shadow and lace (5 page)

Rowena had forgotten the knight until she felt his firm grasp on her forearm as he tugged her away from the lurid scene. She was so intent on peering over her shoulder at the mingled pain and ecstacy on the woman's florid face that she did not see the man who leaped in front of them until she slammed into his hauberk with a force that set her ears to ringing.

"Who goes there? Gareth, my man, could that really be you?" came the urgent voice.

"Nay," she replied without thought. " 'Tis Ro—"

The knight clapped his hand over her mouth.

"Aye, Blaine. 'Tis Gareth. I do believe you've knocked my squire insensible. Clumsy lad, Ro is. I shall have to beat that out of him." The knight loosed his grip on her mouth and gently boxed her ears.

This was followed by a hearty slap on the back from the slender gentleman. He peered drunkenly into her face, and a smile quirked the corners of his thin lips. Rowena gasped, unable to remember a time when she had been knocked about with such relish.

"Who would be foolish enough to trust their young whelp into your blackhearted hands?" Although he addressed her captor, Blaine's gaze traveled from her face to her felt-clad feet with insinuating slowness.

"Need I remind you how many times these blackhearted hands have unseated you in a tourney?" Gareth replied.

Blaine ignored him and circled Rowena. "Small, is he not?"

"You were small yourself once, Blaine." Gareth slapped a muscled arm around Blaine's shoulders and guided his stumbling steps away from Rowena and toward the drawbridge. "Have you forgotten the time I pitched you out the window with one hand when we were but lads?"

"How could I? I landed in a bramble bush and spent the rest of the night soaking my finer parts in a barrel." Blaine shielded his eyes from the torchlight and hooked one arm around Gareth's neck. "Yet still I welcome you to Ardendonne. What a fool I am! I should feed you to the man-eating fish in my moat."

Gareth rolled his eyes. "After the camels ran away, I thought you'd give up on exotic animals."

"When the Prince of Wales took to bragging about his pet lion, I had to find some way to best him." Blaine shook his head sadly. "I lose two or three guests every feast day. One splash and they are no more. Nothing left but bones to be fished out when the sun rises. Ah, well."

Gareth jerked him back as he swayed toward the side of the drawbridge. Rowena hugged herself and edged closer to the center of the bridge, refusing to raise
her
eyes for fear of finding bleached bones floating in the bubbling water.

She followed the men through the bailey and into the vaulted hall, her eyes locked on Gareth's back as he steered Sir Blaine away. She read a thousand warnings in the glance he threw over his shoulder as they disappeared into the milling crowd.

She halted, her captor's desertion making her feel oddly at a loss. Thrusting her hands deep in her sleeves, she whistled, pretending to be unaffected by the strangers reeling about her in various states of drunkenness and dishabille. As her gaze traveled the room, it lit on a sight that made her mouth water and the rest of the hall fade to invisibility.

She shouldered her way through the galloping dancers and halted as close as she dared.

A man in a red velvet mantle grinned and nudged her. "Make haste, lad. Tis been picked to bare bones, but you might yet find a few choice morsels."

Rowena started to laugh and cry at the same time. The man sidled away, believing her daft or drunk or both. On a table that stretched twenty feet along the wall lay the remnants of Ardendonne's feast. Revel-wood would not see this much food in a year.

Rowena's stomach rumbled a warning. She placed her feet farther apart to keep from swaying. A half-eaten boar's head stared her down with glassy eyes from the center of the table. Stealing a hasty glance around her, she plucked the apple from its mouth and shoved it up her sleeve. Her trembling hand dipped into a silver bowl and came out with a mound as golden as the sun that floated over the moor on a spring day. She dared to lick it. Sweetly seasoned apples coated her tongue. She closed her eyes in rapture.

With the hunger of a lifetime unleashed, Rowena darted up and down the table, dipping a hand into each bowl and snatching at each platter, pausing long enough to stare at what could have only been the remains of a whole cow sprawled at the end of the table. A mean-eyed yellow hound stood on the table with his hind legs in the gravy. Rowena wrestled a turkey leg from him and washed it down with a half-full tankard of ale she found abandoned in the honeyed plums.

