Stuart, Elizabeth (26 page)

"Belavoir
was never Montagne. It was always de Langley," she said sharply. "If
you didn't realize that, I, for one, certainly did."

He
smiled. "I'm sorry, Jocelyn. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It
just does seem... odd."

He
walked to the saddle pouches his squire had carried up. He drew out Adelise's
letter, but instead of handing it over, stood staring at her instead. "We
do need to talk, Jocelyn. I hadn't meant to say this tonight, but this is too
good a chance to pass up."

She
frowned. "Whatever is on your mind, you may speak."

He
hesitated, rubbed the letter absently between his fingers. "You and I have
never been close. I suppose it's no secret I haven't always behaved as I ought.
There are reasons for that, but this isn't the time or place to discuss
them."

He
hesitated again and glanced up. "But we're both Montagne, both of the same
blood. That's a tie that is thicker, more binding to me than any childhood
misunderstandings. I don't want you to think yourself alone and friendless
should you ever find yourself needing aid."

Jocelyn
didn't know what to make of his statement. "I have a husband," she
reminded him. "I don't see myself as being alone and friendless now. Quite
the contrary."

"Yes,
you've a husband. A man who murdered his wife."

Jocelyn's
eyes narrowed. "That isn't true."

"Why?
Because de Langley says it isn't?" Brian held her eyes, his own very blue,
very cold. "I've just spent the last few days talking with Pelham. He
heard a number of unsavory things about your husband... from one of de
Langley's own men. Adelise is almost beside herself with worry. We all are. She
had no idea her running away would put you into this mess. Of course, none of us
had any notion the man would settle for you."

Jocelyn
studied her brother narrowly. She had always wondered if the barbs he let fly
were the result of deliberation or mere thoughtlessness. But then it didn't
matter. He couldn't hurt her any more. "Adelise feared Robert from the
first," she said calmly. "She never knew him."

"And
you think you do?"

"Enough
that I need not fear him. Robert de Langley is the most honorable man I've ever
known."

Brian
ignored the insult. "There's no need to fear now, of course. Somehow
you've managed to please him, and the man is obviously hot for you. But
merciful Christ, Jocelyn, that doesn't last! As a man I can tell you, the heat
may burn for a time, but it doesn't last. Why, de Langley has had mistresses by
the score. Anyone can tell you that."

Jocelyn
held herself steady with an effort. "But I am his wife."

"So,
too, was Marguerite de Granson. She was held to be one of the greatest beauties
in all of Christendom as well, yet even she couldn't hold him. Their fights
became legend in Normandy. And even if you discount those ugly rumors about her
death, Jocelyn, the woman did spend the last few months of her life locked up
in one of his keeps!"

Jocelyn
didn't want to hear any more. Besides, her brother was lying. He had to be.
"Stop it, Brian! I'll hear no more of this." She held out her hand,
adding coldly, "You've a letter for me, I believe."

Brian
surrendered the parchment. "I don't blame you for being angry, Jocelyn.
And before God I do hope I'm wrong. But if I'm not, you know that you've only
to send for help. You're Montagne and that does mean a very great deal."

"You're
wrong, Brian. I'm de Langley now." And with that Jocelyn took the letter,
putting the door between them as quickly as possible.

But
as she walked down the passageway, she realized she had been lying to herself.
Brian could still hurt her. She wasn't afraid of Robert. That talk of his
wife's death she discounted without a thought. No, it was that other that had
left her so shaken.

Her
husband was a man who quite obviously enjoyed women. He made no secret of the
fact that he enjoyed her. She had begun to take that fact for granted, to think
of their mutual passion as some miraculous gift. Now she found herself
considering the possibility that Robert's desire might be a temporary thing,
his pleasure in her company—in bed and out—just a matter that would run its
course with time. And that left her shaken.

She
opened her bedchamber door, frowning at Adelise's letter as if it had suddenly
become a serpent.

"I
was about to come fetch you, madam."

Jocelyn
jerked up her head. She hadn't expected Robert here yet, had thought he would
still be downstairs.

"What's
wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."
She forced a smile. "How very glad I am that you're home, Robert."

He
held out his arms and she walked into them. He drew her against him, kissed her
in a way that made her whole world begin to spin. He might have held many women
like this, kissed them all like this, but she was his wife. Surely that did
mean something.

He
broke off the kiss, nodding toward the letter she held. "If you want to
read it, I don't mind waiting a few minutes." He grinned. "You'd best
make it quick, though. I didn't ride all that way through the cold to fall
asleep here beside the fire like a man in my dotage."

