Love at First Sight (27 page)

“It was an accident,” Alory offered.

Nicolette added, “We dared him to shoot the awwow, but not the pig.”

Gavarnie scowled. “You are not allowed to use your bow unless . . .”

It struck him then. Golde had not forced the children to help her with the pig, as she’d claimed. ’Twas the other way around.

A sinking feeling pooled in his belly. “How did you convince Golde to aid you after pouring honey all over her?”

“We put dung in her boots, too,” Alory said, lowering his head.

“Nicolette got her to help,” Ronces intoned.

“She is a good witch, and she is gone ’cause of us.” Misery claimed Nicolette’s features.

Gavarnie felt his face flush, though whether it was from anger or chagrin, he wasn’t certain. Without question, his children should be punished for their misdeeds. Yet he could scarce justify doing so. Their actions paled in comparison to his.

What a pompous thickwit he’d been. Accusing Golde of trickery with his children when she’d sought only to help.

“Is it true, Papa?” Alory pulled him from his thoughts.

Gavarnie sighed bitterly. “Is what true?”

“Can you see?”

Anger tore through Gavarnie, and he planted his fists on his hips. Despite his careful plans for keeping his sight secret, someone had informed his children.

Sperville, no doubt. Not only had the presumptuous chamberlain helped Golde reach Atherbrook, he’d told his children he could see. To think he’d only assigned the meddlesome dolt to cleaning the wardrobe these two days past. He should have made him muck the sheep pens.

“Where did you hear such?” he asked at last.

“’Tis being whispered all over the castle,” Ronces answered. “Is it true? Can you see?”

Gavarnie gritted his teeth. “Aye.”

“I tole you,” Nicolette snapped. “The witch healed his sight.”

Ronces eyed him with disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell us? Do you not trust us?” He sounded betrayed.

“Of course I trust you. ’Tis just . . .”

His words trailed away as he realized the swineherd was listening. Whore’s gleet. If the entire castle did not know of his sight already, they would now.

He turned to Nigel. “Fetch Sperville and meet me in my chambers.”

He started forward to gather the children, but Alory scrambled from his reach.

“Is it also true what everyone says about Mamma? Did you kill her?”

Gavarnie halted in his tracks. Words deserted him. He could do naught but watch as a terrible battle between hope and loathing played across Alory’s chubby features.
Tell me, Papa. Tell me you did not do it.
His youngest son’s upturned face implored him.

Nigel moved quickly to capture the boy. “All of you, come with me,” the steward ordered.

Nicolette held her ground. “Is it twue that you awe not my fathew? Is that why you killed Mamma?”

“Come on, Nicolette.” Ronces grabbed her arm and dragged her backward.

“The night you tole us what the witch said,” Nicolette taunted, “when I was sitting on your lap. I was the one who lied. Ever’thing the witch tole you was twue.”

With that, she turned and followed Nigel toward the great hall, casting accusing looks over her shoulder.

And still, Gavarnie could not move. He’d known for some time that Golde had spoken the truth, and ’twas not that which mattered to him now. Nay. ’Twas the fact that Nicolette was deliberately trying to hurt him that clawed at his soul.

To what purpose did he live? Isabelle dead by his hand. His children’s thinking torn and bloodied as surely as if he’d taken a blade to their heads.

And Golde. Only three days gone, yet it seemed an eternity.

He’d not yet had a chance to speak with the children about Isabelle. He’d spent the first day of Golde’s disappearance searching for her, fearing that if she’d gone to New Market, the villagers would kill her. Indeed, when he’d been unable to locate her, he’d grown frantic.

’Twas then that Sperville had confessed his misdeeds. “She was in the wardrobe during our conversation. She was determined to leave, and I thought it best to see her to Atherbrook, where she would be safe.”

Gavarnie kicked a clod of dirt and attempted to recreate the rage he’d experienced at the chamberlain’s admission. Anything to save himself from thinking. But all he could recall were Sperville’s other words.