With a huge sigh, she plopped down on the stale-smelling floor rushes, lulled by her sated belly. The hall spun around her. The silken veils of the dancing women swirled in violent splashes of purple and peach against the bright red and blue of the men's surcoats. She swiped at her moist brow, wondering what sort of peculiar people would waste a roaring fire on a summer night.

"See how he charms," came the hissed whisper above her.

Rowena's gaze followed the stained satin bliaut of the woman beside the table up to a round face wreathed in a malevolent smile.

"I daresay Alise will lift her skirts before morning is nigh," murmured the tall, bony woman beside the other. "Sir Gareth garners few refusals."

Rowena's eyes widened as she followed their gazes to her captor. The unadorned black of his garments was unrelenting against the backdrop of bobbing reds and greens. He stood with one foot propped on a stool, his dark head inclined toward a laughing woman. The woman's hand slipped farther up his thigh with each of her whispered words. A tight smile curved his lips in a mocking travesty of the smile he had given Rowena at the stream. His hand lightly caressed the woman's slender neck even as his gaze pulled away and traveled the hall. Rowena leaned deeper into the shadows under the table, not wanting to be found by those dark eyes.

"Charmed the king himself into knighting him, he did, at the tender age of seventeen."

"Oh, go on! If you'd have stepped between a Welsh sword and old Longshanks on a battlefield running with England's blood, I daresay he would have knighted you, too." The plump woman plucked something off the table and tossed it in her mouth with a satisfied smack. "Dare I pop a fly in Alise's pudding?"

"If you refrain, the dark lord will pop more than a fly in her pudding tonight," the thin woman replied.

"Alise can handle de Crecy. She has outlived two husbands, has she not?"

"I'll wager she wouldn't outlive that one." Both women cackled.

"See how Mortimer watches with jealous eyes. I believe he fancies Gareth himself. Let us determine if he is drunk enough to be stupid."

"Or stupid enough to be murdered." The thin woman giggled. She stumbled away from the table, treading on her friend's embroidered train until the woman snatched it up and threw it over her arm, slapping several dancers more insensible than they were.

The women descended on a pasty-faced minstrel. His long, delicate fingers continued to pluck his lute as the women flanked him, leaning forward to capture both ears with sly, sidelong glances at Gareth and his lady. He shook his head, but the plump woman only leaned closer, smothering him with her ample bosom. He shrugged and nodded. The women backed away, whispering behind their hands. Rowena tugged a strand of her hair from her cap and tucked it into her mouth.

The jolly tune halted abruptly, to the groans of the dancers. A man near Rowena continued to dance, slinging invisible partners to and fro with a regal air. The minstrel pulled a flask from his vest and took a long swig. Most of the wine missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

A stumbling knight cried out, "Play now, Mortimer. Quench your infernal thirst later."

"Play and I shall send my squire to your chambers after the revelry to quench it for you," called Sir Blaine.

At the hoots and catcalls of the crowd, Mortimer wiggled his fingers at Sir Blaine in an effeminate salute of thanks. Blaine made the sign of a cross as if to ward him away. The crowd rocked with laughter. Rowena smiled without understanding. Sir Gareth still leaned over the canary-garbed woman on the stool, oblivious to the musical entertainment or lack of it. As Rowena watched,his hand slid beneath the woman's wimple. His lips brushed her swanlike throat. How could such a pale, delicate neck support a brocade wimple, much less a head? Rowena wondered. She touched her own throat, comforted by its sturdy familiarity. No matter how much her head was spinning at the moment, she knew it would not fall off.

Mortimer's fingers gently teased the lutestrings. The crowd fell silent as he drew bittersweet chords out of the instrument with a skill they had forgotten he possessed.

"You see, my dear lords and ladies, I have a new tune, a new song," he said softly.

