Dragon Tree (21 page)

She was
surprised, yet not surprised, to see Odo linger at the board so
long Tamberlane had no choice but to invite him to remain the
night. Only then did Odo and Rolf belch heartily and excuse
themselves to indulge in hot baths.

By that time,
her shoulder was aching, she was light-headed from the smoke and
the strain. When, at length, the hall was cleared of Belmane men,
she found a quiet corner and curled up on the stone floor, too
tired to contemplate more than the flames rippling along the
logs.

~~

She was not
even aware of falling asleep until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
The touch was gentle; even so she sat upright with a start, the
gleaming blade of her dagger reflecting points of light from the
fire.

It was Inaya,
her dark eyes rounding with surprise at the sight of the knife. She
tipped her head to indicate that Amaranth should follow her and,
with a swish of silken robes, moved away as silently as she had
approached.

Inaya kept to
the deeper shadows that hugged the wall, stopping only once when
she was on the landing that led up into the east tower. Amie
followed close behind, her breath hot and dry in her throat when
she realized where Inaya was taking her.

The east tower
was the largest of the four that formed the corners of the keep,
and it housed Lord Tamberlane's private chambers. The stairs were
wider, the landings broader, marked by torches at every turn, and
she felt more than a little apprehension as she mounted each step.
Men were unpredictable, volatile, and—in her experience
anyway—indifferent to tender mercies. She knew she had surprised
and angered him that morning. She knew also that he was taking an
enormous risk upon himself by concealing her from Odo de Langois.
He likely wanted answers, explanations... perhaps even repayment
for his largesse.

That last
thought made her footsteps falter. Luckily they had reached the
upper landing by then and she was told to wait in the small outer
apartment while Inaya first tapped on, then disappeared through
another door.

Amie looked
warily around. There were clothes hung on pegs and a narrow
sleeping cot set against one wall. A small shelf held two books and
a cap with a feather in it that she thought she had last seen on
Roland's head. A large open cupboard across one wall held two full
suits of mail and the various padded garments that were worn
beneath.

Here then was
where Lord Tamberlane's squire slept and kept watch over his
master's sleeping chamber.

Inaya was back
in a few moments and beckoned Amaranth through the second set of
heavy oak doors that led to the warrior monk's bedchamber.

Her first
glance told her it was perhaps twice the size of the room she had
been occupying, yet no more lavishly furnished. The bed was plain
with tall square posts at the corners hung with curtains to ward
off drafts. There were three deep window embrasures set into the
walls at intervals that would give him a complete view of the
surrounding land. A fire crackled in the hearth. Candles flickered
on the top of a large writing table, throwing light on a prayer
niche that contained a small altar and reliquary.

Hung on one
wall inside the niche was a tattered crusader’s mantel emblazoned
with the scarlet cross. The cloth was torn in a dozen places,
stained with blood that had dried to a dull brown. On the other
side of the niche was hung a sword that contrasted so shockingly
with the plainness of the one he had worn that morning, that it
nearly took Amie’s breath away. The hilt was crusted in jewels, the
quillions were wrought in silver with gold inlay. The blade was
easily four feet long, the surface polished to a mirror gloss.

Here then, in
the privacy of his own chamber, was the first visible indication of
Tamberlane’s past association with the Templars, indeed, with the
church itself. The altar was plain and, on closer examination, had
a look of disuse about it; the linen cloth that covered it could
use a good washing to rid it of the layer of dust that also dulled
the surface of the reliquary, a sharp contrast to the care given
the sword.

Inaya curled
her fingers to beckon Amie forward and pointed to a low, three
legged stool she had placed beside a small table laden with bread,
cheese, and slices of cold meat. Amie was not especially hungry,
having worked close to the smell of grease and roasting animal
flesh all day, but her legs were trembling and she was grateful for
the excuse to sit. A small frown and much clicking of Inaya's
tongue halted Amie before she could reach for a scrap of meat, and
a moment later, a basin of warmed water appeared on the hearth.

