Claudia Dain (13 page)

"I spoke of the wager in the hall, my lord." At Philip's lifted brow of diminishing patience, Ulrich elaborated, "'Twas wagered that I could... stand," he said, choosing that particular word with care, "in the face of Juliane's legendary frost. That is all, my lord. By no touch and no word will I compromise her virtue. She will be as chaste when I ride from here as she was when I arrived. 'Tis only that I will—"

"Stand," Philip interrupted. "Yea, I take your meaning. Yet I think there must be more to this wager than that. Is there nothing in it of the melting of the frost? Is there no... response required of Juliane?"

Ulrich swallowed and kept his silence. This part of the wager could see him killed, and none would question the justice of it.

"Tell me," Philip commanded. "If you be man enough to make the wager, be man enough to stand by it, in all the ways that word implies."

Ulrich stood, his hand upon his sword hilt, and faced Juliane's father. He might just slit Roger's throat when he saw him again. If he saw him again.

"I will stand, that is half the wager. The other half," he said, looking into Philip's unflinching gaze, "is that I will make Juliane le Gel melt for me, her legend running from her like snow on sea sand."

"And leave her chaste?" Philip asked.

"And leave her chaste," Ulrich stated.

"And can you do this thing?"

Ulrich was caught unprepared by that question, and he tilted his head in surprise, blinking hard.

"Well," Philip said, crossing his arms over his chest, "can you?"

"Yea," Ulrich said with a wry smile, "I can."

"There is no doubt?"

"Nay," Ulrich said, shaking his head, "no doubt at all."

Philip made a noise of approval mixed with skepticism and then turned to the wind hole that faced the distant woods to the south. The first stars were out, large and bright in their dominance of the sky, a summer sky, warm and mild and clear. A quiet sky.

"Then you are alone in that, for I have grave doubts. What of that kiss?" Philip asked. "Was there not a falling there, Ulrich of Caen? Did not your standard flag and fall with my daughter under your hand and mouth?"

"Nay, there was no falling," Ulrich said, "and she was unharmed. Never would I use my power against a woman. Never would I tease from her what she has no will to give."

"Yet if you tease her will to give you what you want— how then, Ulrich? How will my daughter fare against such wagering as that? I am a man as well as you; I know the course a man will travel to achieve his ends with a woman."

"I will not lie," Ulrich said. "I have done so in my life, yet I have sworn to scorn that path. Your daughter is safe with me. Though I may say that she is safe enough in her own care. A stalwart and fierce maid you have in her, my lord. She can well see to her own defense."

"Do you think so?" Philip asked, stroking his missing ear. "She will be glad to know it, for Juliane prizes fierceness as tenderly as any knight. Yet to me, she is a daughter, and her protection is all my concern."

"Have I your pardon, my lord, for that display against your authority over the daughter of your loins and of your house?"

"A moment and one question more," Philip said, avoiding a direct answer. "You did not fall, and, one man to another, I will believe it. But what of her? Was there a softening? Did she begin to melt, Ulrich?"

How to answer this? Aye, as man to man, 'twas one thing, but this man was a father, and fathers did not speak of their daughters' melting. Unless the man was Philip, in charge of a daughter who would not melt for any man. Philip must take a different course with a daughter who would not and could not be wed.

There was Ulrich's answer.

"My lord," he said, blue eyes meeting blue in that bright-lit chamber, "she did."

"Did she?" Philip asked, measuring the confidence in Ulrich's eyes, a scouring Ulrich could feel like a brush against chain mail in a close fight. And so this was.

Ulrich only nodded, content to let Philip take this where it would go.

"Then," Philip said, "keep on with your wager, Ulrich of Caen, and tomorrow, if this wager plays out the way you predict, I will sweeten the pot, adding wager upon wager. Are you game?"

"My lord," Ulrich said with a slow grin, "I am always game for a good wager."

* * *

The hall of Stanora was quiet, empty of all but sleepers and their sleeping noises, the favored dogs upon the hearth, the moon high now in the sky and white as new teeth in a hungry wolf pup.

He went by corners when he could, keeping to the shadows, and then tripped softly down the wide, straight stair that led out of the hall and into the stone forework of the tower gate. All was still, serene, the night slipping past like water in a stream, quiet and full. The dogs shifted in their sleep, one lifting his head and gazing with blinking eyes as he left the stony confines of Stanora tower. With a huff of sleepy air, the dog lay down again, rearranging his head upon his paws, content, drifting back into dreams before the man had even left the tower gate.

No one had seen him.

The main chapel, the one that served all Stanora, was on the eastern wall and close by the main gateway into the holding. The men-at-arms upon the wall and posted at the gate looked outward for any sign of danger, not seeing any within. Not knowing there was any within.

He made for the chapel, and, though he might have been seen, what was there to note? A man on his way to church? A man in sudden need of prayer? What harm in that? None, and so he could claim if stopped. But he was not stopped.

He entered the chapel by an open door and knelt in piety. A figure stood under the rood of Christ, his head cowled and his shoulders cloaked. This man stood and waited, saying nothing, yet expectant for all his silence.

"Father," the other man said.

Father Matthew stepped out from beneath the shadow of the cross and said, "What can you tell me?"

* * *

How they both came to be at the line of garderobes just before the hour of Matins, neither could have said. They had come silently, each from separate chambers on opposite sides of the spiral stair. There were three garderobes in a line, stone slabs with holes cut in, dumping what was put into that hole into the cesspit below.

They stood staring at each other in the dark, the only light coming but faintly from the arrow slit high above them. The moon was low now, brushed by distant tree-tops.