Tears started in Rowena's eyes at the haunting melody. Longing for home, she wiped them away with the same strand of hair she had been chewing on. The crowd crept nearer to Mortimer, starved even in their drunken stupor for fresh words and melodies. His lank hair fell across his face. They leaned forward to hear his muted words.

" 'Tis a tune I first heard a fortnight ago at a castle across the channel in Touraine."

Sir Gareth straightened with a frown. A chill of apprehension shot through Rowena as his brow darkened. But he was not seeking her; he was staring at the minstrel.

Mortimer began to sing, his voice deep and pleasant.

The fair Elayne Unfairly slain Her faithless hand Stilled by a name.

With a nervous murmur and clearing of throats, the crowd took a step backward.

The fair Elayne Hath fled the pain— With fearful flight From one dark knight.

The fair Elayne
—

Rowena was humming brokenly along when Mortimer's words choked to a halt. The lute crashed against the stones as the minstrel fell to the floor with Gareth's boot on his throat and the chiseled tip of a sword at his breast. The crowd cleared a healthy circle around the two of them. Rowena saw the two women who had accosted the minstrel duck out the door. She came to her feet, tucking her hair into her cap.

Gareth's eyes glittered like black diamonds. His broad chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. "If you care to sing another day, canary, tell me who wrote that song," he growled. Mortimer's pale hands fluttered upward in a mute plea. Gareth lifted his shiny boot half an inch, but his sword pressed deeper into the man's tunic. "Speak now or forever hold your tongue."

Mortimer coughed weakly. "I told you. I learned it in Touraine. At a castle."

"What castle? And from whom?"

"I cannot remember."

"You lie." Gareth's boot came down on his throat again.

The crowd parted to let Sir Blaine through. The master of the castle cast a careless arm around Gareth's shoulder. Gareth whirled around, and, for a breathless moment, Rowena thought he would lop off his friend's head.

"Come now, my brother-in-arms. Skillful minstrels are hard to find. I will be hard-pressed to find another if you skewer this one. Pardon his insolence this once. Perhaps 'twas an honest mistake." Blaine's smile was a shade too bright.

Gareth stared down at his friend, his face as drawn and expressionless as a mask. He looked down at the minstrel. Mortimer grimaced hopefully. Gareth sheathed his sword with a snarl of contempt, but kept his boot on Mortimer's throat.

He leaned forward, his whisper audible throughout the hall. "If those words ever leave your throat again, they will be your last."

The crowd fell back as Gareth crossed the hall in long strides. Rowena started after him, uncertain if she should follow, but stopped when he reached the doe-eyed woman on the stool. Without a word he caught the woman's hand in his. She rose and followed him up the stairs, casting a look back at the crowd that was both demure and triumphant. Gareth stopped on the landing. His eyes searched the hall and found Rowena standing in the middle of the floor, feet poised for movement if he should beckon.

He nodded, but she had no way of knowing if it was a nod of approval or warning. Then he disappeared with the lady into the shadows at the top of the stairs.

A giggling squire emerged from the crowd and pulled Mortimer to his feet, brushing him off with a suggestive leer. The crowd cut a wide swath around the splintered lute. Without the music, the dance and the revelry died. Those who could walk paired off and stumbled up the stairs or out into the night. Those who could not wrapped their cloaks around them and stretched out on the tables and floor. A short blond boy cleared a corner of the table with a single swipe and rolled onto it with a gurgling snore. Rowena watched him sleep for a moment, wondering with longing what Little Freddie was doing at the moment. Her stomach ached. She sighed and curled up in the corner, bunching a grimy handful of rushes into a pillow.

A vision of the man and woman she had seen outside the castle drifted through her weary mind. The thought of the lady Alise's delicate face screwed up into such an expression made her smile. She found it even more difficult to imagine Gareth's strong form caught in such a graceless act as skewering a woman like a trapped bug against a wall. Even the hogs at Revelwood, when they still had hogs, had possessed more finesse in their mating. A wave of homesickness faded her smile. When the yellow cur sank down beside her and lapped at her nose, she threw an arm over him and drifted into a restless sleep.