His Fair Lady (45 page)

Juliana smiled at Royce as they came
together in dance. Executing the steps, they turned and touched
palms with the person at their left. Juliana froze, discovering
Friston there, and snatched back her hand. The man was
everywhere.

“Keep your distance, Friston,” Royce
snarled, stepping between them. Taking Juliana by the arm, he
guided her from the floor.

Unnerved by the Frenchman and exhausted from
all that had occurred since her arrival at Guildford, Juliana asked
Royce to escort her back to the queen’s chambers. There, he kissed
her long and deep, ignoring the presence of the guards, leaving her
breathless and craving more.

“Do not worry on the morrow, my heart, or
the morrow after.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I’ve asked
you to trust me, I ask you to still. All will work itself out.”

For hours after, Juliana lay awake on her
pallet, consumed with thoughts of Royce, questioning the course
she’d taken regarding the countess. Life would be unbearable
without him. She hadn’t loved another since first she met him, nor
would she ever, for all the days that she lived.

»«

Christmas Day dawned crisp and clear, a
dusting of snow having fallen overnight. The lords, ladies, and
their royal hosts crowded into Guildford’s chapel to attend High
Mass and parade their holiday finery.

To Juliana’s secret delight, she and Royce
arrived looking every inch the Lord and Lady of Penhurst — he
wearing the tunic she’d made for him, bearing the golden eagle, and
she wearing his gift to her, a beautiful new gown of rich brocade,
fashioned in Penhurst’s colors and all lavishly embroidered. As she
and Royce presented themselves as a glowing, newly wedded couple,
she could almost believe the deception.

Standing beside Royce, Juliana shifted from
one foot to the other as the Mass drew out, everything sung,
chanted, and sanctified with incense. Distracted, she allowed her
gaze to roam the chapel, an impressive chamber rising several
stories high and having a gallery that ran along the upper level.
There, the windows in the outer walls were positioned directly
across from the gallery’s archways, forming a clerestory of sorts
where one could walk, but at the same time allowing in daylight to
illuminate the space below.

As the choir began to sing the
Gloria
in parts, Juliana glanced
toward the voices, but a movement in the upper gallery pulled her
gaze back. She started as she discovered the Frenchman framed in
one of the archways above, staring down at her.

Juliana’s temper snapped, the frustrations
and uncertainties of the past days colliding within her. Everywhere
she turned, Friston was there. Why would the man not leave her
alone? What did he want with her?

Shaking with anger, she shot him a hostile
look, wishing it could lance him straight through. He continued to
stare at her, showing no emotion but altering his stance. Juliana
tensed, recognizing something in his eyes, something in his
expression that unnerved her, something cold as death.

Her pulse drubbed solidly in her veins as
she transferred her gaze to the Frenchman’s gruesome scar. The
image of blood, bright and red, flashed before her mind’s eye. For
a fleeting moment ‘twas as though she gazed upon his open wound,
freshly wrought and bleeding.

Juliana’s knees buckled and she fell against
Royce. Instantly, his arms went around her.

“Juliana, what is it?”

“I — I’m not sure.” She gripped his arms,
depending on his strength to hold her up.

Her heart pounding, Juliana lifted her gaze
to the gallery once more, but Friston was gone.

»«

Friar Tupper shivered within the folds of
his mantle, gladdened by the sight of Guildford Castle as it came
into view. He looked forward to thawing his bones before a fire and
learning why he’d been brought here under royal guard.

All had happened in a blur. Barely had the
king’s soldiers arrived at Penhurst, when two of the men-at-arms
from Lord Royce and Lady Juliana’s escort returned. If they bore
him some message, he’d not received it. The royal guards allowed no
one to speak with him before they hastened him away.

The friar pondered that. Some trouble must
have befallen the couple. What, precisely, was beyond his
imagining. Lord Royce was to announce his choice of husband for
Lady Juliana, as well as his own intentions to marry Countess
Linford. Tupper found both thoughts as depressing as the winter’s
barren landscape. He’d hoped the knight would take his advice and
look to his heart. Lord Royce and Lady Juliana loved one another
deeply, ‘twas obvious. If they would only admit as much to each
other, they could get happily on with life, and the countess could
see her way back to Linford.

