Chapter
XII

Idleness was the root of all vices, according to some. For the next three days, Nora was safe from vice, for she had no time to do more than nap for an hour at a stretch. She changed bandages, sponged sweating and fevered bodies, changed bed linens, stoked fires, and tried to convince Lord Montfort to eat.

As his father succumbed to an ague brought on by his wound, Christian rested less and less. By the fourth day, with the Earl either delirious or unconscious the entire time, Nora feared that God would take the Earl for His own. That afternoon, though, he was lucid for a few minutes, and he came near to breaking her heart with his lack of concern for his own condition. His first thought upon awakening was for his son.

Nora was tucking a sheet under the mattress near the Earl’s head when he stirred. She looked up to find a pair of dark blue eyes squinting at her. They grew round as recognition set in, but the effort to reason was too much, and he closed his eyes again before he spoke.

“My son.”

“He is well, my lord. He lies beside you. He wouldn’t budge, though I tried to wrest him from your side. Can I get you water?”

The Earl’s hand fished blindly across the covers until it met his son’s arm. “He sleeps?”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll wake him. I promised I would if you woke.”

“No.” The Earl’s hand dropped and he tried to lift his head. “No time. Tell him my wish … my wish … He should rid himself of hate. God will punish as he cannot.”

Nora patted the Earl’s hand, alarmed at the way his voice thinned like smoke in a gale. She had to put her head close to his to make out his words.

“Tell him I love him, and he is to—keep himself safe.”

At first she thought he was dead, but then she felt the shallow movement of his chest as he breathed. The Earl’s face blurred as she looked at him through her tears. He knew. He knew he had little chance of surviving, and even in dying he cared only to protect his son.

A strangled sound caused her to look up. She’d been so absorbed in the Earl, she hadn’t seen Christian wake at the sound of his father’s voice. He was propped up on his forearms, one hand fisted in the coverlet near the Earl’s shoulder, his face buried in the crook of his other arm.

Nora sensed more than heard one lone sob muffled by the force of an indomitable will. Heedless of her own tears, she touched Christian’s bare shoulder.

“By God’s mercy, leave me,” he choked out.

She didn’t abandon sick strays; she wasn’t about to abandon this man. She walked around the bed to him, knowing what she had to do. Coming up behind him, she grasped his upper body and hauled him into her arms in a sudden, rough attack that had him cradled to her body before he knew what she intended.

His head dropped to rest naturally on her breast, and for an almost imperceptible moment he clung to her. Then he began to fight, thrusting away from her with both hands. She merely wrapped one arm around his shoulders and the other around his neck and head. Squeezing, she pressed him to her, nestling his face against her neck.

He stiffened as his lips touched her skin. He sucked in his breath, shuddered, then burrowed his face into her neck. Sensing her victory, she hugged him with all her strength, and he let out a cry of pain stopped only by her flesh. She held him, rocking gently back and forth, while he trembled with unspoken grief.

The privilege of holding him and comforting him lasted only a short time. Too soon he lifted his head, pulled back from her, and peered at her tear-stained face. She felt his hand tangle in the hair at the back of her head.

Slowly, while he held her gaze with his own pained-filled one, he drew her down to his lips. It was a mystery to her that a kiss could hold off grief and seek solace, yet tell her through some unspoken language that he had become pain. His lips trembled, and she could feel the same quivering in his body. She delved into his mouth, kissing him roughly in an attempt to give him the ease he needed so badly.

At last she felt the trembling cease. It was her warning. He drew back, leaving her with a craving that wouldn’t soon go away. As she suspected, he withdrew his body from her and lay back with his face turned to the side. He studied his father in silence while Nora scooted off the bed. She stood with her hands buried up the cuffs of her full-over sleeves, and as the silence lengthened, her fear grew.

“Give o’er, lady,” he said at last.

“My lord?”

“Give o’er, for I will not need you. You may have my wanting, but I’ll never surrender to need. Think you I want to feel this agony more than once in my life?” He turned his violet eyes on her. “I’ve been schooled in subtleties, beguilings, and fell corruption. It is my protection, and I need no other. Now leave me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shut his eyes and turned his face away again. She could feel the ice with which he infused his nature and knew that if she stayed, she risked an attack of words that would make burning at the stake seem a country lark. Weary and troubled, she left, closing the door to the bedchamber behind her.

