Love at First Sight (28 page)

She studied him. He was much changed, thinned by worthlessness, worn with debauchery. But she knew him as well as she knew the sun would rise, or that the stars had once shone upon two lovers on a dark, secret moor.

Abruptly she sneered. “Poor, unfortunate wretch. ’Tis a pity how you are forced to gorge yourself on fine drink and food. How miserable to abide in royal accommodations with three women to appease your desires.”

Unaccountably, tears stung her eyes. But they did naught to stop her tirade. On the contrary, they lent it impetus.

“Mayhap you would prefer a drafty hovel and cold floor to sleep upon. Mayhap ’twould be your pleasure to work at mean tasks the entire day long while suffering all manner of cruel invective. Mayhap you would enjoy going to your rest hungry and alone.”

In the silence that suddenly descended over the immediate surroundings, she hissed, “Mayhap you should visit your
son.
His name is Lull. He lives in New Market and knows all about hell.”

Her vision had grown so blurred with tears, she could scarce make out the selfish lord’s features. Blinking, she turned and hurried toward the open doors. She did not reach the threshold before a hand clamped over her shoulder and spun her about.

Shoving her backward against the wall, the lord flourished his carving blade in her face. “Think you to frighten me, witch? I have wrestled with demons far more powerful than you.”

He leaned in close and pressed the knife to her throat. “Mayhap it is time I dispatched one of your unholy kind to your infernal maker.”

She winced, not at the threat, but at the sight of Varin and Amulf bearing down on the bellicose lord. Heedless of the blade’s sharp edge, she bobbed her head and swiped at her eyes. ’Twould be the final humiliation for her two friends to discover she cried.

The lord misinterpreted her actions. “Ho, not so free with your hell-borne tongue when your life is at stake.”

“Do you seek to have me killed, Hugh?” Varin thundered merrily, clasping the lord’s arm and forcing it down.

“What?” The lord swiveled his head about and looked up, for Varin topped his height by half a head.

“De Brionne!” He grinned happily. “And Arnulf. I shall attend you shortly, once I have killed this brazen devil’s spawn.”

Golde smothered a sniffle and concentrated on preventing new tears from seeping into her eyes.

“I cannot allow it, Hugh.” Varin waved a hand. “Mean-tempered as she is, she is my wife’s dearest friend. Roscelyn would have my head if aught befell her.”

“She is with you?”

Varin nodded.

“But she has insulted me to my very toenails!”

“I doubt it not. Her tongue is more venomous than an adder’s. Come. Let us sit and talk. It has been long since I last laid eyes on you.”

“But—”

Varin wrapped an arm about the man’s shoulder. “Faith, Hugh. If ’tis your wish to kill the wench come morn, then I shall see what can be done to accommodate you. For now, let us share some wine, that I can learn what has befallen your miserable hide. You look mangy as any cur.”

Shaking his head, the lord grinned. “How could I refuse such a sweet offer?”

With that, Varin led him back to the table, and Amulf took Golde’s arm.

“You are all right?” the giant asked as he escorted her from the hall.

She nodded and managed several paces beyond the open doors before the torrent burst. Tears rushed from her eyes and sobs gushed from her chest.

“What is it?” Amulf’s voice rose to greater than normal heights. He clutched her waist and halted. “Are you hurt? Should I call for the king’s physicians?”

She shook her head doggedly. “Mean-tempered. Venomous as an adder.” Choking, she staggered forward, drawing Arnulf with her.

“Varin was but jesting,” he soothed in the echoing darkness. “Why . . . he loves you like a sister.”

“Nay,” she gulped. “No one loves
meeee.”
The last word sailed upward in a gusty wail.

Amulf shrilled to be heard. “Of what do you speak? Cyning has not been the same since you left. Roscelyn bemoans your absence hourly. Your father wears a perpetual frown. Your great-grandmother is more sour than ever, and wanders about the day long, heaping curses on everyone’s head. Even the shrew, Dorswyth, sings your praises. She has found a husband and claims ’twas all your doing.”