Something must have happened at the
Christmas Court. Had Lady Juliana fled once again, distressed by
Lord Royce’s choice of husband? Even so, what would that have to do
with himself, and why would royal guards be sent to veritably
abduct him and deliver him to Guildford?

The friar continued to puzzle the matter as
the guards conducted him inside the castle compound, up a long
flight of stairs, and into the great square keep. All was a marvel
to his eyes and ears at first, but he quickly found himself
isolated in a stark little room with a single bench and only a
small brazier by which to warm himself.

Tupper rubbed heat into his arms,
feeling much like a prisoner.
Prisoner.
His heart jumped at the word. What if
Lord Royce had reported his activities at Beckwell — those of
dismantling the walls of its tumble-down castle to build the
village a new church? Mayhap the king took offense and decided that
he, the one responsible for the pilferage, required lessoning in
Guildford’s dungeon!

He rose with a need to pace, but just as he
did the door opened and a man appeared — a Court official by the
quality of his garments and the ornate staff he carried.

“You
are
Friar Tupper of Penhurst?” the man
asked.

“Friar Eugenius Tupper of Beckwell,
actually,” he admitted nervously. “I’ve only recently begun tending
the flock at Penhurst. Their resident priest, uh, broke his leg
while in Winchester. Perhaps, he is the one you seek.”

“You are the same Friar Tupper who serves
the Lord and Lady of Penhurst?”

Tupper bunched his brows at that. The knight
held Lordship of Beckwell, not Penhurst.

“Lord Royce and Lady Juliana, they are known
to you?” the official pressed, his tone edged with impatience.

“Aye, that they are.” Tupper drew up his
girth with an air of importance, not caring for the clerk’s abrupt
manner.

“Follow me,” the man ordered flatly and
whisked from the room, thumping his staff with each stride he
took.

Friar Tupper trailed behind, nettled with
concerns and cold to the bone. Mounting stairs to the castle’s main
floor, they proceeded to a set of double doors, flanked by more
guards.

The official rounded on him. “You will bow
low to His Majesty and remain so till bidden to rise. You will then
speak only when spoken to, is that clear?”

“M-majesty?” Tupper gulped. He was doomed.
The king knew.

“Come!” the man ordered as the guards opened
the doors. “Remember what I said.”

Tupper shuffled in after the man, dreading
his fate, sending up hasty prayers. The official halted, thumped
his staff thrice, and announced him by name in a booming voice.
Tupper blanched as the man stepped aside and he found himself
standing before the king.

John was more impressive than he’d supposed,
fiery in coloring like his brother and father, fiery in
temperament, too, he’d heard. He occupied a small throne with
casual grace, regal in his silks and gems, his gold crown slightly
crooked upon his head. To the king’s right stood Sir Royce, and to
his left a man who looked to be of knightly class, his hair and
beard black as a crow’s wing, his eyes obsidian.

A dozen other nobles occupied the
chamber as well, sitting on high-backed chairs in a row. The scene
resembled a legal court.
God have
mercy
, Tupper pleaded for deliverance as he bent in as
deep a bow as he could manage.

“Rise, Friar Tupper,” the king
commanded.

Blessedly, there was no hint of anger in the
royal voice, or in his eyes. The king beckoned to someone unseen,
standing just beyond a door at the back of the chamber. In the next
moment, Lady Juliana entered, looking ghostly pale as she came
before the throne and dropped into a curtsy. The king bid her to
rise and stand before him, roughly in the center of the room for
all to see.

“You are acquainted with Lord Royce and Lady
Juliana of Penhurst?” The king’s eyes shifted back to Friar
Tupper.

There it was again — the knight being named
as Lord of Penhurst rather than Beckwell.

“You are acquainted with the couple?” the
king repeated.

“Aye, Majesty.”
Couple?
Why did he sense he was being fed clues
in some matter?

“Might you also be acquainted with Sir
Rennart de Friston, who comes to us from King Philip’s Court?”