She is in love with you. Imagine how she felt upon hearing your talk of her. ‘A conniving slut. An agent of the king.’

The chamberlain had then gone on to tell him everything he knew of Golde.
She is Celt, not Saxon, and the last in a long line of great mystics. Rather than develop her real abilities, Golde practices all manner of deception, which disturbs her great-grandmother to no end. While money was her reason far coming here, ’twas not any coin she would receive from William. Rather, her intent was to trick you into paying her
.

Before Gavarnie could demand why the chamberlain would bring such a woman into Skyenvic, Sperville had continued.
The old woman wished to teach Golde a lesson and promised to heal your sight, provided I brought Golde here. It seemed a good bargain
.

Aye, Gavarnie mused, stubbing his boot toe in the dirt. He should be angry. Angry enough to kill the chamberlain. Not only did Golde know his thoughts concerning her and the king, she was also aware of his idea to align himself with the Danes.

Yet she’d apparently told no one. Had she done so, he would currently be standing before the king’s executioner.

Instead of rage, a forlorn and desolate loneliness clutched at his heart. He stilled, and gazed out over the bailey.

Would life be worth living if he were to discover beyond doubt that the king was against him? ’Twas scarce worth living at present, and would be less so in the future without Golde.

He scowled. Worst of all, he supposed he would now have to admit he’d been wrong and apologize to Spindleshanks.

T
HE CLANG OF
of a hundred royal guests and their servants reverberated with ferocity from the interior of Atherbrook’s gray stone walls. And the lords and ladies camped at Skyenvic had yet to arrive. Positioned between Sir Varin and his giant underlord, Arnulf, Golde stared at the oysters piled high on her trencher.

She could not have refused Varin’s offer to dine with him and Arnulf, especially when he’d gone to the trouble of making arrangements for her seating. But her stomach roiled at the thought of food. Instead, she sipped upon the king’s fine wine, her second full goblet.

Four days had passed since the clever Spindleshanks had spirited her away from Skyenvic, right beneath Gavarnie’s nose. Dressed like a man, she’d walked through the gates in the direction of New Market. Meanwhile, the chamberlain had saddled a mount and followed her on the pretext of fetching more salt from the village. They’d met on the road, where they’d changed direction and headed for Atherbrook.

“The oysters are not to your liking?” Sir Varin’s deep voice pulled her from her thoughts.

She gave him her attention, affecting a bright smile. “My stomach has been a bit unsettled of late, but this wine is proving quite the tonic.”

The concern in Varin’s blue eyes melted, and a wicked grin lit his tanned countenance. “Mayhap your time at Skyenvic was spent in quarters too close to Sir Gavarnie.”

He winked over her head at Arnulf, his rough tone loud enough to split the wooden beams overhead. “Those blind bastards must e’re grope about for purchase. ’Twould not surprise me in the least to hear you are expecting—”

Varin gasped when she drove her elbow in his ribs. “’Twould seem to me,” she summoned a haughty tone, “that were a tournament held for groping, you would be the winner, mi’lord lecher. Five babes in seven years, is it not? Poor Roscelyn must run screaming at your very approach.”

Arnulf’s laughter trilled beside her, unbelievably high and sweet for a man so large. The sound was grating with the intensity of its good cheer.

Varin snorted. “’Tis I who suffer Roscelyn’s groping. She cannot keep her hands from me.”

Inexplicably, his good-natured banter left Golde feeling weepy. Clinging to her teasing mien, she rolled her eyes. “I was present during each of your children’s births, save this last. As I recall, Roscelyn requested a blade with each delivery that she could slit you throat to groin.”

Amulf fair strangled on his merriment.

Varin scowled at the redhaired giant. “I wonder if you recall what yon ox’s wife said at the birth of his son?”

A squire refilled her goblet and Golde drained it, hoping to ease the sudden constriction in her throat. “I believe she requested a potion from Mimskin that would induce violent cramping, that Arnulf might experience the thrill of childbirth.”