She was not going to use the garderobe with him so near, even if she was standing with her legs crossed, trying not to put her hand between and hold it in.

Even in the dark his eyes looked light. Strange eyes, so gray and light that they almost showed silver against his glossy black hair. He wore his hair long, longer than the priests liked, longer than outward piety demanded, yet it seemed to suit him. She liked it, though she supposed she should not.

"Go to," she said. "Go first."

"You go first," he said. "You live here."

"You are the guest. Besides, is it not easier for you?"

"What?" William asked.

Lunete sighed and squeezed her legs tighter. "Just... go to. Be quick."

He shrugged and faced the garderobe, not caring that she watched. She sighed again and turned to face the dark and the gallery rail.

She could hear it, of course. A long fall of water, thin and oddly musical. It was easier for boys. Everyone knew that.

"Your turn," he said, dropping the fabric of his tunic and turning to face her.

"You have to leave," she said, not able to resist the need to press her hand against her urge, an urge that grew stronger as relief came close.

"Oh," he said, obviously perplexed. "Yea. Yea, I shall leave."

"Leave, then!" she snapped, lifting her shift even as he stood there, staring at her.

He shuffled down the short passage until he escaped it, his body blocking her view of the gallery rail, and then he was gone. She threw herself upon the open hole and quivered with relief. She almost felt like laughing, the release was so sweet.

When she was finished, her skirts pulled down, enjoying a deep and contented breath, she left the passage. He was waiting at the end, his hips leaning back upon his crisscrossed hands.

"Oh," she said. She had not thought he would be waiting. Had he
heard
her?

"I stayed to walk you back," William said.

"Walk me back? My chamber is just there," Lunete said, pointing. Although it did seem rather far in the dark of Matins, past the lord's solar and the chapel and Juliane's chamber. "But since you waited, I thank you," she said, beginning to walk.

"You have been here long?" William asked.

"Three years this month," Lunete answered. "I came at seven."

"You are ten?" William said. "I am only eight."

Only eight. He was very young for a squire.

"You are tall for your age. I would have thought you eleven," she said, though it was not the truth. He looked no older than nine, but why tell him that? "How that you came to be a squire at such tender years? You must be very skilled."

William shook his head, stopped, and then shrugged. A single torch burned in the great hall below, sending uneven light up to them a floor above. He stood mostly in shadow.

"I do not know that I am
very
skilled. What skill I have comes from him. I try to learn what I can."

"As is only right," she said. Was it not the truth for them all? They were fostered out to learn what they could and, with that knowledge gained, to find their place in the world. Her place was set; she was to marry and be the lady of Dunvegan, if the betrothal contracts held. "Where are you fostered?"

"With Ulrich de Caen," he said, looking at her askance.

"I mean, with what lord? What holding?"

"Ulrich is my only lord, and of holdings, he has none. Yet my training with him is all I could wish for. I pray for no other place than to be with him. He is a good knight and a better man."

She had not known that William had so many words in him. She had taken him for a quiet boy. And so he was, unless the talk was of Ulrich.

"So all the tales declare," she said, nodding.

But no matter how many tales were told of him, with no land, a knight's track was rough indeed. With no land, there would be no wife, with no wife, no children, no place to take root or rest on the whole great earth. Still, it was a common enough thing. There were not enough wives for every man who would have taken one.

"Your door," he said, stopping. She would have continued on, talking in the dark, if he had not stopped her. "My lady," he said, dipping his head most courteously and with great maturity.

"Thank you, Squire William," she said, dropping a quick curtsey.

They looked at each other in the heavy shadow cast upward by the distant torch, gray eyes searching gray. Did her eyes look so silvery and lovely as his? Nay, for his were banked by black brows in the shape of wings, while hers were sheathed in ashen blond. His were the more lovely, she was certain.

They stood so, staring, measuring, and then she smiled at him, a smile of youth and play and pure simple joy. And William returned the smile. Then he turned and was gone, making his way back along the gallery rail, trailing his hand upon the wood, whistling lightly in the dark. In the end, when all sight of him was gone, she could still hear his whistle.

And she smiled.

* * *

"Are you awake?"

"Nay," came her voice from beneath her pillow, "I am asleep."

"Then awaken and talk to me," Avice said, lifting the pillow from Juliane's head. Juliane had a death grip on her pillow and held it fast.

"Go to sleep and dream I am talking to you," Juliane said, turning on her side and throwing the blanket to her knees.

Avice reached down and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, snuggling in as if it were midwinter.

"'Twould be better conversation than this," Avice said.

"I agree heartily," Juliane said.

There was silence between them for a time. An owl hooted distantly, his call carrying far over the plain where he hunted.

"Are you asleep?" Avice finally asked, her voice hushed.

"Nay," answered Juliane in a whisper, "I am awake."

"Good," Avice said, fussing with the blanket and squirming upon the mattress. "Now tell me truly, how fares it with Ulrich?"

"It would fare better for me if I could sleep."

"Then it goes not well?"

"If I answer 'poorly,' will you lay another wager upon my head?" Juliane quipped.

"I have asked your forgiveness for that," Avice said meekly. "I did not intend that it should turn so foully upon you."

"'Twas nothing, Avice," Juliane said, reaching out to take her sister's hand. They held hands in the dark and let peace gather around them. "I am only tried. You truly would have been better served to speak to me in dreams. I am certain I am more pleasant in dreaming than in waking."

"Not true," Avice said, smiling, squeezing Juliane's hand. "But tell me, was that kiss truly nothing to you? It looked so... so..." Her voice trailed off into silence.