He was afraid! He wouldn’t be afraid if he didn’t need her. And he wouldn’t need her if he didn’t like her. In a trice, her shattered spirits soared. A priceless discovery, his fear.

Marveling at her unlooked-for success, Nora set off in search of ingredients for a tincture she fed her strays when they suffered from ague. That evening the crisis in the Earl’s sickness reached its zenith. She and Christian attended the injured man throughout the night as he battled the fever that threatened his life. Twice more she fended off attempts by the Earl’s retainers to send in physicians. The battles passed unnoticed by Christian, who in spite of his own fever tried to keep his father’s body cool by bathing it constantly, with Nora’s help.

Refusing food, and taking water only because Nora said he would collapse if he didn’t, Christian held his father while Nora periodically administered her concoction. She thought about giving it to Christian as well, but decided the perverse creature would balk. So they bathed, dosed, stoked fires, and changed sweat-soaked linen hour after hour until, as light began to filter through the diamond panes of the windows, Christian bent over his father with a damp cloth and fainted.

“God’s mercy.” Nora grasped Christian’s shoulder and pulled. He was too heavy for her to move far, so she pushed a chair close and maneuvered him so that he fell into it. “My lord?” Brushing strands of hair from his face, she felt Christian’s brow. His skin was flushed, damp with perspiration, and it burned almost as hot as the Earl’s. Her dread burgeoned into real fear.

She tried to loosen the ties at the neck of his shirt, and as she did so, he moved. In disbelief, she saw his eyelids flutter, then watched him drag himself back from desperately needed rest. Slowly his eyes opened. The pupils were enormous, and his gaze lacked direction, but she could see the stirring of that unbeatable will. It roused, dragging the remnants of his senses with it.

“Father,” he said softly.

She knew it was a request, and she moved aside so he could see the Earl. Christian lurched forward in the chair, his hand groping for the bed.

“He doesn’t move,” he said.

She turned, stooping to examine the older man, and felt the skin of his cheek. “God is merciful.”

“No!”

Realizing that Christian had misunderstood, she quickly grasped his hand where it dug into the mattress. “No, my lord. His fever is broken, and I think he will live. God is merciful.”

She had to help Christian from the chair and support him so he could touch the cool skin for himself, before he was convinced his father would live. Once Christian was settled in his chair again, she left the two so she could give the good news to the household. Seeking out Hext, she imparted her tidings, and soon the whole great house echoed with the sounds of cheers and whistles.

The next several days passed more easily for Nora’s charges, and gradually she was able to get some rest herself. On the fourth morning after the Earl’s recovery began, she was starting upstairs with a new batch of her herbal concoction when she happened to see Arthur’s golden curls disappear through the front doors of the house. The heavy oak boomed shut, sealing off her cry. The little fool was off to practice his lurking and sneaking again, she thought. Her mind free of worry for the Earl, she could afford to devote herself to the proper behavior of her page. Lifting her skirts, she marched out of the house after Arthur.

He was already across the long court and through the gates, waving at the guards as he went. Muttering to herself, Nora dashed after him, slipping through the iron wings of the gates just before the guards slammed them shut.

She hadn’t expected the street outside to be crowded, and she blundered into the path of a pair of Thoroughbreds. One was ridden by Blade, who hauled back on his reins. His big roan danced sideways, shouldering Luiz de Ateca’s black stallion.

Nora spared the youth a glance and a peremptory smile. He’d visited the sickroom twice. Both times Christian had treated him to a round of orders and threats that would have propelled Nora in search of dark corners in which to hide. Blade had lashed back at first with gutter curses and threats of his own, then showed more restraint once he perceived the gravity of the Earl’s condition.

At the moment all of Blade’s considerable talents were put to use subduing his mount. Nora called out an apology and danced out of his way. She hurried down the street a few steps, shouting Arthur’s name. When she came to the corner of the brick wall that surrounded the Earl’s residence, a gloved hand shot out and grabbed her arm. She stumbled, put her hands up against a velvet-covered chest, and shoved.

“Got you at last,” a man crowed.

