Knight Errant (4 page)

“The house of Aragon governs Palermo from a distance. Charles of Anjou disputes the Aragon claim, so the Sicilians have no clear ruler. Thus, authority rests with the local magistrate and the church. The magistrate is indecisive and weak, precisely because he fears losing his authority and the benefits of his position. The church offers no help because of bias against the Beguine community. ’Tis my belief that the weavers in Palermo are incited by order of a powerful priest, one Fra Basti, also known as
Il Mano de Dei
, with whom I’ve dealt before. He has made the eradication of our sisterhood his personal mission. This man’s influence extends far from Rome, though I understand that heretic trials keep him close to the Papal See.”

“I have heard of attacks on some Beguines in Italy. You risk too much by traveling to Palermo.”

“Obviously, you do not understand the seriousness of our calling or our problems. With our sisters persecuted for the excellence of their weaving in addition to our beliefs, our numbers in Palermo are greatly reduced. Thus, the beguinage at Palermo is in danger of collapse. The few Beguines who remain fear to go into the city to trade lest one or more be set upon by the weavers.”

“So seek out help from friendlier men.”

“All who might help are bound to either Aragon or Anjou and too busy doing battle to concern themselves with the plight of a few women. Besides, that is not our way. Whenever possible, Beguines prefer not to rely on men, just as many of us prefer not to depend on the priesthood for intercession with God.”

“You reject the confessional and indulgences. No wonder you are thought to be heretics.”

“You see why we cannot stay at an abbey.”

“Your fellow travelers agree to this?” He looked at the merchants and pilgrims taking their ease before the trek began again.

“We compromise. Whenever the caravan stays at an abbey, our guide finds an inn or hospice for my fellow sisters and me.”

“That will have to stop. I cannot keep you safe if you are half a village or more away from me.”

“You need not concern yourself with my safety.”

“’Tis my utmost concern until I hand you to Edward before All Hallow’s. I will find an inn with lodgings for all of us.”

“I suppose you vowed my safety as well as my return to Edward.” Her smile shrank.

“Aye.”

“You presumed much for a man who had never met me.” She tilted the corners of her mouth in a more upward direction.

“Aye.”
What is she up to?

“And my cooperation is guarantee for you to guide us to Palermo.”

Her smile lit the afternoon. He’d seen that expression repeatedly over the past two days. She used that particular turn of her lips to befuddle her opponents and get her own way. She could smile until the second coming. He would not yield.

“At which point you will return with me to England.”

Her smile faltered, then brightened. “As you say, Sir Robert.” She gave a courteous nod and made to leave.

“I will see you this evening, Lady Juliana.”

Her stride hitched. Still moving, she looked back over her shoulder. “If you must. But I will remind you that my sisters and I retire early, together.”

’Twas clear enough that she preferred the company of women to time spent with him. He would have resented her choice had he not known ’twas wise for her to be chary of him. He wished he could leave her alone, but duty would not allow that. He should tell her so and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without uttering a word.

She was already amongst the crowd, and to bellow would invite nothing but speculation. He stared after her swaying hips. He had won the interchange. She had failed to trap him into agreeing that she should stay in Palermo.

So why was she still smiling?

About midday, three days since Juliana’s arm and shoulder were completely recovered and she ceased wearing a sling, the caravan halted beside a fountain in the square of a small town.

“We shall rest here and eat,” Sir Robert ordered. “I will go to the monastery and confirm that sufficient shelter lies ahead for our group at dusk.” He pointed to a collection of buildings standing on a height above the town.

Juliana watched him ride away, before helping Berthild and Gretle unpack the bread and cheese that would make their repast. She still had not settled on a means for ridding herself of Sir Robert once they arrived in Palermo. Too many demands on her time and attention occurred within the caravan, She needed time to herself, to think. “Berthild, I wish to take a walk and explore this lovely town while I eat.”

The tall Beguine gave her a puzzled look. “Do you think it wise to go off alone in a strange place?”

