Awaken My Fire (21 page)

"Childish mischief," he supplied.

Fury shone with the torchlight in her eyes. How dare he think of her in terms used for children! How maddening his control and his power, his army, and most of all, his would-be king! "For all my trouble, you have not begun to see how much trouble I can be. I am a sharp thorn in your side, a pain that, I promise as I draw each new breath, will grow and grow, becoming so terrible and eternally lasting, you will begin to wish for God's own—"

His hand left her neck and covered her mouth, stifling the impertinent tongue and leaving only the bright eyes to convey these less-than-empty boasts. All she knew was that something dark and dangerous had returned when he said, "I see you need a lesson in manners and civility to your betters. Very well. You'll get it by exposure to the opposite." Abruptly he released her and turned away, "I leave you to your own devices, then."

Until that moment she had no idea how frightened she was of him. Her knees gave way and she dropped to the ground like a puppet without strings. Drawing quick, gasping breaths of relief, she confronted the mystery of her fear. It was not just his superiority to mere mortals, his awesome battle skills and sharper wit, the ease and confidence with which he commanded whole armies, the oh-so-curious attack his nearness made on her senses, but rather it was all of these things and more, much more. "God help me!" For the first time in her young life she felt like David meeting Goliath. She could but pray for David's God-given fortune, but now, with her last escape attempt thwarted by him—

Something brushed against her leg. She jumped up with a soft cry, staring at the dark space around her feet. Hot panic washed over her. She practically ran down the dark tunnel. No doubt, she would have even more guards waiting outside her door now. And mercy, her only chance to escape was after the trial, when hopefully her circumstances would change-

Feeling the little beasties all around her, she leaped up the steps of the ladder. She pushed frantically on the latch to the trapdoor. "What?" She pounded her fist against it. "Open up! Open—"

After a full five minutes of furious pounding and shouting, all to no avail, she abruptly stopped. Terrified blue eyes slowly scanned the infinite dark space as she abruptly understood his last remark and fully faced how he would punish her.

"To Vincent de la Eresman, honored and revered Duke of Suffolk, defender of Ghampes' and . . ." Vincent skipped the Duke of Burgundy's two paragraphs of formal address, all these honors and titles to read:

"What glad news the messengers bore of your successful end of the unfortunate siege of Castle Reales! I do hope my errant child, the good and fair noblewoman, Lady Roshelle de la Nevers, was solicitous and warm in her welcome of you and your noble army to our humble castle, as I know she, owing to her extremely solicitous and compliant temperament, is in practice of acting. I am sure my ever-obsequious dependent will provide you and your army with all she can to make your accommodations worthy of the finest army in our two most devout, revered and great Christian kingdoms.

"Just as I am equally certain there is a misunderstanding that has led you to entertain the ill-advised idea of bringing the said simple and meek child under the scrutiny of a trial. As I am equally assured the misunderstanding has been brought to light by the time you read these penned words and there is no longer a need for me to travel to Reales to mitigate for her. For my interests here forbid such a trip at this time.

"As for the court here, you will be glad to know your handsome young nephew is as 'bonny,' as you English like to say, and as healthy as they come. We know how much the young heir means to you—God's answer to your prayers—and rest assured, we will go to Herculean lengths to guarantee the boy's continued good health.

"Hence let us go on to our other, more important concerns: I beseech you to promptly forward the following rents from Roshelle Marie St. Lille's lands that are under my guardianship and tutelage. I have allowed modest increases in the amounts owed to me, increases frankly the result of what I'm sure will be your more thorough collection methods. The following list is bound to aid your tax collectors in this endeavor..."

Noises filled the warm afternoon air—the swing of axes, spikes and hammers, the rattle of wheels, the incessant neighing of the work horses amidst the shouts, songs and grunts of over a hundred laboring men—but Vincent heard none of it as he read the shocking words just brought by a messenger twice again. "Read this." He handed the letter to Bogo le Wyse. Bogo looked up from the scroll of gold-edged paper that he was studying and wiped the small beads of perspiration from his brow. His intense black eyes narrowed as he read beneath the bright afternoon sun. His long brow crinkled over his thin face, a striking face made of sharp angles and points, many leagues from handsome—though handsome mattered not at all when one worked with a mind as quick, thoughts as vivid, issues as pressing as his. He absently brushed a clump of his long gray hair back from his eyes, his thick gray brows forming a question mark as he read.

"Dear God," he muttered halfway through. "With a sweep of the quill, the depraved wretch abnegates his moral duty and holy vows!" He finished reading the letter, then read the relevant parts out loud for Wilhelm, who had just joined them from overseeing the nearby windmill construction. Like many other knights, Wilhelm did not read penned words well, having spent most hours of his early years practicing the warring arts.

"Huh!" Wilhelm said with plain masculine disgust. "He might easier have said: 'Take the girl, abuse her, hang her even—I do not care so long as you send me my rents!'"

"The situation worsens," Bogo said. "The duke's lack of familial concern will not mitigate Henry's cry for her head."

"Aye." Vincent took the letter back, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the foul waters of the moat beneath the platform where he, Wilhelm and Bogo stood. He looked up to shout at two men laboring to pull a wheelbarrow full of dirt up to the moat's edge, before he returned to his friends. "I can hardly believe it. I might be thanking the bastard for his gift if I only understood his motivation. Why would a man hand me a lovely young woman on a silver platter, one dripping with sarcasm and hatred both?"

"And to throw that bastard nephew in your face like that, the man has the brashness of a goose!"

