The Warrior's Game (4 page)

Michel wanted to draw his sword and swing it until there was nothing left whole in this room. Instead, he clenched his fists and bowed his head, acknowledging he had been outmaneuvered, at least momentarily.

“As you will, sire,” he agreed, his tone as cold as his rage was hot. “I’ll serve as guardian of your wards until your return.” He turned and started toward the door.

“Do I catch a hint of concern in your voice, Sir Michel?” John called after him, sounding well satisfied, indeed. “Don’t fret. You’ll have what you want. Remember, I have promised.”

Michel made no response as he departed around the steady stream of water-bearers. It was only when he stood aside to let yet another man guide his yoke and buckets through the antechamber’s narrow exterior doorway that he realized John had not directly forbidden him from visiting the lady’s properties.

With that, the possibility of snatching victory out of defeat lifted. Once the king moved to Kensington, too far to be able to control matters here, Michel could make his journey, returning long before John even heard his mercenary had strayed. After that, John could rage all he willed. If Michel was satisfied with the lady's assets, he'd insist his king at last fulfill his royal promise.

And, if the lady’s estates were impoverished or the king refused?

Well, as little as Michel liked the idea of beginning his career anew, there were other battles, other kings and other women to make into wives. Michel would sell what remained of his loot from John’s Continental war and be done with England and its betraying monarch.

Michel thrust out of the antechamber’s door only to collide with another servant’s yoke just beyond the doorway. Cursing beneath his breath, he stepped back into the alcove behind the antechamber’s door.

“I’ve endured enough of you for one day. I won’t have you ruining my mantle by standing on it in your filthy boots.”

Michel pivoted, his movement catching the antechamber's door on his shoulder. It swung away from him and stopped, standing like a wall between this alcove and the rest of the contrived hallway. Amicia de la Beres sat on the bench, trapped in place by the line of servants just as he was.

Coming to her feet, she lifted the corner of her mantle and made a show of wiping his supposed boot print off its corner. When she dropped the garment’s hem, she crossed her arms before her, lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him--not an easy feat, given that he was almost a full head taller than she.

“Commoner! I will not allow you to enrich yourself to the detriment of my home,” she snarled, her voice held low.

Where the king's insults rebounded off Michel's well-armed heart with no effect not so this lady's words. Common born he had been, but he was commoner no longer. “I am the king's knight,” he retorted, demanding that the woman he meant to make his wife acknowledge his rightful rank.

“Knight or not,” she shot back, “you are a man who lacks all courtesy else you would have refused to participate in that little charade the king had us all playing. Ah, but why should you refuse when it was surely to your advantage to play along? How dare you leer at me!”

Despite that she was justified in her complaint, Michel wouldn't allow this arrogant English bitch to demand manners from him while refusing him hers. “I was but following your direction, my lady,” he offered, lifting a scornful brow. “Where were your exalted manners when you threw your command at me as if I were some lackey?”

As often happened when Michel confronted these Englishers with their hypocrisy, the lady’s eyes widened in a mingling of shock at his bold speech and denial of her misbehavior. Color blossomed in her cheeks. “Churl!” She turned her body to the side to present her shoulder to him.

After John's battering her gesture, something Michel had endured too often in his life, drove through him like an arrow. This woman above all others wasn’t going to treat him as beneath her.

“How careless you are about the folk you antagonize, my lady,” he told her, letting his voice darken to its most dangerous tone.

He took a step toward her. A step was all he needed in this confined space. His chest was so close to her shoulder that Michel could feel the heat of her body through his mail and underarmor.

She made another dismissive sound and tried to shift away from him but there was nowhere for her to move. At last, she put her back to the wall and again faced him, her crossed arms the only barrier between them.

Michel waited for her to cry out to the serving men still passing by the door behind him. Of the well-born women he'd met there were two types: those who wanted to make a secret pet of him, binding his tongue to silence and his body to their beds, and those who believed all male commoners prayed for the chance to rape their female betters, even though every commoner knew attacking a gentlewoman guaranteed him a grisly death.

The lady wasn't of the first type, of that Michel was certain. Her repute was stainless despite her somewhat relaxed manner with those men she called friends. Against that he'd assumed she was of the second type. Yet she neither cried out nor shrank from him. Instead, her sultry mouth narrowed to an angry line. She lifted her chin another notch then looked through him as if he didn’t exist.

It was the toss of the gauntlet and Michel couldn't resist the challenge. Until John openly refused him her, this was his wife. He might tolerate her hatred but he would not allow her to ignore him.

