Lady of Conquest (30 page)

A plump serving girl smiled brightly at her as she passed, a smile Gelina would remember for the rest of her life. She climbed the steps to the table where Conn sat surrounded by his men. Her knees almost folded in relief as several of the soldiers resumed their conversations at the same time, filling the terrible silence with words.

Conn’s gaze flicked across her face with the scant interest of a stranger as she laid a thick slab of the bread on his plate. He leaned toward the man next to him, appearing engrossed by his words. Nimbus sat on the other side of Conn, brown eyes flashing. When Gelina met the jester’s eyes, it was she who had to look away, fearful he might find an answering thread of anger in her eyes to match his own.

The night settled into a comfortable, if unfamiliar rhythm. She carried out food. She took back empty trays. She carried out more food. The steps to the dais grew longer and steeper as she climbed them for the twentieth time, struggling under the burden of a steaming boar’s head.

She did not have time to protest when Nimbus leapt out of his chair and came around the long table, his arms outstretched to relieve her of the tray.

“Nimbus.” Conn said it softly but the word was more of a command than if he had bellowed it. The table fell silent.

The jester turned to the king, and Gelina thought for one breathless moment that he was going to defy Conn. His small shoulders slumped; he returned to his chair, But he did not bother to hide the fury that burned in his eyes when he looked at Conn.

Gelina lowered the tray to the table and busied herself with carving the meat, her ears tuned to the name she had heard as she approached the dais.

“So you sent the gibberish-speaking foreigners back to Castile, Conn. What of Eoghan Mogh? Have you decided his fate?” asked Goll MacMorna.

“Should have hung the whole lot of them if you ask me. That would teach the filthy pigs to get involved in an affair that’s none of their concern,” a fair-haired soldier interrupted.

Conn leaned back in his chair, sipping ale from a silver goblet. “I saw no need to execute the Castilians. They were following the orders of their king, just as you would follow my orders should I send you to Castile. Eoghan Mogh is another matter.”

“What of the cloaked one? Did you discover his identity?”

Gelina thought Conn’s eyes rested on her for a fleeting moment, but they had moved on before she could look up from her task.

“No. He slipped through my grasp . . . this time.”

The knife slipped in her hand. She tucked the nicked finger into her mouth.

“But what of Eoghan?” A soldier leaned eagerly toward him. “Shall you blind him? Castrate him? Cut off a hand or an arm? What shall your justice be, Conn?”

“I believe I shall give Eoghan time to ponder his actions. He can languish in our dungeons for a while,” Conn replied, watching Gelina beneath lowered eyelids.

“Would a thousand years be long enough?” Goll MacMorna cried out, raising his goblet.

Conn laughed, and the other men raised their goblets in a toast to justice that rang through the hall. Gelina stumbled down the steps, thankful to remove herself from their laughing jests. She was halfway back to the kitchen when a rough arm circled her waist and a callused hand snaked up her skirt to clasp her tender thigh.

“Serving wench, fetch me some brew as tasty and filling as what ye’ve got underneath them skirts?” a voice bellowed in her ear, stinking of ale and rotting teeth.

She barely had time to draw in a gasp of outrage before she was loosed. She stumbled against the wall, the sudden silence pounding in her head, and turned to find the burly shepherd flat on his back with Conn’s foot on his chest and a gleaming sword’s point at his throat. Even as she watched, a thin line of blood trickled from his throat where Conn gently pressed his blade, his eyes blue fire. The man dared to raise one trembling hand in a silent plea.

Before Gelina could cry out, a sallow-faced woman separated herself from the crowd and threw herself at Conn’s feet, spreading her skirts wide about her.

“Mercy, milord, I beseech you,” she cried, tears coursing down her cheeks. “My husband has been in the north with his flocks for some time. He did not know.”

Conn gave no indication that he heard her; the tip of his sword did not waver. For a long moment her broken sobs were the only sound in the room. Conn’s icy gaze pulled away from the pallid shepherd and traveled the muted, frightened faces until he found Gelina pressed to the wall, skirt twisted in her hands, a mute plea in her eyes.