Jocelyn
pitched Adelise's letter onto a nearby table. She didn't want to read it. Not
now anyway. "It can wait until morning. Right now I just want to be with
you."

He
grinned and drew her with him through the doorway and into their inner chamber.
"Would that every one of your wishes could be granted so easily,
madam." He stripped off his tunic and shirt while Jocelyn stared pensively
into the fire, slowly unlacing her bliaut.

He
stepped up behind her, catching her shoulders and drawing her back against him.
"What is it, sweet? Just what is it your brother said? That is it, isn't
it—something he's said?"

She
turned in his arms, pressing her cheek against his bare shoulder. "It's
nothing that even deserves to be repeated."

"It
does if it is troubling to you."

She
shook her head, still reveling in the feeling that came over her whenever
Robert took her in his arms. If the day ever came that he no longer wanted her,
she wasn't sure she would still want to live.

She
thought of the unknown Marguerite, wondering now what the woman had been like.
She had thought Robert had loved his wife, but had he? Brian didn't seem to
think so.

She
frowned. The woman had been a reputed beauty. Had Robert wanted her, been hot
for her, too, at first? Had the woman gone through her own private hell when
the heat between them began to cool?

Robert
had unpinned her hair, sifting it through his fingers in a way that was often a
prelude to their lovemaking. "Did you love her, Robert?" she asked
suddenly. "Your first wife?"

As
soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She didn't want to know.

A
jangling, unnerving silence stretched between them. "I did," he said
at last. "I didn't know any better at the time."

She
drew in her breath. "Was it a love-match then?" she asked, unable to
let it lie.

"I
suppose so." He shrugged. "A lust-match more aptly. I was a very
green eighteen, she a stunning and worldly widow of twenty-two when we met. She
knew more of the world of pleasure than I'd ever dared dream existed, and as a
student I was most extraordinarily apt. I thought the sun did rise and set in
her, and yes... for a time, I did fancy myself very much in love."

He
was quiet for several moments, and Jocelyn didn't utter a sound. She was
listening to the accelerating, unsteady cadence of his heart, damning herself
for asking a question so certain to hurt them both.

"But
she was heartless, shallow..." He gave a low, bitter laugh. "Never let
anyone tell you your sex is the weaker one, Jocelyn. My wife had a will of iron
and a vicious, vindictive nature that would make the Angevins seem saints by
comparison. My heaven quickly turned to hell, and what I called love became
something else entirely. We tore at each other, punished each other for
years."

Jocelyn
tightened her arms around him, but he released her and pulled away, moving
toward the coffer and pouring himself a cupful of wine. She wanted to follow,
to put her arms around him again but didn't dare.

He
took a long drink. "By the mercy of Christ, we were both put out of our
misery," he said at last. "And I didn't kill her, just in case my
dear brother-in-law has thrown that up to you tonight. Marguerite went to the
devil where she belonged. I may have wished her there, but I didn't send
her."

He
took another drink, staring darkly down into the cup. "Not that I didn't
think about it once Or twice if we're being strictly honest. I don't mourn my
first wife if that's what you fear, Jocelyn." He glanced back, said
sharply, "Is that what he's said? Is that what Brian has told you?"

She
shook her head. "Just that she was very beautiful. That she wasn't able to
hold your interest for long."

His
eyes narrowed, held far more understanding than Jocelyn could have wished.
"I begin to think your brother and Marguerite might have been a good
match. That's the kind of thing she'd have thought of."

Jocelyn
forced a smile. "No. Brian does claim only concern for me." She
turned away then, forced herself to continue undressing with what she hoped
were calm and measured movements. "Perhaps it's even true in a twisted
kind of way. He's obsessed with the Montagne name, with the importance of blood
ties."

"Your
brother is obsessed with lands," Robert responded wryly. "My lands,
in case you haven't noticed. I hope you are wise enough to bear that in mind,
to weigh it alongside whatever else he may have said. He may well be trying to
drive a wedge between us."

"I
know that," Jocelyn said. She slipped into bed, shivering, watching her
husband drinking moodily across the room. And of a sudden she wanted to know if
Brian had lied, sensed somehow he had not. "Did you really have her locked
up?"

He
didn't pretend not to know what she meant. "I did."

"Why."

"Because
I caught her trying to turn Geis Castle over to the Angevins."

"Merciful
God!"

Robert
tossed off the last of his wine and turned, eyebrows lifting sardonically.
"So much for love and honor and loyalty among your sex, sweetheart."

He
was staring at her so angrily, so bitterly, that for a moment Jocelyn was
almost afraid of him. "We're not all like that, Robert."