Michel set his hands on the wall behind her, positioning them low enough that she couldn’t duck beneath his arms to escape him. His cloak slid forward on either arm to curtain them, adding to the already odd intimacy of this space. He shifted toward her, stopping when there was but a bare inch between them. His head lowered until his mouth was no more than a finger’s width from her lips. Her breath was an angry hiss against his cheek. The faint scent of roses wafted from her.

“Now madam, turn your shoulder to me,” he whispered. “Try and deny my existence.”

The blankness in her gaze dissolved, but not in fear. “Retreat this moment! I am the king’s ward. Touch me and you'll regret it.” Her words were no louder than his when Michel expected shrieks against his assault and shouts for someone to come save her.

“I am not touching you,” he retorted, his lips all but brushing her cheek.

The lady drew a quiet, shuddering breath. The heat of her body reached out to envelop him, her rosy scent owning a new muskiness. Then she softened in the most primal of invitations.

Startled, Michel shoved back from her, his hands dropping to his sides. May God take the king, but John was right! Repute aside, at her core this gentlewoman was a wild carnal creature, and riding her would be magnificently thrilling and ultimately satisfying.

He took another step back. She had closed her eyes, her lashes a dark fringe against the smooth curve of her cheek. Ah but her shoulders were yet held in that defiant line.

It told him that no matter her nature, she would reject him with every ounce of her being. If he rode her at all it would only be if he forced her. Hadn't he learned that lesson well enough in his father's house? His mother had despised his merchant-sire despite his wealth. To Michel's mother his father had always been the man who befouled her body with his seed and dirtied her life with the baseborn children whose presence she could not abide.

So it would be with this marriage. His wife would loathe him as he used her body to reclaim the prestige his mother's blood had once owned.

Turning, he pushed the antechamber’s open door to the side, startling yet another man in the endless stream of yoked fellows bearing buckets. All it took was a glance at his black mail. Whether coming or going from the king’s chamber, the men all shifted out of his path. Michel strode unimpeded down the hallway then descended the steps, putting needed distance between himself and his wife.

The humiliation over what had just happened was unbearable. That didn't stop Ami's senses from reveling in the commoner’s scent, savoring the smells of man, rain, horse sweat and wet woolen garments. Keeping her eyes clamped shut, she listened to the scrape of the mercenary's boots against the floor as he departed, then sank blindly down to once more sit upon the bench.

The king was right to name her whore. She hadn't needed witnesses to see her in the presence of the commoner or the gossips to ruin her. Her own long starved needs had done it for her.

She moaned and buried her head in her hands, her pride shattered and all hope of protecting her estate from Michel de Martigny gone. How could she stop him if all he need do to destroy her was lean close to her?

As if she could stop him. She was trapped in the king's confinement while the knight could come and go as he pleased.

She opened her eyes as two grunting men made their way into the king’s apartment, carrying a heavy cauldron on poles between them: boiling water to warm the cold already in the tub. A few short minutes later they reappeared, moving more easily now that their cauldron was empty. They were the last to leave and they didn't notice her.

Their lack of notice was an omen of Ami's new future. Once de Martigny had made what was hers his, she'd end out her life in beggary. John would release her from his custody, having no further need to keep her. Not only would there be no hope of remarriage, there'd be no maid, no fine gowns. She touched the golden circlet that held her headcloth in place. Nor baubles. Impoverished, she would die a death of a thousand horrible cuts, having lost what few comforts she treasured in a life already stripped of all joy and love.

Throwing herself to her feet, Ami almost raced down the balcony's length for the stairs that led to the hall below. As if speed could save her or offer some escape from what was inescapable? Instead, all racing would do was bring her more quickly back to her prison. Yes, but once she was there at least she could roll out her pallet, bury her head beneath her blankets and do her best to deny any of this had happened.

She stopped as she reached the final step above the hall floor. In her previous life she could have crossed her hall without an escort or called out to the men she needed. Not here, and not only because such behavior would cause the other women to call her hoyden. The king's court was filled with ambitious men to whom Ami, or rather her properties were an inviting morsel. It was against the possibility of being kidnapped and held until her womb filled that made the king's guard cautious with her person.

It was fortunate the two soldiers dressed in the red and blue of John's court were watching for her, for they'd not have heard her today even if she'd bellowed for them. A huge fire on the hall's central hearthstone snarled and roared as it consumed the stack of wood upon it to drive back an unusually cold and wet November. Servants shouted one to the other as they raised tables for the night's feast in honor of St. Martin. The hall's pack of small rat-eating dogs yipped and chased the ends of white tablecloths as maids snapped them into place, their raucous activity stirring the piney scent of the rosemary strewn into the reeds covering the floor. The king’s table, dressed in cloth of gold, already stood upon its dais. All along the hall’s length hung garlands, the fruit of Ami’s and the other wards’ labors; For the past week they’d spent their days turning stalks of wheat, late autumn flowers and rosemary into long fragrant ropes.