“Oh, Arnulf, you are so
kiiind.”

Even as she blubbered, she told herself sternly that she must cease. What must Amulf be thinking? If anyone behaved thus while in her company, she would spit in their eye and tell them to shut their whining mouths.

She took several deep breaths and managed in a trembling voice, “I can find my way to the tent. Go back to the hall and enjoy yourself.”

“What, and miss my rest? It takes no little amount of sleep to maintain such beauty as mine. I would look my best for the tourney next week.”

Sobs tore from her anew.

“What have I said now?” Arnulf again raised his voice to be heard.

“Would that I were as handsome as
youuul”

“Please, Golde. You have said naught that makes sense to my slow reasoning. Mayhap if you explain—”

“Can you not see how ugly I am?” She bawled like an ungainly cow. “I hate children. I feed on people’s frailties. I’m a deceitful thimblerigger and—and—” She sniffled loudly. “And I smell worse than dead
fiiish!”

Amulf loosened his grip about her waist and patted her back. “There, there. You are . . . overwrought. Aye,” he said, as if convincing himself. “Overwrought. A good night’s sleep will set matters to right.”

A
good night’s sleep!
She near strangled on the emptiness that billowed in her chest. She hadn’t slept in a week. Gavarnie did not love her. Could not abide her. Heavenly hosts could herald her innocence, and still he would not trust her.

Pools of yellow light flooded the area around the castle gates, and she did her best to stifle her lamentations. She did not wish to embarrass Arnulf before the guards who stood attendance. But once they were through the gates, she again dissolved in a weeping fit.

By the time they reached the tent, her body felt spent and pithless. Arnulf waited outside while she lit a lamp and stripped off her damp, fishy clothing. Cold water from a bucket provided some relief for her hot, swollen eyes, but a bath would have to wait ’til morn. Falling on a pallet that Varin’s squire had donated for her use, she pulled a cover over herself.

“I am finished,” she called to Arnulf.

Though the tent was quite large, it was not near big enough to accommodate the giant’s height, and he had to stoop when he entered. “Do you need aught?”

“Nay.” She stared at the yellow-brown oilskin of the tent overhead.

“If all is well, then, I shall take the lamp and await Varin outside.”

Doubtless, he was anxious to avoid her company. Tears again welled in her eyes, and she wondered sourly if they might spring eternal.

“Arnulf?” She stopped him before he got through the tent flap.

“Aye?”

“My thanks. You have been a good friend this night.”

He did not turn around. “You have e’re been a good friend to me.”

The moment the flap closed behind him, the tears slipped down her temples. She did not deserve Amulfs considerate regard. The stinking bastard. If he would cease being so nice, mayhap she could stop crying. Her nose was so clogged it felt as if an anvil were buried inside her head.

She rolled on her side and closed her burning eyes. Before God, she would not shed another tear. She would not think of . . .

Gavarnie’s dark visage loomed behind her lids. His black eyes beheld her with loathing.

More tears.

’Twas bad enough that he did not trust her. Worse that he believed her a conniving slut. But neither could compare to the crushing void she felt at the thought of life without Gavarnie.

She covered her face to muffle her ragged cries. Would that she could hate him. Would that she could despise him. Would that she could cease thinking of him.

Abruptly her breath caught on a sniffle.

“. . . do something,” Amulf whispered urgently from outside the tent.

“You exaggerate,” Varin’s low voice responded. “She is made of iron. I cannot imagine her crying thus.”

“I tell you, she is completely undone.”

“Did she say what troubled her?”

Wiping her eyes, Golde sat up, wrapping the covers about herself.

“She took exception to your calling her mean-tempered, and comparing her to a venomous snake.”

“I have called her worse,” Varin defended himself, “and she did naught but laugh. Indeed—”

Amulf interrupted. “Then she went on to say how she was deceitful and hated children. She was most upset by how handsome I am—”

“Handsome!” Varin’s voice rose. “You?”