"No?"

"No!"

He
drew in a deep breath. "No, of course not I'm sorry, Jocelyn, but you've
called up old demons tonight." He stared at her, then turned away.
"Yes, I locked her up, and I'd have kept her caged forever if she hadn't
died so soon after. And I fear, I do sometimes fear that I might have killed
her myself... if she'd lived."

Jocelyn
didn't say anything. In the face of such overwhelming bitterness she didn't
dare.

He
lifted his cup in a cynical salute. "So much for love, and I've known it
in all of its twisted, treacherous forms.

Even
when it's good, it's not worth the having, it is usually only a prelude to
betrayal or pain. You can believe me when I tell you, Jocelyn, I'd rather by
far have what we have together."

She
held herself very still. "What do we have, Robert?"

"Desire.
Respect. Genuine liking one of the other. Qualities a good marriage, a good
partnership, are based on—qualities far more important, more lasting than that
twisted, treacherous thing those ridiculous troubadours do sing of as love.
Love... sweet merciful Christ! What do those fools know of it, anyway?"

He
blew out the oil lamp, stripped off the rest of his clothing and slid into bed.
Jocelyn lay beside him in the darkness, holding her breath. He was tense,
angry. She could hear his unsteady breathing, could feel the tension in the
lean, powerful body she knew now more intimately than she knew her own. She
ached to reach out and hold him, but she was afraid even to try. He didn't love
her. He had made that quite clear.

Gathering
up her courage, she reached for him anyway. "I'm sorry, Robert. What's
past is past. I should never have asked about it."

To
her surprise, his arms went around her, drawing her tightly against him. He
might not love her but he did seem to need her, at least for tonight.

But
as he held her, kissed her, as the passion between them surged and burned and
was sated, Jocelyn ached with a knowledge that was difficult to bear. A few
weeks ago she would have been overjoyed to hear that Robert de Langley liked
and respected her, that he desired her as a man desires a woman. A few weeks
ago she would have been thrilled with even the tiniest crumb of his affection.

But
the serpent had entered Eden and she had eaten of the forbidden fruit. Now
liking and desire and respect weren't enough. Not nearly enough!

Jocelyn
awoke to the sound and smell of a new fire blazing on the hearth, of her
husband dressing hurriedly in the icy chill of their bedchamber. She pushed up
on one elbow, sleepily offering her aid.

Robert
was already drawing his tunic over his shirt. "No, sweet, I'm dressed
already. There's no need for you to get up till the room warms a bit."

She
snuggled gratefully back under the furs that warmed their bed. It had been four
days since Brian had arrived, watching and prying into the happenings at
Belavoir, pretending a sudden amiability she didn't trust

He
had left just yesterday morning, taking his smooth smiles, his unsettling
brotherly concerns with him. She was glad he was gone for even here at Belavoir
he made her uncomfortable, made her feel more like the outsider she'd been than
the woman she'd become. Robert must have sensed her feelings, for he'd gone out
of his way these last days to make her feel cherished and desirable.

She
thought of the passionate night they'd just spent and grinned, stretching
lazily, like a contented cat. If her husband's interest was waning as Brian had
predicted, he certainly had an odd way of showing it.

"I'll
be with Geoffrey at Leaworth Castle for most of the day," Robert was
saying as he moved back across the room with his boots. He sat down on the bed
to pull them on. "We're taking those new men we've trained for the garrison.
I need to see to the condition of the walls as well. I want them reworked as
soon as possible. They're crumbling in places and I want all our defenses
repaired by spring if possible." He glanced down at her. "What do you
plan on doing while I'm away?"

Jocelyn
stretched again and sat up. "It's only three days till Christmas, my lord.
Do you really need to ask?"

"I
suppose not." Robert reached out, absently brushing a tendril of hair
behind her ear. For a moment he looked thoughtful, sad almost. "The season
is important to you?"

"Certainly."
Jocelyn smiled, wanting him to smile with her, aware of an odd pensiveness that
came over him whenever the season was mentioned. "It will be our first
Christmas together. And I do assure you, my lord, you'll never guess what your
New Year's gifts will be."

He
did smile at that, ready to play the game. "What? A new destrier?"

Jocelyn
shook her head. "Alas, I fear I've not the seventy-odd pounds for so fine
a creature as my lord of Belavoir requires."

"Seventy
pounds!" Robert whistled and lifted his eyebrows. "That would be an
elegant animal, indeed, and a good waste of coins. You can get them more
cheaply if you use your wits."