Once Ami was again protected by her escorts, she wended her way through the crowd, past the wooden screen that guarded the door, the only entrance and exit from the hall, then out onto the landing that stood a full storey above the courtyard floor. As befitted a king's residence this, the first of Winchester's two halls, was built of stone, its walls pierced with only narrow arrow loops. Slate tiles covered its roof, making the building almost impervious to fire.

Ami pulled her mantle more tightly around her to protect her precious garments from the drizzle and descended with her escorts into the bustle in the yard below. There were laundresses with their baskets on their backs, clerks with ink-stained fingers and sheaves of parchment tucked beneath their arms, men with parcels hanging from their yokes, as well as liveried and bejeweled messengers on horseback, bearing missives to their even richer betters.

Beaten into permanence by thirty years of use, this being a favored dwelling place for the Plantagenets, a pathway marked the route from the king's hall to the queen's. That there were two halls at Winchester Castle laid at the feet of old King Henry, John's father. When Henry's family had grown too large to fit easily into this first hall, he'd ordered the construction of a second, and in it housed his womenfolk.

They passed the clutter of outbuildings that every defended residence needed to serve it: the stables and barns placed farthest from the living quarters to spare delicate noses, barracks to house the king's soldiers, the bath house to keep them clean, smithies to arm them, and, above all, the kitchens that kept them all fed. What with feasting tonight, fragrant smoke streamed out from the kitchen sheds, filling the wind with the scents of stews, roasting meats and baking bread.

Although the queen's hall was almost the same size as the one John used, it had no defensive purpose therefore looked more house than final refuge with its wooden walls and shingles, and wide windows to let in air and light. Homey it might appear but it was still a prison.

As Ami started up the stairs to its doorway her escorts fell away to retreat to their barracks. No man save those vouchsafed by John entered this hall. The porter waited for her upon the landing, shielded from the weather by the porch roof. As with the king's hall, the door behind him stood slightly open so air might be drawn within to feed the hall’s central fire.

What went one way could go another. Wafting out of the doorway came the sounds of those trapped beyond it. Women laughed. Dice clacked and clattered. Those spinning lifted their voices in a song that matched the turn and pull rhythm of their distaffs. And Lady Sybilla played the same mournful tune she ever played on her zither.

The porter, Walter by name, bent a friendly smile on Ami. Broad of face, with the fair hair, pale eyes and red beard of his Saxon ancestors, Walter could afford to be amiable. He took coins from the women he guarded, turning his back as they went about their business, never questioning what that business might be and never remembering their absences.

“Well now, you look none the worse for wear, my lady,” Walter said, sending a meaningful glance at Ami’s clothing and her yet perfectly arranged headdress.

That Walter overstepped himself in how he addressed her was because Ami encouraged it. The porter was a veritable fountain of information about courtly folk. That he commented on the state of her attire was a reflection of what Ami would face when she stepped through the doorway behind him. Even though she had no hope of redeeming her repute, it didn't hurt to do what she could.

“It was to discuss business that the king called me and Sir Enguerran into his presence,” she said, wishing she could snip Sir Michel's presence out of her life as easily as she had from the picture she displayed for Walter.

Before she could continue, Walter laughed and dared a bold wink. “Glad I am to hear it for your sake, my lady but know I put my trust and coins in you. I was certain you would be the victor in any encounter with our John. There were others with less confidence in you, and they will now forfeit their riches to me.”

Ami's stomach, already knotted at the thought of the mercenary stealing what little wealth left to her, tightened again. Such was John's court that folk wagered over a good woman's ruination. As she had so aptly learned to do these past four years, she hid what hurt her behind an uncaring grin.

“Fie on you, Walter. Has your confessor not told you gambling is a sin? Since I've helped you win, I do believe you owe me a small favor.”

Magnanimous in his victory, Walter gave a nod. “If it is in my power,” he told her, no expectation in his tone that what she asked would be beyond his reach.

“I need to know everything and anything about Sir Michel de Martigny,” she told him.

Walter's fair brows darted high up on his forehead at that. “The French commoner?” he said. This time his tone begged to know why one of the king's wards might ask after such a man.

“That man, exactly,” Ami replied, offering him a glowing smile and nothing more.

Disappointment darkened his gaze, but he gave way with grace. “It will be my pleasure, my lady,” he assured her, stepping aside so Ami could reenter her prison.

She swept through the portal with more confidence than she owned, then rounded the wooden screen. In no more time than it took to blow out a candle every voice fell silent. A dog whined; the bells on a hawk’s hood jingled merrily as it blindly turned its head, disturbed by the change in the room.

