Love at First Sight (13 page)

“Offensive?” His look indicated he thought her an idiot. “I find you yet a maid. Were I a lesser man, my ears would presently be ringing with screeching accusations of how I’d taken you against your will.”

The knock sounded louder. “My liege!” Spindleshanks’ strident voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“Mi’lord, please,” she entreated, fearing the door would open any moment. “I am near bare to the waist.”

“A moment, Sperville,” he bellowed, releasing her at last.

She scrambled to her feet and raced to the door, shaking her chainse and tunic down as she went.

“Golde!” Delamaure shouted, but she did not look back. Yanking the portal open, she dodged Spindleshanks and Sir Nigel where they stood in the corridor.

She flew to the head of the steps and took them two at a time, the sob finally erupting. Blinded by tears, she continued her rapid descent. Though she knew not
exactly
where she was going, she knew it would be as far from the Baron of Skyenvic as she could get.

G
AVARNIE STOOD
before a window in his chamber and inhaled the briny night air. Clangor from the kitchen below rose to bounce off the timber palisade behind the keep, echoing his disquiet.

The intrigue that had hovered over him earlier while listening to de Warrenne’s insinuations had suddenly become a sticky web of deception. A pox on the parchment Nigel and Sperville had brought to his chamber.

Turning from the window, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Read it again, Nigel.”

The steward’s usual smooth tone was marred by a noticeable quaver. “Look to your own house for betrayal.” “There is no signature?”

“None, sir.”

“There is no mark on the seal, either,” Sperville added.

“And it was delivered by whom?” Gavarnie queried.

“A village boy left it with the gatekeeper.” Nigel sounded as if he longed to take a whip to his own back. “Would that I had been present to receive it.”

“You cannot sit at the gate day and night,” Gavarnie allowed, though certainly Nigel should have prepared the gatekeeper for such eventualities.

Vowing to address the issue in future, Gavarnie changed the subject. “Is the handwriting familiar to either of you?”

He heard the rustle of parchment and steeled himself to patience. Sperville and Nigel were his most trusted advisors. Under the circumstance, ’twas fitting that he would consult them. Still, the longer they were present, the greater the chance that he would betray his fear. For at the moment, he felt as if he were standing upon the crumbling edge of an abyss.

“All writing looks the same,” Sperville complained at last. “I cannot distinguish this from any other.”

“Mayhap ’tis but a jest, mi’lord,” Nigel offered.

“A jest!” Sperville squawked. “This can hardly be dismissed as a jest.”

“I did not mean to dismiss it,” Nigel returned hotly. “Rather, I would not have his lordship overly disturbed—”

“Our liege is not given to unwarranted fits of anxiety,” Sperville interrupted. “’Tis he who will determine . . .”

Whore’s gleet, Gavarnie thought as the chamberlain and steward argued on. They were worse than Ronces and Alory. He finally held up a hand to halt their yapping mouths. “Sperville, I would that you lock the missive in my silver chest. Meanwhile, Nigel, I would that you question the gatekeeper in depth.”

“By your leave, sir,” Nigel intoned.

“A moment, Nigel,” Sperville huffed. “I would accompany you.”

Nigel sighed heavily, and Sperville’s bootheels clomped toward the wardrobe. Then both men’s footsteps resounded as they tromped from the room, the click of the door latch signaling their complete departure.

In the quiet that followed, Gavarnie leaned against the wall. Though he would never admit such, it appeared de Warrenne was correct. Why had he not recognized it before? How could he expect King William to trust a blind man with guarding the Solent against invasion?

It suddenly felt as if iron chains were clamped about his muscles, strangling the life from his limbs. All along, he’d thought William’s insistence on sending the royal physicians to heal his eyes a simple act of kindness. Now that the king realized his sight could not be restored . . .

Think! he ordered himself as panic threatened to overwhelm him. He had yet to fail in his duties. No Vikings or French had slipped past his watch. Not that the king could wait for such to occur. It could cost him England.

On the other hand, he had been a faithful vassal to William, had risked his life on William’s behalf in numerous battles. For the king to reward such loyalty by relieving him of Skyenvic would hardly instill loyalty among William’s other vassals. Indeed, the king’s fractious barons might use it as a means to foment rebellion.

Nay. Better for William to quietly kill him and have done.

The idea sent a fresh awareness through him. If such were the case, whom had William chosen as his assassin? De Warrenne?

Gavarnie immediately discarded the possibility. To murder him secretly would require great cunning. Though William had oft remarked on his faith in de Warrenne’s abilities as a henchman, the king would never trust the man with any task that required subtlety.

So whom had the king selected?

Abruptly his eyes narrowed.

“Golde.”

Her name erupted from low in his gut. What better person for the deed? Dangling the promise of restoring his vision while creating all manner of turmoil to distract him. With her knowledge of medicine, ’twould be easy for her to poison him once she’d gained his trust. Why else would she be so willing to lose her maidenhead?

Pushing himself from the wall, he slowly paced the floor. Aye, Golde was ready to sacrifice her virginity to gain his trust. Then when he least suspected, she would strike.

It would have to look like an accident. If she used poison, ’twould have to be slow-acting. Something that would steal his life gradually, as would any host of illnesses.

He turned and paced in the opposite direction. Had he known a short while ago what he knew now, he would have taken what the wench offered so freely. Doubtless, William had paid her handsomely to present him with such unholy temptation.

The thought of her heated body and passionate urg- ings yet had the power to stir his flesh. He winced and rubbed his shaft.

Lips, full and tender as ripe plums, nipples so hardened with desire he’d had no trouble locating them, despite the layers of material she wore. And the pouty flesh encircling her opening, slickened with lust.

Abruptly he collided with the bedpost.

“God be damned!” He clutched his forehead. The wench was stealing his reason.