He
grinned. "I stole mine. If Henry of Anjou wears my ring, I do for certain
ride his horse, madam. And for all his faults and pretensions, the man is a
right good judge of horseflesh."

Jocelyn's
happiness paled suddenly, at this reminder of her husband's enemy. She'd never
had much interest in the wars that had raged through her childhood, yet now she
was considering them in an entirely new light. Henry was busy for now with a
war with the French king and his own brother, but if he ever came back to
England, Robert would be pitted against him again.

He
had been beaten twice before, but Henry of Anjou or Henry Plantagenet, as he
had taken to calling himself, was no longer a green boy. For all his youth, he
was a battle-hardened commander, the recognized duke of Normandy and Aquitaine,
count of Anjou and Maine.

He
was also the man who had disdained the sanctity of the Church, who had ordered
her husband and several of his men burned alive.

Jocelyn
shivered as a chill passed over her.

"What
is it, sweet?" Robert slid his arms around her. "Are you cold?"

She
shivered again, pressing herself against him. "Yes."

He
chuckled. "I know a way to heat a room faster than any fire. What a pity I
have to leave."

Jocelyn
met his eyes. Of a sudden she wanted to be in his arms, wanted to feel a part
of him again. "Do you have to ride out this instant?" she murmured.
"Could you not put the trip off for a bit? You might even consider it, oh,
say an early New Year's gift."

Robert
caught his hands in her hair, tilting her face up for a kiss that became
hotter, more demanding as the seconds slid by. "You are a brazen wench,
madam. I do wonder if that's not why I like you so much."

He
pressed her back into the pillows, grinning. "Now, whose gift is this to
be? Yours or mine?"

Jocelyn
reached up and traced his mouth with the tips of her fingers. "Both, my
dear lord. That's the only way gifts should be given."

***

"Well,
my lord, what think you? Should we turn back?"

Robert
scowled and ducked his head against the slanting sting of the sleet. "Tell
the men to fall out and find what shelter they can. We'll wait a bit. Perhaps
this will stop."

Ice
peppered the ground, rattled eerily off naked tree trunks and branches as
Geoffrey rode down the column of men. Robert waited, shivering despite his
padded gambeson, armor, and heavy cloak. This autumn had been unusually cold,
boding ill for a long, difficult winter to come. He was glad he would be
spending it with Jocelyn in the warmth and comfort of Belavoir, could only wish
he'd had such a place to take Adam last year.

He
had dreamed of his son again last night. Now the boy's image rose, beckoning,
haunting as always. If he'd had a warm, dry place to take Adam last winter,
perhaps his son might still be alive.

Robert
sucked in his breath as the familiar guilt swept through him. He tried not to
think of Adam, tried to keep from second guessing that past terrible year of
his life. But it was harder to keep his mind from the boy as the days raced
toward Christmas. This time last year he'd been hard at work carving a crude
wooden horse for his son's New Year's gift. Adam had been thrilled with the
toy, had slept with it, eaten with it, refused ever to be parted from it.

Robert
closed his eyes against the memories, fighting his last bitter recollection of
the toy. He had buried it with his son. It was all in the world he'd had to
leave him.

Dear
merciful Father God, you who did give up your only son for love of us... help
me to understand, to accept...

But
the familiar prayer brought no comfort and Robert opened his eyes, staring
bitterly out at the falling sleet. It was a weakness, he knew, this caring so
much—one he tried not to reveal to others. Other men suffered losses, sired and
buried sons with scarcely the blink of an eye. Children died every day, it was
a fact of life. That's why so many were born.

Yet
he had sired only one. Marguerite had seen to that. And even that one...

He
willed his mind to end the memories, fought off the choking, galling bitterness
they evoked. Instead he conjured a picture of Jocelyn as he'd left her this
morning— warm and contented and drowsy with their lovemaking. Being with her,
sharing the happiness she found so easily these days, eased the aching
emptiness his son's death had left.

And
of a sudden he wanted to be back at Belavoir with his wife, wanted to be
celebrating instead of dreading this season of holiness and joy. Besides, the
weather was bad and growing worse and there was no pressing reason for him to
be riding into a storm and away from sure comfort.

He
swung Belisaire around, forcing the reluctant stallion out of the shelter of
trees. "Judas, only fools would be about in this weather!" he called,
earning a relieved laugh from a huddle of foot soldiers close enough to hear,
"Let's get ourselves back to a roof and warm fire."

A
cheer went up, and the men began to scramble back onto the trail, relieved to
put the biting wind at their backs and head home. But when they reached
Belavoir, Jocelyn wasn't there to greet them. "Oh, my lady did ride out to
Harclay this afternoon. To make sure all was gathered for the Yule
season," a passing servant told Robert. "She said she'd be back
before nightfall, my lord."