With the shutters closed against the rain, no sun to drive back the day’s gloom and the fire upon the central hearth providing even less light than it did heat, expensive candles stood about the chamber. That gentle illumination made the occupants of the room gleam, their gowns and mantles rainbow-brilliant. Jewels flashed in rings and necklets while metal threads sparked at nearly every hemline and sleeve. A man might judge his merit by how well he wielded his weapon, be that pen or sword, but in this hall it was the weight of gold and silver worn upon a body that was the measure of worth.

Custom demanded Ami greet the highest ranking of the women in the hall before proceeding to the tiny space allotted to her. Thus she started toward the dais at the head of the room, carrying the weight of every eye. Pretty vultures, all of them. Confinement and boredom made these women eager for any sort of distraction. If Ami didn't want her life to be their plaything she needed to offer them some other scandal for their entertainment, and Michel de Martigny would serve quite nicely.

Ami stopped before the woman in the massive chair near the hearthstone. What with John's queen presently residing at Kensington, it was Eleanor, Countess of Brittany who ruled the wards' hall. John's niece was slim, fair, and but several years Ami’s senior. She was also sister to poor Arthur, the lad who might have been England’s king if he hadn’t all-too-conveniently died whilst entertaining his Uncle John.

“And so you return to us Lady de la Beres,” Lady Eleanor said, her raised hand holding Ami where she stood after receiving Ami's show of deference. “Did you find my lord uncle well?”

Interest beyond the scope of her question glittered in the woman's pale eyes as she unwittingly offered Ami the opportunity she craved.

“His majesty seemed well enough, my lady,” Ami replied, raising her voice until it filled the quiet room. “As did Sir Enguerran d’Oilly, my trusted neighbor, who was included in my audience. I fear, however, that Sir Enguerran was disappointed in the news our liege shared with him. No longer will Sir Enguerran be administrator of my estate.”

Ami paused here to whet the interest of every woman in the room. “May God take those filthy churls who misuse our sweet king’s generous nature. But most of all, I pray God might destroy that baseborn brute Michel de Martigny. It is he our king has raised above his station to take control of what is mine, dislodging the faithful Sir Enguerran.”

Across the room women raised their voices or came to their feet in outrage. Baskets of embroidery tumbled, half-made garments spilled onto the floor.

“That monster,” protested the homely Lady Sybilla when it was more likely that Sybilla would render up her virginity to Sir Michel, or any man, if he but crooked a finger in her direction. At two and twenty, and after ten years spent in royal custody, Sybilla believed she’d live out her life as a nun without a convent just as Lady Eleanor surely would.

“May God take that arrogant upstart,” shouted the northern-born Lady Adelberta, her words as tortured by her thick accent as her opinions were by her rank and youth. “I tell you all, it’s not right that our king should favor foreigners over our own. I say the whole country should rise and drive these meddlers from our shores.”

That comment brought Eleanor sharply forward in her chair. Despite that her royal uncle had likely murdered her brother, Eleanor remained John's willing spy. Every word spoken here might as well be spoken to the king. Ami considered warning Lady Adelberta. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time the king had heard the lady’s opinion of him.

“Do lower your voice, Lady Adelberta,” called Mistress Millicent in tart reproof.

Like Ami, Millicent was a widow of middling means, but she'd long since passed the age for bearing children. With no illusions she would ever remarry and no desire for convent life, Millicent was content to let the king feed and clothe her while her sons paid a fee to administer her dower properties. With nothing better to do Millicent took it as her duty to guard the morals of all John’s younger wards. It wasn’t a role appreciated by any woman who’d experienced one of her tongue lashings.

Now Millicent aimed a reproving finger at her better. “Someone forgot to teach you that no well-bred woman expresses interest in a masculine province.”

Both Lady Sybilla and Lady Adelberta turned on Millicent to deny such a claim. Others came flying to join the fray. Distaffs scattered across the floor. Lap dogs barked and yipped in the excitement while the dozen or so tethered hawks, kept by the better bred of the ladies, flapped and screeched in complaint. Some of the women crassly raised their voices to remind Mistress Millicent of her station while the old woman’s usual cadre of supporters rushed to claim it was every woman’s duty to see that none of their sex misbehaved.

Blessedly unnoticed, Ami slipped through the crowd to her own corner of the room, its boundaries determined by her rank. She not only slept in this area but stored those possessions she kept at court in the same space, which meant she crammed everything she owned into a single, brass-bound chest. Folded on top of the chest were two pallets, one for Ami and one for her maid, the mattresses but waiting for nightfall when they would be spread upon the floor to serve as beds. Like most of the women here, Ami had never seen the inside of this hall's private bedchambers, contained in its second storey ell, much less slept in one. Such apartments were reserved for the likes of Countess Eleanor.