Despite
Amaranth’s protests, Inaya used a scrap of soft linen to bathe her
face, her hands, and forearms. The filthy jerkin, the smell of
which had not improved overmuch throughout the day, was ordered off
with a Saracen epithet, the meaning of which brought forth a low
chuckle from the shadows beside the fireplace.

Amaranth
gasped, for she had not seen or heard Tamberlane enter the chamber.
Granted, the wall dipped and the shadows were too thick for the
candlelight to penetrate, but he was an imposing figure of a man
and to her mind, one not easily rendered invisible.

He said
something to Inaya in her own language then chuckled again when the
woman scurried away, the silken wings of her sari belling out
behind in her haste. Amaranth heard the door close and had there
been the strength in her legs to do so, she might have shot to her
feet and bolted out of the chamber as well.

For the
longest time, Tamberlane did nothing. He stood with one shoulder
propped against the wall and his arms folded over his chest. Now
and then she caught a faint glint of light reflected in his eyes
and she knew he was studying her, wondering what to do about her
now.

“Inaya will be
back in a few moments with some buckets of hot water and,” he
paused and made a poor attempt to conceal the wrinkle in his nose,
“clean clothes.”

Amie looked
down, having almost grown immune to the rank smell of dung and
woodsmoke.

“Marak’s idea,
no doubt,” he surmised. “And effective... to a point. But what in
God’s name did he do to your hair and why did you let him do
it?”

The question
sent her fingers up to touch the butchered ends of her hair. “It
was not Marak who cut it. I did. It was a nuisance and a hindrance
and the loss is not lamentable.”

Tamberlane
tilted his head to the side. “You look like a faery elf...or at
least, what my impression of a faery elf would look like.”

The sheer
weight of so much hair had always kept it smooth and flat to her
head, but now that the bulk was removed, the shorter lengths had
tightened into a cloud of reddish curls. Her fingers plucked
self-consciously at the ends and her gaze instinctively sought a
mirror, but there were only bare, utilitarian walls, of course, no
unnecessary vanities of any kind.

Had she been
able to see Tamberlane's eyes, she would have had no need for a
mirror to know the effect the change had wrought. He had not made
his presence known until now because his tongue had been all but
frozen to the roof of his mouth. He could not recall any time since
reaching the age of majority when he had been alone in a candlelit
bedchamber with a beautiful woman. His years of study and training
for the priesthood had kept him away from any possible temptations,
and after taking his vows, he had presumed he was safely immune to
such worldly distractions.

Distracted he
was, however. By the smoothness of her skin where it was painted
with the firelight, the curve of her cheek and throat in
silhouette. While the length and volume of her hair had been
strikingly lovely, especially when it was fanned out across a
pillow or trailing over her shoulder, the shorter curls only drew
attention to the size and color of her eyes, the soft pout of her
mouth, the delicate turn of her chin. When she raised her fingers
to touch those curls, his own blunt, calloused fingertips tingled.
His whole body, in fact, had grown strangely tight and heavy, as if
all the blood was draining from his upper torso and pooling in his
belly.

"Your husband
claims great devotion," he said quietly.

Amaranth
glanced up from the fire. "Odo de Langois is a great liar."

"He says the
same of you."

"And you do
not know which of us to believe?"

Tamberlane
moved out of the shadows and took a seat in a plain,
straight-backed chair by the fire. "Do you have such a low opinion
of all men?"

"Most, yes,"
she answered bluntly. "Few have given me cause to think
otherwise."

Tamberlane
reached down and took her wrist in his hand, raising it and angling
it to the light so that the faint shine from ages-old rope burns
showed. He extended his own wrist and turned it to the fire so she
could see similar smooth scars on his skin.

"I know what
it feels like to be held captive.'

She waited for
him to elaborate, but that was all he said.

“There were
times he had to tie me down,” she admitted. “Although I believe he
enjoyed it more when I tried to fight him."