Tupper glanced to the French knight. He had
a hardness to him, especially about the eyes. The word “sinister”
came to mind. “Nay, Majesty. I have not had the, uh, pleasure.”

The king opened his mouth to say something
more, but again the official returned, thumping his staff, this
time announcing Aberto Ruggerio, papal legate from Rome. Friar
Tupper scuttled aside as the worldly looking Italian moved past
him.

“Majesty.” Ruggerio sketched a bow in
deference to England’s king. “I come at the request of Sir Rennart,
who has brought his claims, and those of the lord and lady, to my
attention. I submit that, as His Holiness’s emissary, I should lead
the questioning in this matter.”

King John exchanged a swift glance with Lord
Royce. Lady Juliana, looked to both as well, clearly anxious by
this development.

“The claims concern the Crown, not the
Church.” John’s eyes flashed, reminding of a lion roused.

The legate stood his ground. “The claims as
to guardianship lay with the Crown, I agree. But those concerning
the sacrament of matrimony lay with the Church. ‘Tis the Church
that ultimately judges the legitimacy of marriage vows, or permits
the dissolution of them.”

Tupper’s brows rose at that. Clearly, the
last was a pointed reminder to King John of the Church’s role in
granting his annulment to his first wife, whom he’d hastily
discarded upon attaining his crown. That and a reminder of the
Church’s blessing upon his recent marriage to Isabella of
Angoulême. But did the legate also refer to other nuptials?

“Very well,” the king growled, then looked
to the friar. “You have been summoned here to settle certain claims
that have been asserted by Lord Royce and Sir Rennart concerning
Lady Juliana. Consider well your answers. The lady’s future is
dependent upon them.”

The king’s look bore into him. What was he
expected to draw from it? Tupper wondered, at a loss.

The legate, Ruggerio, turned to him, gauging
him with his sharp, beaded eyes. “By your cowl I see you are of the
Black Canons.”

“Aye, a mendicant brother and priest,
attached to St. Botolph’s Priory at Colchester.”

“A notably less disciplined group than those
who follow the strict Rule of Benedict,” the legate commented
dryly. “No matter. The question I must put to you is simple and
direct. Both Sir Rennart and Lord Royce claim authority over Lady
Juliana and her lands — Sir Rennart as her blood kinsman, Sir Royce
as her husband.”

Tupper struggled to keep his astonishment
from his face. A blood kinsman and a husband? Lady Juliana had
possessed neither when she left Penhurst.

“My question is this. Did you marry Lord
Royce and Lady Juliana as they claim?”

Stunned, the friar’s gaze leapt to the two,
seeking some sign as to what he should say. He delighted in the
idea of the two as married, flinched at the possibility of the lady
being given over to the Frenchman. Still, being a man of God, he
could not lie.

For a moment he floundered for an
answer, then spied the band of gold on Lady Juliana’s finger.
Lacing his fingers
together over the curve of his
generous stomach, he smiled at the legate.

“Good brother, as you know, in our calling
as priests — of any order — ‘tis not we who actually ‘marry’ the
couple. We but serve as witnesses as the bride and groom exchange
their vows before God.”

“Of course, I know that,” the legate
retorted as though the friar were thick-skulled. “Specifically —
did you or did you not witness the couple exchanging vows?”

Tupper smiled hugely inside. “Exchange
vows? Oh, aye, indeed I did.”
Many vows,
usually very testy ones, exchanged often and with great
passion.
“Truly, before God and before man, Lord Royce
and Lady Juliana are eternally bound.”

“As man and wife?” the legate snapped.

“As much or more than any two could be.”

Ruggerio shot a look to the Frenchman, both
men’s aspects growing so dark the friar wondered if they’d made
some prior agreement between them — one that had just failed.

King John rose to his feet. “The matter is
settled then. The marriage is confirmed. I award Lady Juliana to
her husband’s keeping, and recognize Royce de Warrene as Lord of
Penhurst as well as that of Beckwell. As Penhurst is a barony of
import, bringing with it rank and title greater than that of
Beckwell, I further acknowledge Royce de Warenne’s right to be
addressed as ‘Lord Royce,’ as benefits his station — now doubly
so.”