Love at First Sight (25 page)

His shoulders slumped and he crossed to the bed. Not once in the past two weeks had his sons offered him such comfort as they did now. He’d been forced to share the small pallet with Nicolette, who hogged what little space there was.

That his children would be so gracious this night was like a slap in the face. He needed their warmth and affection, their bickering and endless fidgeting, not the cold spaciousness of a lonely bed.

Anything that cannot be beaten to submission is beyond you.
Golde’s words returned to accuse him as he undressed.

Had his mean disposition beaten his children into submitting their bed for his use?

He winced, and doused the lamp. ’Twas time and past he approached Golde to discover what his children knew of their mother’s demise. He had let the matter slide since the attack, foremost because he had little faith in Golde. He’d also been preoccupied with his thoughts on assassination.

Climbing into bed, he flopped on his back.

Truth tell, he’d been so overjoyed to see his children again, so overcome with the changes wrought in their features in three short months, he had wished to do nothing that might spoil his pleasure.

Now that he thought on it, though, were not Ronces’ dark eyes tinged with a brittleness he’d never seen before? Was Alory’s smile a little less carefree? And what of Ni- colette? She seemed much older than her five years.

He could avoid the evidence no longer. As careful as he had been to conceal the truth from his children, he’d been a fool to think they would not hear rumors in a castle filled with gossip.

He grimaced. What was he to say to them?
Yea, I murdered your mother, but though I despised her, ’twas not done a’purpose
.

Or,
My apologies, dearlings, but your mother was a slut and richly deserved her fate
.

He scowled. ’Od rot his soul to hell. When said thus, it did not sound as if Isabelle were at fault. It sounded as if he were the murderer he was.

He gritted his teeth. Why had he not sent Isabelle away those two years ago when she’d confessed that N¿colette was not his?

Because, he answered himself, he’d enjoyed punishing her. Aye, it had been balm to his battered pride to make her suffer.

How inconsequential her infidelity seemed now, compared to the misery he’d heaped on his children. He’d never loved Isabelle, nor she him. They’d been married for purposes of familial alliance. Isabelle was not the first woman to follow her heart outside the marriage bed, as he well knew. Had he not taken advantage of a host of dissatisfied wives during his days at court?

And what of Golde?

Sperville’s insistance on torturing her had accomplished in one stroke what endless argument could never have achieved. It had made him think there was a possibility that Golde was not a part of the king’s plan to have him assassinated.

Would that it were so. After all, he had been completely wrong in his suspicions of Golde where his children were concerned.

Locking his fingers together, he moved his hands behind his head and stared toward the ceiling. Indeed, Golde’s actions were most peculiar at times for an assassin.

What were those heated looks she cast his way each day when he came to bathe? She did not know he could see, yet it was as if she could not take her eyes from him. And that nonsense of how pockmarks suited him . . . ’twas absurd. To listen to her, one would think she found him attractive.

Nay. He dashed his hopes before they could bear fruit. Golde’s remarks on his looks were meant only to flatter, to lull him into a false sense of security.

Because God knew, in all other matters, she was incapable of doing aught but bedeviling him. Indeed, the wench would drive a saint to do . . .

Murder.

The thought chilled his very bones.

Hands locked behind his head, he brought his elbows up and pressed the insides of his forearms against his temples.

He’d kept the blood-weltering memory at bay for so long . . .

Aye. He’d murdered Isabelle.

It had been during the late spring tourney at Atherbrook. Then, as now, Skyenvic had hosted the guests that could not be accommodated there.

What had he and Isabelle quarreled over that eve? Had it been something of eminent import? Or had Isabelle nettled him over something as insignificant as the length of his toenails?

His throat grew constricted. He would never know.

One moment he’d been sitting in the hall pouring mead down his gullet. The next, he’d awoken in bed beside her mutilated corpse.

He’d stumbled from the bed then, desperate to escape the blood that smeared Isabelle, the blood that soaked the sheets, the blood that covered his hands.

At the memory, bile rose to scald his throat. He dragged his hands from behind his head and ground his fists against his temples. He must not think of it.

He must not . . .

By the Blessed Virgin, how could he have done such a thing? In all his years on the battlefield, never had he smelled the stench of death so strongly as he had in his bed that morn. Its sticky sweetness had oozed into his nostrils like yellow pus.

Despite the innumerable times he’d seen men torn limb from limb and heads split wide, never had he witnessed such carnage as that he had wrought on Isabelle.

His heart tumbled sickly in his chest as his inward eye traveled over every wound.

He’d stumbled from the bed all right. But in his haste, he’d slipped and cracked his head against a bedpost.

Lights had sparked before his eyes, and he’d squeezed them shut. Then there’d been a pounding at the door. Only, when he’d opened his eyes to answer it, he could no longer see.

Abruptly he jerked himself to sit upright. Golde. For no reason, her image flashed before him, her raven hair swirling about her all-knowing eyes. The night-soft hush of her voice whispered in his head.

Was it reckoning he heard in her husky murmur, or redemption?

Unable to bear his thoughts, he rose and dressed, then quietly let himself from the room.

He would confront Golde now with his suspicions of her. Determine once and for all . . .

Anything that cannot be beaten to submission is beyond you
.

