his fingers upon her flesh. Today, she had to fight the urge to cringe because her emotions were so unruly.
He turned her to face him and tapped her chin with one finger.
“Yes, you were separated from me too long.” He leaned closer, so that she felt his breath against her cheek. “I suggest you find your balance, sweet Justina, else I shall have to design some task that will firmly remind you whom your master is.”
He placed a kiss against her neck, and she shivered with distaste. Bitterness filled her mouth to the point that she had to fend off retching. She discovered herself agreeing with him because she had been away too long and now she knew that there were places where life was decent such as it had been when she was with Lord Ryppon. Such knowledge bred a desire to escape from everything at court but her son's fate would not allow such. She swallowed her distaste, forcing it deep so that she might turn to look at the viscount with an expression that was devoid of her true emotions.
“I did as you commanded this morning, my lord.”
The viscount snickered. “So you did, but that does not change the fact that our newly returned baron finds you pleasing to his eye.”
“Baron?”
Biddeford shrugged and moved to the small door that would lead him to the concealed passageway. “Yes, Synclair has inherited the title of Harrow from his uncle who died without issue. Since he appears to be in good standing with the Earl of Hertford, you shall allow him to think you find his attentions ...”
Justina felt her breath freeze in her throat. She couldn't use Synclair; she didn't have the ability to conceal what she was thinking around the knight. She would fail, and revulsion for such a task was thick enough to choke her. Synclair was everything noble. She couldn't soil that.
“I shall allow him to think I find his attentions ... how, my lord?”
“Amusing, for the moment. I am more interested in the Earl of Hertford. Dress yourself more fashionably and see if you can gain an invitation to join his party for supper.”
She had never known so much relief as she did when that door closed behind her guardian.
Except for the day her husband had died.
Her knees felt weak and she pulled in deep breaths while she attempted to steady herself. Despair wrapped its boney grip around her now, threatening to crush her beneath the weight of what Biddeford demanded. Oh, one would think it a simple matter, so much less repulsive than some of the things she had done in the past, but Synclair's face rose up to torment her with how noble he was.
Could she not at least have one memory of a man that was untarnished by the smut and soot that seemed to be her life? If for no other reason than it kept part of her heart alive with the notion that there were men, rare and few, but living, breathing men who spoke the truth and served honor.
She needed that. Needed it so badly she ached with it. Tears burned the corners of her eyes.
“My lady? A letter arrived from your son.”
A sob broke through her lips as she turned to take the folded parchment the maid offered her. The woman assumed she cried because she longed for her child so greatly, but the truth was that she wept because she simply could not fend off her unsteady emotions any longer and feared they might consume her, leaving her child at the mercy of Biddeford.
Brandon's writing was neat and clear, his spelling correct even if his sentences lacked the polish that age would bring. The maid fetched her a linen square to keep her tears from marring the letter. Justina read it three times through before forcing herself to fold it and lock it in the small chest that sat on top of the table where she kept all of Brandon's letters, from the very first ones that were naught more than a practice of his letters, with pictures of what he would have rather been doing instead of his studies, to the one that she held today. The neat stacks of parchment gave her the strength to banish her tears and turn around to wash and dress. Brandon was in the country, her efforts gaining what was truly important. Her own feelings did not matter, that was the path that all mothers must follow.
At least the good ones.
Â
The Earl of Hertford enjoyed merry company.
The man had his own large chambers in the palace and that included a large receiving room he must have set his servants to preparing before he left on the hunt. Long trestle tables lined the room, with ornately carved chairs set along their outer edges so that all who sat there would face in at one another. The tables were laid with fine pewter plates and silver-handled dinnerware. There was pepper and nutmeg, their scents casting even more joy to the moment because of the great cost such spices sold for. At the end of each table was placed a salt cellar, its position indicating that the master of the house granted leave to everyone to speak freely while supping this night. He might have kept the salt near his hand, and no one below the salt's position might speak unless they were addressed. Sitting below the salt was never much fun.
Justina heard the minstrels before she entered the room. The sounds of them playing their lutes, mandolins, and even the virginals set the mood for celebration to the delight of the courtiers fortunate enough to be allowed past the Earl's personal retainers. Somewhere, the Queen would be holding her own supper, most likely with the princesses in attendance. Still another gathering would be around the Chancellor Wriothesley and the men who supported him. While the King failed to appear, court would become a separated place, with each person having to make a choice on whom to attend. People were judged by such decisions, the gossips keeping track of who attended whom. Justina approached the Hertford retainers and watched as they cast a look back at their captain for his word on her. A barely noticeable nod from the man granted her liberty to walk into the room with all of its festivities.
A juggler performed at one end of the room, capturing the attention of most of the guests. But Justina discovered herself drawn to a large bird sitting near the head table. As large as a pheasant, the bird's feathers were blue and gold and its beak curved. It was a parrot of some sort; the king kept one that she had heard speak several words. The bird watched her with large eyes, looking for all the world quite intelligent.
“You have a taste for the exotic, as do I.”
Francis de Canis wasn't wearing velvet or brocade. The man was more of a rogue and dressed in clothing that was functional. His face bore the proof of his rugged lifestyle, with scars that told of fights in years gone by.