The day had dawned warm and balmy. Dark clouds gathered on the mountaintop, though the sun warmed the air. Nature offered no respite from the foul odor rising off the moat, not even the wisp of a breeze—the branches of the trees hung still and lifeless; not a blade of grass stirred. Yet activity bustled all around them. Nearly fifty men labored to bring stones to the castle walls, the hardest and most arduous task, as the rocks were being dug from a hillside nearly half a mile away. Another fifty men labored to fill in the moat. Another twenty worked to begin dismantling the gatehouse. A group of men cut and cleared timber a mile away at the forest's edge. The land would be cleared, plowed and farmed, while the wood would be used in preparation of building a new mill. All other men sought food by hunting, fishing or scouting the depressed region for livestock to buy. Another large group worked to help till the fields for planting: plowing, gathering and spreading what little manure they had, hauling seed and whatnot.

The sun began to sink over the massive stone walls of the castle, drenching their crevices with blackened shadows. Instinctively the duke searched the lengthening shadows for still hidden details, needing to know everything and uncomfortably aware that he didn't.

What madness had inspired the abandonment of Rodez Valois's lawfully bound dependent to another man? A young woman who, aye, brought more trouble than a warring enemy army, but who was also more beautiful than a hundred others—nay a thousand!—a young woman more desirable than the light of the morning sun? Desire that was changing his sleep and intruding on his waking thoughts with a relentless urgency he had never felt before. "There is something about the young Lady Roshelle, a mystery—"

"The mystery," Bogo thought to explain, "Is how such valor and courage became placed in that feminine package. All but the most devout must question God's own wisdom, assuming of course He is responsible ..."

Bogo's voice faded in Vincent's mind as he closed his eyes, feeling the full oppressive weight of Reales in the tension gripping his neck and shoulders. Like a lead weight on his back. All this work he had orchestrated did little to detract from what these very ruins he stared at meant. He faced squarely the fact that his brother was responsible for the chaos and destruction of this land and her people. Little wonder the girl had murdered him! Despite all her ridiculous and misguided energies, including the conceit that let her play in a man's world, there was no doubt of the girl's great compassion for the people. Unlike the army of knights of France, that one maid had the courage to try to protect them.

The only person more guilty than his brother seemed to be the Duke of Burgundy. As far as he could tell, the duke sucked well over half of the revenues from this place.

More. That was the first thing he'd stop. The duke had grossly mistaken his prey this time. The mistake would cost much. He'd teach him a lesson that, like the one for the lovely Roshelle, would not soon be forgotten.

He had ordered the latch open this morning. Jackson, a guard, said the lady had emerged miraculously unaffected and unscathed from the ordeal, save for "spitting with fury and venom," then added, "Methinks your Grace should not like to hear the disparaging names the lady called ye. Suffice it to say 'twas a very long list."

"Having heard her shrewish tongue before," he had replied with a smile. "I can only thank you for your consideration."

"I feel half sorry for this grand duke," Bogo was saying as Vincent returned to trying to make sense of just how much board timber they needed and how long the boards.

"Aye," Wilhelm agreed. "'Tisn't every fool stupid enough to make an enemy of you. At least 'twill be his last mistake."

"Indeed," Vincent agreed, but just that quickly his smile disappeared as he watched two men take axes to the stones on the gatehouse. The deep, rich sound of his voice sang in the warm afternoon air, reminding everyone of his ever-watchful gaze as he set off at once.

The sun continued its grand descent and only three hours of light remained when Roshelle rushed outside, followed by an army of guards—actually only four, but it might as well have been an army. Cisely had taken her up to the wall walk to view for herself this newest scourge sent by the Goddamns. With horror and disbelief, she had stared at the assembly of men busily laboring to bring down the castle's defenses like ants on a dead fly. Oh, God! So much activity and sweat and work for ill!

She must make him stop.

With a lift of her skirts, Roshelle rushed onto the drawbridge, heading to the gatehouse before another stone could be cut. The guards came up behind her, an ever-anxious clusters of shadows.

Cisely clutching a mouchoir to her nose, and three servants behind them. Half the men stopped their backbreaking labor to look up and behold the beautiful girl standing before them, hands on hips and red-faced with either fury or disbelief.

"You there! Aye, you!" She pointed at a man who still swung an ax. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Why, we be taking down the gatehouse, milady."

"Desist at once, I say!" The order came in a high musical voice, but one quite accustomed to unquestioned authority. "And who ordered this destruction?"

The question brought grins and chuckles as, one by one, the men turned their gazes to a figure atop the gatehouse roof. Her blue eyes followed their path to perceive a man, or rather the shirtless, muscular back of a man. A four-inch-long ponytail of thick dark hair, tied with a piece of leather, fell over a powerful, sun-bronzed back. Battle scars over muscles and more muscles were carved into this back by the sweat of his labors—no doubt one of the duke's cretins. "You, sir! Stop at once to answer for your master."

The ax struck a board and the man straightened as he turned. She heard his chuckle before she saw his face. The shock of seeing the Duke of Suffolk himself, laboring like a common cotter, made a pretty circle of her mouth, “You! You!"

"Me, me," he repeated with a grin, removing a red kerchief to wipe perspiration from his brow. "Is something wrong with your normally verbose tongue, sweet-ling? Or, dare I hope, I have finally left you mercifully speechless?"

She froze, struck silent, and not by the remarkable fact of having found him in labor. Her mind stopped on the endearment sweetling. He called her that again, the name Papillion had always used to call her...

A coincidence, one that meant nothing.

Vincent agilely leaped down from the roof and she gasped, taking a quick step back to avoid being knocked over. Yet he managed the ten-foot leap like a cat, bending gracefully before rising to his full height. A nearby man threw a wet towel down to him and he caught it, wiping the cool cloth over his hot skin before swinging it around his neck, holding it with both hands at the ends as he stared.