He lifted his sword from the man’s throat. A collective sigh of relief traveled the hall like a wave.

“I would like to have a word with you outside, sir,” he hissed.

A wide path cleared through the crowd as he turned and strode toward the door, sword still clutched in his hand. The shepherd breathed a silent prayer with eyes closed before reluctantly clambering to his feet and following.

Gelina stared at her shaking hands, not hearing Cook’s sturdy approach.

“Quit yer woolgathering, girl. There’s serving to be done,” she scolded.

Gelina pried herself from the wall and gratefully followed Cook’s white-garbed form into the kitchen, away from the curious eyes.

On the dais Nimbus folded a kerchief over his mouth to hide his smile.

Gelina kneaded the stiff, white dough with a fury, her hands pounding it into submission. The autumn sun was warm on her back. She scratched the end of her nose, leaving a smear of flour at its tip. Suppressing a groan, she watched Cook carry in another huge vat of the dough.

“As soon as ye finish these, there are rugs to be beat,” she said, lowering the vat to the table.

Nodding meekly, Gelina cursed as the last of her cracked fingernails snapped off into the gooey dough. After a second of thought, she continued kneading without bothering to extract it. Perhaps Conn would choke on it. She set aside the first vat and pulled the new vat to her. Long streaks of flour stained her black linen. She pushed up her kerchief with one finger as it slid over her smooth curls to cover her eyes.

She left the finished vats to rise in the sun and approached her next chore with trepidation. Four thick rugs were piled outside the kitchen door. Placing both arms under the heap, she tried to propel them upward. To her chagrin they didn’t budge. She glanced around the courtyard to see if anyone had witnessed her folly but found it deserted. She wished for the familiar sight of Nimbus, although Conn had reached out a restraining hand a dozen times to stop him from helping her.

She dragged one rug through the dirt with both hands. Her face fell as she saw the high rope strung from building to building. Setting her chin, she gave a tremendous heave on the rug. It sailed over the line and to the ground on the other side, the momentum of her swing sending her to the ground with it. She shook her head. On the third try the rug landed on the rope.

She picked up the giant wooden spoon and smacked the rug. A cloud of dust swirled around her head, choking her. Backing away, she poked at the rug. She held the spoon like a sword. Her feints and jabs elicited little dust but the task was more bearable.

A solitary figure watched her from a latticed window on the second level of the fortress, drinking in her every move. He laughed out loud at her mock battle. Her room was far from his now. Late in the night when sleep eluded him, the door of her old room would beckon him. He had opened it only once, the lingering fragrance of sandalwood sending him back into the corridor with his whole body aching. She was everywhere. She was in the courtyard, her lithe body bent over a tub of dirty linen. She was in the great hall, head bowed as she struggled with a tray loaded with tankards. Her eyes would catch his for a brittle second, making a mockery of her subservient pose as fire flashed in them. His hand clutched the window ledge as he watched her.

He jumped and turned guiltily away from the window as someone cleared their throat behind him. Nimbus stood in the doorway, a smirk on his small face.

“I request an audience with ye, Conn.”

Conn moved away from the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Since when must you request an audience to talk to me?”

Nimbus did not reply. His eyes did not leave Conn’s.

“I know you’ve been less than pleased with me lately, Nimbus. You’ve made that clear. I would be happy to grant you an audience. Do proceed.”

Conn sat on the edge of the couch. He saw that the jester’s worn burlap garments had been replaced by a short red jacket and a dark green kilt. He hid a smile, wondering what could be so serious that Nimbus would resort to wearing freshly laundered clothing.

He didn’t have long to wonder. Nimbus crossed his arms and said, “I want to wed Gelina.”

Conn stared at him for a long moment. He swallowed the chuckle that rose in his throat, realizing as he faced the man’s resolute brown eyes that if he laughed, their friendship would be over forever. He cleared his throat, thankful that he was already sitting.

Biting back a hundred words, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and asked, “Why?”