Golde’s spirits sank at the loud guffaws that erupted from Varin.

Why could Gavarnie not love her the way Varin and Amulf loved their wives?

Because you are fearsome to look upon
.

Even as she thought it, she studied Arnulfs mirth-filled face. Never had God created an uglier man. His red hair sprouted in every direction, his nose had suffered numerous clubbings, and his forehead was furrowed with scars. Yet his wife, Dunne, worshipped him, regardless of her spiteful words during childbirth.

Golde returned her gaze to the oysters before her. Who would not love the overgrown Amulf? He was as gentle as he was fierce. He loved children, even those who were not his. He was courageous and honorable, and possessed the patience of a saint.

All virtues, none to which she could lay claim, she thought morosely. ’Twas not her looks that frightened Gavarnie, as if aught could scare the miserable cur.

Nay. Rather, he found her lacking in all things decent.

Abruptly she rose from the table. “If you will excuse me, sirs.” She struggled for levity. “Our immediate vicinity suddenly seems to reek of bull’s wind. If I do not take some fresh air, I will surely be overcome.”

Varin’s brows swooped down. “You are truly ill,” he accused, his gaze worrying over her features. “You grow more wan with each passing day. Let us all retire, that you may rest.”

He half rose from the bench before she placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Take your ease, mi’lord.” It required every bit of will to plaster a smile on her lips. “’Tis but my way of saying I must visit the latrine.”

“Why did you not say so?” he boomed, relaxing.

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’d hoped to be discreet.”

“Oh.” Varin looked chagrined, while Amulf clutched his belly and tittered.

Simpletons, she thought, turning her back and heading toward the open entrance to the hall.
Let us all retire, that you may rest.
The last thing she needed was to sit in Varin’s tent and listen to him and Amulf sing their wives’ praises. ’Twould do naught but remind her of her own shortcomings.

Her steps slowed as harried servants rushed around her to attend their lords’ shouted demands.

If she could not abide hearing such avowals of devotion from Varin and Arnulf now, how would she manage once she was home? Surrounded by families, seeing Roscelyn and her new babe, watching Arnulf and the village children. All would be reminders of what she could not have, would never have.

Her shoulders slumped and she bowed her head. Gladly would she give her life to hear Gavarnie say he loved her. And though she would deny it to her dying breath, ’twould be immensely pleasurable to hear Ronces claim affection for her. Not that he ever would. Nor would Nicolette, the little curmudgeon. But Alory. There was a kindred soul. She could see it in his dreamy features.

However would Gavarnie manage the three little imps with no woman about to help?

As she neared the hall’s entrance, a high-pitched squeal disrupted her thoughts. A greasy-haired woman tumbled from a bench directly into her path. Golde swerved to avoid the wench, a baud from the looks of her.

Without warning, she collided with a servant bearing a tray. Down she went, sprawling over the baud. The tray of oysters landed on her head.

Laughter rang about her as she scrambled to her feet. Swiping slimy lumps from her hair, she glared at the woman.

The wench’s painted mouth rounded and she scooted backward, much like a crab. Clambering to her feet, she crossed herself and fled.

Only one man continued to laugh, and Golde stabbed him with her best demon-eyed look. “’Twould serve you well to cease your cackling, lest you find yourself keeping company with the devil.”

Two other whores sat with the man, one upon his lap. Both took a sudden interest in the table before them, avoiding her gaze.

Not so the man. He tilted his head back and cast her a bleary grin. “’Tis hell-bound I am, pretty hag. If you can expedite matters, I shall put in a good word to Satan on your behalf.”

’Twas clear from the man’s seating nearest the doors that he held little favor with the king. His ginger-colored hair was unkempt and frosted with gray, while his freckled countenance was florid.

But ’twas not that which held Golde spellbound.

Nay. It was his eyes. Rimmed by red, but gray all the same.