Robert
was hard-pressed to keep from swearing as he sought out Sir Edmund Hervey to
find out the particulars of his wife's trip. For once he wished Jocelyn wasn't
so mindful of her duties. A treacherous mix of sleet and snow was falling, and
the night would come early because of the heavy sky.

But
what Sir Edmund had to say didn't make him feel any easier. "The lady
Jocelyn did ride out after dinner with a half-dozen men, my lord."

Robert
stared at his man, incredulous. "You let your lady ride out with no more
than six men?"

"She
was only riding to Harclay, my lord," the man said, faltering at Robert's
black look. "The woods hereabouts are safe enough. Besides, Sir Aymer did
go with her."

But
Robert was already shouting for fresh horses and men. Harclay was only a few
leagues away and the home woods were probably safe. Still he felt a rising
fear, a sensation of panic that swept all common sense aside. It was bitterly
cold and the woods would soon be dark. There were a great many things that
could happen to a poorly-protected woman out there, and he was a man with
bitter enemies.

He
swung onto his mount and spurred toward the gate, not even bothering to see if
his men were ready to follow. Nothing would happen to Jocelyn, of course. She
was probably on her way back right now. He was being a fool and he knew it.

But
he had lost Adam. He couldn't lose Jocelyn.

Not
Jocelyn. Please, God, not Jocelyn!

***

"Is
this what you had in mind, my lady?"

Jocelyn
sat in the workshop of Edwin the leather worker, a freeholder working a small
piece of land near the manor of Harclay. The man was well known for his skill
in ornamental work, had even done some pieces for the church in Shrewsbury.

She
ran her fingers along the elaborate tracery work of a sword belt and scabbard
she had commissioned. The piece was a work of art—well worth the length of
velvet cloth she had bartered in exchange. She handed it back across the table.
"It's magnificent," she said. "It does look fit for a king."

The
man gave her a wide, gap-toothed grin. "I'm glad it pleases, lady. I've
worked day and night to get it right. But I did leave these spaces here at the
top for working the lions as you mentioned." He showed her the blank space
on the scabbard facings, pointed to another across the back of the belt.

Jocelyn
nodded, handing him the pattern she had drawn from memory—two rearing,
scuffling lions she had seen once in an illustrated manuscript. She had worked
the device in gold thread on a new tunic of crimson velvet she was making for
Robert. Men were beginning to wear such devices, to claim them for their house.
Her father had a boar painted upon his shield, her brother wore them
embroidered on his surcoats.

"I'm
sorry to be so slow in bringing the drawing, but my lord has been ever about
the keep these last days. It's a surprise," she added, smiling. "His
New Year's gift. Are you certain the piece can be finished in time?"

The
man studied the pattern. "I'll have it done and back to you the day after
tomorrow. 'Tis an honor to do this for my lord. You can be certain I'll finish
it all with my own hand."

Jocelyn's
eyes went a little anxiously to Aymer Briavel. She had never felt such a mix of
joy and anxiety in planning anything in all her life. "Will he like it, do
you think? Perhaps I should have waited, let Robert choose the design."

"He
will like it, madam." Aymer grinned. "Is that the eighth or ninth
time now I've told you that?"

Jocelyn
laughed a little with pleasure, with the excitement of her surprise. "The
tenth, I think, but who's counting?"

Aymer
began to laugh, too, but his laughter was abruptly cut off as the heavy curtain
separating Edwin's workshop from the rest of the cottage was abruptly jerked
back.

Jocelyn
swung around, stunned to see her husband standing behind her, ashen-faced,
sword gripped tightly in one hand.

"Robert!"

Aymer
pushed back from the table, upending his bench with a crash, as he sought to
find his tongue. "Robert... good Christ, man, where did you—"

"Just
what the bloody hell are you doing here?" Robert snarled, cutting him off.
"We've been scouring the countryside fearing you both dead or worse! Is
this the way you protect my wife, Briavel? You leave that pitiful escort at
Harclay and slip off here alone where anything could happen. I should have you
beaten. By the Mass, I think I'll do it myself!"

Aymer's
face flushed dull red. "Robert, I can—"

"Don't
try!" Robert bit out. "Don't even try." He was furious, he
realized, so out of control he was shaking. He had reached Harclay trying to
convince himself that he was being ridiculous, that his worry about his wife
was for naught. But then no one could find Jocelyn, and Aymer was missing as
well. By the time a serf had reported seeing the horses, Robert had been in a
cold and deadly rage.