Fingers splayed before him, he felt his way back toward the window with more caution. By the rood, she was most artful for a virgin. He’d lain with a host of practiced courtesans who possessed nowhere near the expertise he’d been plied with this eve.

His hand struck the wall and he edged sideways until he found the narrow window. Voices yet echoed outside as kitchen servants continued their evening chores.

His gaze searched the noisy black void. Was it possible Golde knew some secret for restoring her maidenhead? Though he’d heard of miraculous deeds performed by witchwives, he’d never heard of that particular accomplishment.

Still, ’twould be just like the conniving little hag. She doubtless had a bagful of tricks for every occasion.

Had she not incited his own children to bear testimony—

Whore’s gleet. The children! How could he have forgotten?

He spun from the window and clambered for the door. His haste did naught but delay him, and by the time he located the handle, he felt wild with urgency.

“Roland!” he roared.

’Twas not the squire who responded. “My liege?”

Booted footsteps hurried toward him and he struggled to place the voice. “Eustace?”

“Aye, mi’lord. How may I serve—”

“Why are you on duty so early in the eve?” he demanded.

“Sir Sperville ordered it,” the watch replied, a note of uncertainty in his tone. “Is all well?”

More footsteps sounded from the stairs, then thumped on the landing. “Mi’lord, you called?” Roland asked, his voice winded.

“I want my sons.” He paused to take a steadying breath. “And my daughter brought to me.”

“But they are already abed,” Roland puffed.

“Dare you question my command, boy?”

Before Roland could reply, he heard a door squeak down the corridor. Then Ronces spoke. “We are not asleep.”

Gavarnie concentrated on wiping all trace of anger from his face before turning to his son. “Come.” He held out his hands.

“You go,” Alory whispered. “Papa is angry.”

“Pigeonheart,” Ronces hissed back. “Papa won’t hurt you.”

Even a deaf man would have heard the exchange. A knotted feeling clogged Gavarnie’s chest. Alory feared him?

Eustace cleared his throat. “Is that all, my liege?”

Gavarnie nodded absently. ’Twas a moment until he felt a small hand clutch his. “Ronces?”

“Aye, Papa.” The boy squeezed his hand.

“Where is Alory?” He yet held his other hand open.

“He is here.”

Gavarnie nodded, determined not to reveal the bitter disappointment that threatened to squeeze the breath from him. “Mayhap Alory could lead the way to my bed,” he coaxed.

At that, he felt his younger son take his hand, and he was slowly turned about.

“A moment.” He halted. “Roland?”

“Aye, mi’lord.” The squire’s voice was filled with— was it pity?

At the thought, anger swept over him. “Fetch Nico—my daughter,” he ordered harshly.

Ronce’s hand stiffened in his, and Alory’s trembled, as if they could not stomach Nicolette in their presence.

“The two of you have some objection?” His words seethed.

“Nay!” Ronces squeaked.

At the boy’s frightened tone, his anger dissolved as if in a heap of dead ashes. It was not Nicolette who disturbed the boys. Rather, it was their fear of
him.
Unbidden, Golde’s words rang accusingly in his head.
If you would cease bellowing like a bull, you might hear what goes on about you.

“Your forgiveness for my sharp tongue,” he apologized. It required no effort to sound sincere. “Alory, if you would, lead the way.”

Did his sons move slowly to accommodate his blindness, he wondered as they shuffled forward; or did their feet drag with dread?

Within moments Ronces said in a subdued voice, “Here, Papa.”

Gavarnie forced a smile and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come and join me,” he invited, patting the covers to either side of him.

He felt the mattress give as the boys did his bidding, though neither said a word. The smell of dirt and sweat accompanied them.

In an attempt at levity, he waved the air in front of his nose. “Faith, have the two of you been mucking the sheep pens? When was the last time you bathed?”

“Bathing is for babes and girls,” Alory declared, distracted from his silence by an issue to which he obviously attached great significance.

“It is not,” Nicolette snapped from the direction of the door.

“Your . . . uh, Nicolette,” Roland announced.

“Come,
daughter,”
Gavarnie emphasized the word, motioning with his hand. “I would that you join us. Roland, close the door and await without until I summon you.”

He paused for Nicolette to climb abed, and when she did not, he prompted, “I have asked you to join us.”

“Thewe is no woom,” the girl groused from near his feet.

He raised a brow. “Mayhap you would deign to sit on my lap, mistress.”

“Papa!” Ronces’ tone was disbelieving, and he felt the bed shift to his left.

“She is your sister as far as I’m concerned.” Gavarnie measured his words as Nicolette settled herself in his lap.

“She is not,” Alory huffed on his right.

“Who told you she is not?” Gavarnie demanded.

Silence.

Plague take his acid tongue. He must control his temper. He must.

Hoping to smooth the children’s rift, he cleared his throat and concentrated on speaking evenly. “I learned some distressing news this eve. Mistress Golde tells me . . .”

His words trailed away. What was he to say? I understand the three of you hate one another?

His mouth grew dry. He knew not exactly what they’d said to Golde. He’d been too busy sampling her charms—which she’d so freely offered. The deceitful witch.

Still, as he recalled—
Alory scrambles to hide
. . .

Ronces curses Nicolette. .
.
. Nicolette relates how you chopped their mother
—

“Golde tells me . . Again he paused.

Lackwit! he railed at himself. He should have thought the matter through before dragging his children before him.

“Why awe you shaking?” Nicolette broke into his frantic thoughts. “What did the bad witch say?”

’Twas all he could do to draw breath. “You hate one another,” he wheezed. “I cut your mother—” He gasped for air.

For a long moments, no one spoke or moved. Then Nicolette rose on his lap to hug his neck. “She is lying. I tole you she was bad.”