“Shh. She is finally quiet. Do not get her started again.”

“Handsome?” Varin hissed.

“It makes no sense to me, either. And the thing that distressed her most was that she smelled like dead fish.”

“Fish?”

“From the oysters that were spilled on her. I did my best to soothe her, but my words only made her weep more.”

For a moment all grew silent, and Golde held her breath. Amulf must think her daft. She had not realized how moonstruck she’d sounded.

“Mayhap she drank too much wine,” Varin offered.

Amulf snorted. “Come. She has kept apace with us on more than one occasion.”

More silence. Golde rubbed at her eyes and nose. Plague take Gavarnie Delamaure, Baron of Skyenvic.

How could one man cause such great misery in so short a time?

Varin spoke at last. “The only other explanation I can think of is . . .”

“Is what?” Amulf urged.

“Nay. It could not be.”

“What?”

“Think on it, my dullwitted friend. Have you ever seen your wife act thus?”

“Nay, praise the saints.”

“Well I have seen Roscelyn behave in just such a manner, more than once. Five times to be exact.”

Golde covered her mouth and her eyes rounded. Did Varin dare to imply—

“You are making no more sense than Golde,” Amulf groused.

“Each time Roscelyn conceived, she did naught but cry, for no reason a’tall.”

Arnulfs tone conveyed no little hint of horror. “You mean Golde is—”

I
AB NOD WID CHILD
, dungheads.” Though Golde strove for a haughty tone, her plugged nose ruined it.

Abruptly the tent flap parted and Varin entered, carrying the lamp. He, too, was unable to stand upright, though he did not have to slouch as much as Arnulf. “You are awake?”

“Who could sleep wid two bulls bellowink at the door? Do nod give me thad concerned look. I can cry wheneber it suits me.”

“Of course you can. ’Tis just uncommon—I mean . . . For you, it is uncommon. I—” Suddenly his features grew harsh. “What has the Baron of Skyenvic done to you?”

Golde shook her head, afraid to speak lest she break down again.

“Do not deny it. He has committed some grave offense. I can see it in your eyes.”

Her bottom lip quivered and she bowed her head.

“The worthless get of a snake. His blindness has stolen his wits. To think I agreed with your great-grandmother and sent you to the bastard.”

“Neider you or Bimbskin could have known . . .

Her words trailed off at the sheepish look that overcame Varin’s countenance. “Whad have you and Bimbskin been about?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Nothing terrible.” Varin held up his hands as if to show he had nothing to hide. “I’d heard of Gavarnie’s troubles and asked your great-grandmother if she could help. When she said Gavarnie was the answer to her prayers, I contacted Sperville.”

Rage near strangled Golde. She’d been duped, and by her own Mimskin. Just wait until she returned—

She narrowed her eyes and sniffed, her nose clearing a little. “Did Mimskin say whether or not Gavarnie had regained his sight?”

Varin nodded. “Aye. Said that not only could he see, his life was completely changed by your presence.”

So, Golde thought. ’Twas Mimskin who’d cured Gavarnie’s sight the night of the attack. She’d likely had to use her Mad Rye spell to heal Gavarnie from such a distance.

She glared at Varin. “Gavarnie was right. You indeed risk losing your wits each time you empty your bowels.” Varin blinked, then his nostrils flared and his features hardened. “He said that, after all I have done on his behalf?”

“He also believes you sent me to kill him.”

“Wha—”

“The king has decided to rid himself of Gavarnie. You are the king’s agent in the affair, and by your order, I was sent to accomplish the deed.”

Once she began, she could not stop. She told Varin everything that had occurred during her stay at Skyenvic—with the exception of her wanton behavior and Gavarnie’s ridiculous notions concerning the Danes.

“So I am returned to you by Sperville’s good hand,” she finished.

Varin, his legs cramping, had long since taken a seat on the ground.

“Delamaure should be hung, the lowly coward. You say he admitted to killing his wife?”

“Admit it he may, but he did not do it.”