“I promise not to go far. Most likely I shall return before Sir Robert does.”

“Very well, Juliana. But please be quick.”

“I will.” Bread and cheese in a pocket, she left her friends and the noise of the caravan behind.

She took little notice of her surroundings until an abrupt darkening of the day brought her to a halt.

She was in the center of another, much smaller square. On three sides, tall, dilapidated buildings leaned inward, blocking much of the afternoon light. Dank, moldy air and the scurry of small creatures accompanied the dimming light. She sat on the edge of a crumbling well and searched her surroundings for something familiar.

Sitting was a mistake. She should have turned straight around and followed the road out of the square, then tried to determine her location. Better yet, she should not have left the caravan. Now that she was seated, she noticed figures stealing from the tumble of buildings. Those people creeping out of the shadows were between her and the street leading out.

Soon she found herself surrounded by a ragged group of men.

Pointing at her, one large fellow with a fraying cap spoke in a rapid spate of what she assumed was the local language. It certainly wasn’t Latin, the universal language of the church and all believers.

All but three of the group fled.

Confused, she smiled, shook her head, raised her shoulders, and lifted her hands in a gesture meant to indicate that she did not understand.

Murmurs circled through the group. Then the men approached, holding out their cupped hands.

Juliana knew what that meant. They were begging. Unfortunately, she had nothing to give them.

She turned out one pocket of her bilaut to show that she had nothing.

The large man spoke again. His voice soft, he leered at her.

A shorter man sidled forward and touched Juliana’s skirt, lifting it to his cheek and rubbing the cloth against his dirty skin.

Surely he didn’t want her to give him the clothing from her body. And with that thought, a chill shivered through her. Perhaps it was her body they wanted.

Frantically, she searched her other pocket and found the cheese, which she offered to the short man as she drew her skirt from his fingers.

But the third man snatched the food. The short man’s fingers tightened around the cloth and pulled.

Juliana didn’t know what the fellow wished, but she was fairly certain she wanted no part of it. She braced against the stones on either side and leaned away.

When the fellow started to lift her skirt, she kicked at him, which unbalanced her. She teetered on the edge of the well when huge hands grasped her torso and lifted. The large man held her over his head as if she were no heavier than a bundle of sticks. He shouted and shook her.

Along with anger at his treatment, an ache bloomed in her head. She lashed out with a foot and caught him on the chin.

He toppled to the ground, like a felled tree. Locked in his grip, Juliana landed atop his chest.

The two shorter men were on her, pulling her away from the leader, who lay gasping for breath. They held her arms on each side, and struggle as she might, she could not break loose.

The large man levered himself into a sitting position. Hate gleamed in his watering eyes. A growl of glee emerged from his throat as he stood and stalked toward her, his hands unknotting the strap that held his leggings up, his gaze fixed on her bosom.

Like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake, Juliana watched him come. A buzzing formed in her ears, and red clouded her vision.

He hooked meaty fingers in the neckline of her dress.

Juliana pulled her leg back in order to kick him again, but his fingers uncurled, and his palm slid down her front.

As if burned, the men holding her arms let go and fled.

The hateful joy in the large man’s expression became wide-eyed astonishment. His body performed a slow sideways slide to reveal Sir Robert, bloodied sword raised to strike once more. “Didn’t you hear me? I said run.”

She dropped her gaze to the long, red slash oozing across the back of the man at her feet, then looked away. Sir Robert was wiping his blade clean. His mouth moved at the same moment that her stomach heaved.

She felt his arms around her, holding her until the sickness passed. Then he placed her atop his saddle.

“If you feel dizzy, put your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed from where he stood beside her. Then he started walking. The horse paced along next to him.

“Is he dead?”

“Not if someone comes along to help him.”

Anyone coming near the large man was more likely to finish the job and rob him for what little he had. Was she wrong not to insist they return to help? Wrong or no, she could not bring herself to even suggest the idea. She would simply have to pray for God’s mercy on them all.