Nimbus flung his arms outward, calm deserting him. “Because I cannot bear to see her creeping around here like some captive spider in that dreadful dress. She deserves better than that.”

“She is well fed. She is not mistreated. You know that,” Conn replied, a fine line appearing between his eyebrows.

Nimbus’s voice rose. “She is humiliated. She is degraded. I will not stand for it. Ye had no right—”

“I had every right.” Conn’s words were spoken quietly; his eyes dared Nimbus to continue.

Nimbus lowered his eyes with difficulty and repeated, “I want to wed Gelina. I desire no marriage portion. I will take her as she is.”

His words stirred Conn to rise and pace to the window. He stared down into the courtyard, hands clenched behind him in some hidden emotion.

Nimbus took two steps toward him, then stopped, his legs refusing to carry him farther as realization dawned. “I’m not the first to ask, am I, Conn?”

“I’ve been approached by others.”

“And yer answer, sire?”

Conn struggled for words. “I couldn’t ask anyone to take Gelina. She isn’t suitable for marriage.”

“Why not?”

Nimbus refused to look away. Conn could feel his gaze boring a hole in his back until he was forced to turn around.

The jester cursed furiously. “I knew it. Ye ruined her, didn’t ye? Ye spoiled her yerself.” Nimbus turned away, fighting the churning of his stomach. “‘Tis true, is it not?”

Conn ran a weary hand over his eyes, not bothering to answer.

“Ye didn’t just ruin her, did ye? Ye hurt her. Ye and all yer fine talk of chivalry and gentleness to women! Ye make me want to puke.” Nimbus turned back to him, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. “Tell me, Conn, how was it? Did ye take her like a peasant wench? Did ye give her the courtesy of spreading yer cloak for her to lie on while ye were spreading her legs? Or did ye just take her on the ground like a common—”

“Stop it, Nimbus,” Conn bellowed.

“Ye don’t understand, do ye? I did this. I gave her to ye. I made her beautiful for ye. So that ye would cherish her and love her like she deserves to be loved. Like I could never . . .” He sputtered to a stop, unable to continue without crying.

“You cannot understand all the circumstances, Nimbus.”

“I understand one thing,” he said quietly. “I understand that Gelina is still suitable to be me wife. Let me take her away from here.”

“My answer remains the same.”

Nimbus chuckled, the bleak sound a bitter travesty of his rolling laughter. “‘Tis all very handy for ye, Conn. Ye spoil her for any other man but keep her right here under yer thumb for yer use. Will ye visit her in the servants’ quarters or have her serve ye in yer chambers? Yer first try didn’t get her with babe. If yer spilled seed finds its mark the second time, will ye marry her off to some other man then?”

Conn paled, visibly shaken. “That is not fair, Nimbus. I haven’t laid a finger on her since we returned to Tara.”

The jester shrugged. “ ‘Tis only a matter of time though, isn’t it? Ye’ll reach beneath the skirts of a serving wench and what a surprise, ’twill be Gelina.”

Conn took a step toward him, eyes blazing. “You push me, Nimbus. You push me beyond the limits any other man would dare.”

Nimbus bowed with a flourish. “I beg yer pardon, sire. I have not forgotten ye’re the king. Ye’re beyond reproach.”

Conn pushed past him and strode from the room. Nimbus stared after him, his mocking smile fading. He paced to the chest and snatched up an earthenware mug. It shattered against the wall with a satisfying crash.

In the courtyard below, Gelina stared up at the window to hear the sound of voices raised in anger replaced by the shattering of pottery.

* * *

Music and laughter floated up from the great hall, the din grating across Gelina’s frayed nerves as she dragged the scrub brush across the wooden floor. She hummed faintly, trying to drown out the festivities below, where she was no longer welcome. As her voice found the words she sought, it rose, booming out the words to a ditty Nimbus had taught her about a man and his goat. Her unmelodic tune was accompanied by the rhythmic splashing of the brush across the rough floor. Drops of dirty water spattered the walls unheeded. Also unheeded was the door that flew open at the end of the corridor.