He stood between her and the room because she had stepped up onto the raised dais the bird's perch was sitting on. Behind her lay a hallway, used to connect to the private chambers of the earl.
“I enjoy a good chase, Lady, and you have not disappointed me.”
Justina stood her ground, conscious of the hallway behind her and how easy it would be for de Canis to molest her in one of the rooms beyond. No servant would help her and the nobles were all occupied with the juggler.
“I do plan to disappoint you, sir, for I shall have none of this game.”
His clothing had warned her that he was a man who enjoyed doing things himself, but that still did not keep her from being shocked when he pushed her down the hallway. His hands delivered a sharp jab to her belly, below her stays where her flesh was soft and unprotected. Her breath went sailing out of her lungs, leaving her gasping for enough to cry out with. Pain filled her body and she stumbled backward out of the need to shield herself from more blows.
“You shall have it, Lady, and the rougher the better will please me well.”
The light from the festivities became muted when de Canis reached for her again. This time, he grabbed her upper arms and flung her toward a doorway like a bundle of laundry. Justina stepped on her skirts and fell across the floor in a tangle of fabric. She was torn between the need to cry out and the fear that being rescued might offend the nobles who considered de Canis indispensable.
The bastard knew it well, too. His face was glowing with victory and a smug smile sat on his lips.
“You are no maiden and no man's wife. Your last lover is gone to the borderland to breed his wife, so you, madam, need a new master, and I will be happy to prove my worth to you.”
He reached for her, but the word
master
ignited her temper. She was sick unto death of hearing that she must obey.
“You are not my master!”
She launched herself at him, clawing at his face while pushing at the floor with all of her strength. Her nails sunk into his skin, drawing warm blood for a moment before a heavy blow landed across her face. Her body twisted with the strength of the strike and she stumbled away from him, trying to keep her footing while turning to glare at him.
“Step aside, sir, for I will not play your game.”
De Canis smiled and chuckled beneath his breath. Gloating sparkled in his eyes while his expression turned mean.
“I'm going to enjoy breaking you.”
He stepped toward her and Justina gathered her strength to fight him. She would not yield to him even if it might save her the pain of being beaten. She preferred the bruises of the flesh to ones on her soul.
But a strangled sound came from him and his foot never touched the floor. Instead he was hauled backward and thrown into the hallway. Justina gained only a glance of the man responsible and it was enough to send a shiver down her back.
She had never seen Synclair so angry. His face was darkened by rage and his hands outstretched as though he planned to rip de Canis apart with his bare hands.
De Canis wasn't afraid of him, though. He gained his feet and growled at him. “So you want to fight over the meat? I am your man!”
De Canis lunged at Synclair but the knight met him, and flesh connected with flesh. Both were hardened men who knew the art of fighting well. Justina stumbled to the doorway to see them struggling in the tight confines of the narrow hallway. The harsh sounds of struggle filled the stone-lined walls as the two men tried to kill each other. Their bodies strained but the close confines prevented them from doing more than wrestle. Synclair pushed de Canis back, sliding the man's boots across the floor until they reached the doorway that led to the reception room. With a harsh growl of satisfaction, Synclair threw de Canis into the room, startling the parrot.
The music died abruptly and the assembled guests looked around to discover the cause. De Canis recovered quickly and dove at Synclair with a curse spilling from his lips. The knight drew back his arm and landed a solid punch directly on de Canis's face that sent the man spinning into the men who rushed forward. They grabbed him, struggling with him when the man tried to continue the fight.
“I'll see you rotting in an early grave, Harrow! Baron or not, I'm going to rip your throat out with my own hands!” De Canis struggled violently against the arms holding him, rage glittering in his eyes.
“I am your man, de Canis! This world will be well rid of your brand of filth.”
Synclair looked as if he meant to continue the fight, but the Earl of Hertford stepped in front of him, placing a hand flat against his chest. The earl leaned in to whisper something near Synclair's ear and the assembled guests all leaned forward to attempt to hear what it was.
Synclair snarled at the earl but the man lifted his hand and looked at the musicians.
“Play!” He turned his head and looked at a groom. “Bring the meal!”
There was a scurry as everyone tried to please the earl. He swept the nobles nearest to Synclair with a hard look that sent them all back across the room.
“Francis de Canis, I believe it best if you retire for the evening. It appears that my friends do not please you.”
De Canis shrugged off the men around him and tugged on his doublet to straighten it. His lips curled into a sneer, without a care for the high position of the earl. Being asked to leave was a public set down, one the assembled guests did not miss. Whispers began to ripple through the crowd instantly.
“No, your lordship, I do not care for that one.”
Soft hands cupped her shoulders, startling Justina. An older maid gently pulled her back.
“Come away, ma'am, you have blood upon your lip. It will ruin your gown if we don't tend to it.”
Still far enough back in the hallway to avoid being seen, Justina saw the wisdom in the maid's suggestion. She allowed herself to be guided away from where Synclair and the earl spoke in lowered tones. But the stone walls pressed in on her, making her feel as if it were impossible to draw a complete breath. Her lungs burned and she fought against the urge to scream with all of the tension trapped inside her. Every muscle felt tight enough to snap and her blood was rushing so quickly through her veins, keeping to an even pace became impossible.