Still a bit nauseous, Juliana wished Sir Robert rode with her in his arms. She was chilled. She would welcome the heat of his body, and being held would be a comfort. Obviously he thought she needed no heat or comfort. She supposed he was right. She was whole and suffered more from nerves than any real injury.

Before she could think more, they reached the square where the rest of the caravan waited. Robert lifted her from the saddle. Berthild and Gretle swarmed to comfort her. “Are you all right? We were so worried. What happened? Here, have some water.”

Around them the caravan assembled itself.

Robert spoke briefly with Berthild.

“Come, Juliana.” The elder Beguine helped her to stand. “’Tis time to be on our way.”

Juliana said a silent prayer of thanks. She’d acted foolishly. The violence done to her attacker horrified her, but honesty forced her to admit that she’d been very glad to have Sir Robert interfere.

• • •

Several days later, Juliana stepped out of the line of merchants and pilgrims trudging the sun-baked road toward Palermo. She wanted a few restful moments in contemplation and to give thanks for the quick healing of her arm and shoulder, as well as Sir Robert’s timely rescue from the beggars. A roadside shrine to the Madonna offered the perfect opportunity.

“Hail Mary, full of grace . . .” The beat of approaching hooves sounded at her back. Sir Robert Clarwyn. None of the other travelers rode a horse.

“Lady Juliana, surely you know by now not to leave the caravan?”

She rose from her knees, giving him a tight-lipped smile. She was heartily tired of Robert’s constant harping on her safety. She’d been careless once. Did he imagine she could not learn better?

“’Tis the Madonna’s shrine. I offer prayers, and the caravan passes close by.”

Robert dismounted, keeping the reins in one gloved fist. Beyond him, the last of the caravan moved away.

“I can see whose shrine this is,” he ground out. “But you continue to take foolish chances. You risk life and limb to save a child. You hazard your virtue and more by wandering alone among strangers. Now you place yourself within danger’s grasp, simply because you wish to pray.”

His face grew red, and tendons bulged in his neck. His grip tightened on the reins, and his destrier sidled.

Such visible restraint did him credit. But Juliana knew how easily control could slip.

“Nay. I did not believe any would assault me here.”

“Shrine or cathedral, even holy places are no defense against men with lust on their minds.” His flush subsided a bit, but his eyes continued to glitter.

She drew back from that fiery gaze. She wished that his statement shocked her, but she knew, perhaps better than he, what sort of evil could lie in wait even within chapel walls. Had she not chased Fra Basti from the skirts of a young girl when he, the priest of their local church, should have been protecting those in his flock?

“You are right. I should take greater care, but my mistake in that street lay in allowing myself to be cornered by several men. I have handled a lone man on my own before.”

“Think you that numbers truly make a difference? I am a lone man. Could you
handle
me?” Dropping the reins to the ground, he walked forward, forcing her back against the shrine until her body was prisoned between the cool stone and Robert’s male heat. She could neither move nor fail to see his fury.

Juliana gulped but smiled valiantly. “You would not dare,” she said, as if remarking on the weather.

She watched as her challenge ripped at his tight control.

“Would I not? You are in greater danger now than you were from those beggars, because I do not beg.”

His leather and musk scent overwhelmed her. She shivered and forgot to breathe. Her head swam. He was too close. Thank the Madonna for the shrine at her back that kept her from fainting dead away.

Then he pulled her to him, and only his arms supported her. One hand tunneled into her hair, holding her in place for him to taste her mouth. With the press of his chest against her bosom, twinges and prickles sprang to life in her breasts. She moved against him in a vain attempt to ease the building sensations. His other hand streaked down her back to fondle and cup her buttocks. He dragged her hips between the notch of his thighs. The swelling beneath his breeches burned heat into her belly. An aching, empty yearning bloomed in her womb.

He nipped at her lower lip, and she opened to him. She surrendered to the welling need to taste his musky flavor, stroke his hard body, and wallow in his heat. Passion burned dark and glorious in a world where she thrived on his scent, his touch, his kiss.