His hand stilled on the door latch outside his bed- chamber.

Though his suspicions of Golde were not unfounded, considering what she knew of him would she not view his murder with some sense of justification?

If the king were to command him to kill a man who’d murdered his wife, and appeared to be a threat to his own children—never mind that he was also a threat to England—Gavarnie knew he would have few qualms about carrying out the order. More the better if William were to reward him handsomely for the deed.

Removing his hand from the latch, he stared at his shadow where it played on the door from the rushlight behind him.

When considered thus, Golde did not seem at all deceitful. Rather, for a woman to brave the perils of dealing with such a man seemed courageous.

And if he were to describe Golde, courageous would be foremost among his praises. Along with clever.

In a world where women were completly dependent upon men, she depended on none. Should blindness afflict her, doubtless it would never get the best of her. Indeed, the pale priest of death likely dreaded the day he would have to fetch her.

But while only God could bestow such blessings as courage and cleverness upon a woman, ’twas only the devil who could make her so desirable.

Tugging at the crotch of his braies, he adjusted his
coillons.
Faith, but he’d never suffered such constant torment from unslaked lust. Spying on Golde during her bath earlier had been but a continuation of torture for him. How many days had he carried her to and from the tub in his chamber while her ribs healed? Four?

Four days of warm, moist flesh. Four days of long, sleek legs and tender bottom. Four days of piquant breasts that begged to be tasted. He’d forgotten the beauty of dusky-hued nipples.

Licking his lips, he grasped the latch again.

A
T THE DULL TREAD
of boots ascending the stairs, Gavarnie jerked his hand from the latch and turned.

“Mi’lord?” Roland queried as he reached the landing. “Is there aught that you require?”

A pox on the squire for disturbing him. He scowled and stepped back from the door. “Why are you yet awake ?”

“I have only just finished cleaning your armor, sir.” The youth’s words pricked his inwit. He had not given a thought to the difficulty of scrubbing pig slop from the small threads of chain mail.

He cleared his throat. “Take your ease, Roland. I was just going to bed.”

Turning, he made his way back to the boys’ chamber, where he again undressed and lay down on his back.

’Twas a fitful sleep that finally claimed him, filled with friends who turned to enemies on crimson battlefields.

A
RISING TO THE GRAY LIGHT
of dawn did little to cheer him, though he could see no help for what he must do.

Until he spoke with Golde concerning what the children had said about Isabelle’s death, he would know no peace.

Dressing quickly, he crept from the boys’ chamber to wake Roland where the squire slept outside the door.

“I shall breakfast with mistress,” he informed the yawning squire. “Have a meal brought up for us.”

The youth scurried off, and Gavarnie gathered his courage. After knocking twice and receiving no response, he pushed the door open. He found Golde, not in bed asleep, but standing before the window.

A pox on the wench. Why was she already dressed? He jerked his gaze from her back as she turned to face him.

Masking his irritation, he made his way to the bed with what he hoped was his usual blind deliberation. He felt his way around the mattress and sat on the edge of the bed, then pretended to reach for her.

“Mistress?” he queried softly when it became obvious he could not find her.

She did not respond for several moments, and he kept his gaze glued to the empty bed. ’Twas almost as if she were testing him.

“Here,” she said at last, and he moved his gaze to fix on her.

His breath caught at her exhausted appearance. Dark half-moons hung beneath her eyes, lending an eerie luminance to their black and green colors. Like a flame that had burned itself out, leaving naught but glowing embers in its wake. The flesh beneath her cheeks looked hollow, while her colorless lips were drawn in a thin line.

He inclined his head, hoping that his face did not betray his shock at her appearance. “You are up so soon?”

She stared hard into his eyes, and he had trouble keeping his gaze blank.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company at such an early hour?” Her tone was cold enough to freeze fire.

“I’ve ordered a meal brought to us in hopes that we might talk,” he offered meekly.

Her nostrils flared and she sneered. “We could easily have talked yesterday.”

“Your forgiveness for my rude behavior. I had important—”

“Matters to attend,” she interrupted. “Well, let us not waste your valuable time, sir. Of what do you wish to speak?”

Chagrined by his own words, which rang of overblown self-importance even to his ears, he tried a different tack. “You do not loo—er, you sound disgruntled this morn. Other than the honey mischief, did all go well in my absence?”

Now she glared at him. “Quite. You may have your chamber back. I shall return to Nicolette’s room.”

A knock sounded at the door. At his bidding, Roland and two serving boys entered carrying baskets, pitchers, and trays.

“Will you join me, or shall I eat alone?” he asked.

She inclined her head. “You are certain you have time?”

His patience began to erode. “Have I not said as much? Come and sit.”

Stone-faced, she strode to the bed and sat stiffly on the side opposite him. Roland placed linen cloths on their laps and passed a water bowl, that they could clean their hands. Then the squire poured them each a cup of ale and placed the bread in front of Gavarnie.

“Shall I serve you, mi’lord?” he asked.

“Nay. Leave us.”

He waited for Roland and the servants to clear the room, then reached for the bread. Its steaming, yeasty smell did nothing for his appetite, which had suddenly vanished. Careful to keep his eyes lowered, he broke a piece from the loaf and held it out.