Tamberlane
continued to hold her wrist. The tingling in his fingertips had
spread and was rising up his arm, sliding down his spine.

“You told
Marak you lived with your uncle?"

"My mother's
brother. After my father died, he tried to do his best by me, but
when Odo de Langois appeared at the gates bearing a writ from
Prince John sanctioning the marriage, there was little he could
do."

There was the
smallest change in the pressure of his fingertips before they
released her wrist. “Tell me more about him.”

“What would
you like to know?”

“Something
more than what I know already. He is the prince’s man, that much is
as obvious as his lack of concern in showing it. His ambitions are
etched boldly in his contempt when he speaks of King Richard.”

Amie clasped
her hands together around her knees. “The prince has been a guest
at Belmane many times and I know Odo has been promised a barony as
well as several large estates in the Marches in exchange for his
support. My uncle has no other heirs which also means Odo will
acquire all of his lands and holdings upon his death.”

“Marak also
told me that you ran away with the intent to seek sanctuary at a
convent? Which convent?”

“The Holy
Sisters of Mary Magdalene in Exeter. Father Guilford knows the
prioress there—they are brother and sister. He assured me she would
welcome me and guard my anonymity with her dying breath.”

“A family
trait, it would seem,” he murmured. Too late he saw the violet eyes
widen and it was left to him to confirm her worst suspicions. “It
happened to fall, in the tedium of conversations I had with your
husband today, that the priest who helped his wife escape... held
up well right to the end.”

Amie covered
her mouth with her hand. She had suspected as much, of course, but
to hear it put into words... “I did not think he would dare kill a
holy father.”

“I am under
the clear impression there is not much he would not dare. The very
fact he is here, that his men are sneaking about the castle
searching behind curtains and under rugs tells me he has a surfeit
of arrogance."

"He is
searching the castle? And you are letting him do so?"

"If I stopped
him, would he not then suspect I was keeping something hidden?"

"Yes, but..."
she sighed for it was the same reasoning Marak used to defuse
Roland's outrage. "If he is searching, then he suspects
already."

"He will find
nothing," he said firmly. "I have keen eyes watching them."

She seemed
hardly reassured and Ciaran felt the knot in his gut twist tighter.
He had prided himself on not needing anything or anyone in his life
these past three years of self-imposed exile... not even the God to
whom he had once vowed his life in service. He had turned his back
on that God, just as God had turned his back on the innocents who
screamed His name when swords were being hacked and slashed into
their flesh.

Perhaps that
was what he had seen in Amaranth’s eyes that day in the forest. She
had forsaken her God too, begging Tamberlane to end it, end the
pain, end the disillusionment. How many times had he walked the
ramparts willing up the courage to do exactly the same thing?

The full
measure of her despair and loneliness was there in her eyes despite
the stoic front she tried to put forward. Watching the firelight
play havoc with her hair, her skin, the soft contours of her body
so ill-concealed by the coarse clothing, Tamberlane had a sudden
and thoroughly unexpected urge to take her into his arms and offer
her more than just his protection.

He had
consumed a vast quantity of ale and wine throughout the day, trying
to temper his dislike of Odo de Langois, and he blamed this for the
almost involuntary way his hand trembled and might even have
reached out to brush a lock of hair back from Amie’s cheek had not
a noise from the doorway diverted his attention.

Inaya was
back, leading two lackeys burdened under heavy buckets of hot
water. A third rolled a barrel-shaped tub into the room and at the
command of a pointed finger, settled it in front of the fire.

Ciaran stood
and clasped his hands together behind his back. “Since even your
husband’s boldness would not extend to searching my chambers for
his errant wife, Marak thought it safest if you remain sequestered
here for the night, and indeed, until our guests depart on the
morrow. Inaya will stay with you. She will help you bathe as well,
and if there is anything else you need or require for your
comfort...?”

“You have been
more than overly generous already, my lord. I would have been
content with a crust of bread and a bed on the rushes.”