She looked up. “Percivale.” She stopped shoving simply from the shock of seeing the man. She’d forgotten him.

“You cursed woman. I’ll teach you to humiliate me.” Flegge began to drag her down the street. He whistled, and a groom appeared with his horse. “I’ve skulked about for days trying to find you. Finally spotted that whelp of yours, God curse his hide.”

Nora dug in her heels, bringing Flegge up short. Blade called her name, and panic gave her own voice power.

“Blade, help!”

Twisting in Flegge’s grip, she was able to face Blade and de Ateca. Blade was staring at her in confusion. She kicked backward at Flegge’s legs and shouted again. She was rewarded by the sudden comprehension that flooded Blade’s face. The youth’s hand snaked to the dagger at his side, and he rose in his stirrups as Flegge threw Nora across his saddle.

Nora landed on hard leather. Instantly she braced her arms against the horse’s withers and thrust her head up as the animal danced beneath her, unnerved by its master’s sudden violence. She glimpsed Blade, his arm raised to throw the dagger. As the youth aimed, de Ateca lunged and caught his arm. Blade cursed, trying to free himself, but de Ateca wrenched the arm, pulling the boy off balance.

Blade slipped, and de Ateca used the momentum to haul him from his roan and slam him down across his own saddle. At that moment, the Earl’s guards rushed in, and the conde and Blade were pushed from the black. The horse reared, and the guards scrambled for safety.

Nora felt Flegge mount behind her while he kept his hand on her back to hold her down. She called to Blade, but the youth was on the ground, pinned beneath the conde. Nora’s last sight was of de Ateca straddling Blade, smiling as he gently tapped the youth’s chin with his fist. Nora shouted for Blade, useless as it was, but Flegge had gained control of his horse, and she was jounced and bumped so hard, her vision blurred.

When she could lift her head again, the Earl’s house was nowhere in sight. Flegge slowed his horse to a walk long enough to haul her upright to sit sideways.

He smirked at her and hugged her body to his. “You’re going to pay, mistress. God’s arse, you’re going to pay.”

In the chapel of her father’s town house Nora sat, alone except for two guards, and prayed. She prayed for God to strike Percivale Flegge down before he could enter the chapel and make her his wife. She prayed that her father would change his mind, that she could sprout wings and fly away, anything that would prevent this marriage.

Flegge had spotted and followed Arthur two days earlier, and had thereby discovered her hiding place. He’d waited with much-tried patience for her to show her face outside the walls of the de Rivers gates. After snatching her, he had brought her directly to her father’s house. With a curse and a backhanded slap to her face, William had announced that the marriage ceremony would take place at once.

That was half an hour ago. The priest would be there soon, and her father had promised to break all her fingers if she made a scene again. Exhaustion and anxiety had blurred her perception, and her lack of sleep had transformed the events and people around her into a slow dream.

Mayhap it was because she didn’t want to believe that what was happening was real. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t seem to grasp what was said to her as quickly as she should. As weariness dragged at her body, Nora mumbled prayers and pleadings until she heard the chapel doors being thrust open. Squeezing her eyes more tightly shut, she held her breath while she listened to the approach of her father and betrothed.

She was snatched to her feet, and William dragged her around to face Percivale Flegge. Nora blinked slowly at the man, then went on to study the household retainers gathered to witness the ceremony. Her father was ranting, but she couldn’t seem to hear him. She examined the faces of her father’s steward, an equerry, a clerk. Once, long ago, they’d been familiar to her, for she, too, had been part of William’s household.

Her father shook her arm. “Stand up straight, girl.” He shoved her hand into Flegge’s and signaled to the priest.

Nora stared at her hand. It had disappeared. Her father had thrust it into Flegge’s as though it were a torn glove for which he had no use. By God’s mercy, she was tired of being shoved and pushed about at the whim of others. Resentment swelled into anger, and she clamped her jaw shut, grinding her teeth together, as she stared at the priest. They’d skipped the Mass, and the priest was prancing through the marriage ceremony at royal-post speed. Flegge muttered his responses, and Nora scowled at his complacent, gloating face.

The priest said something to Nora. She transferred her scowl to him and pursed her lips. In the quiet brought on by her refusal to speak, she could hear someone shuffle his feet. The clerk coughed.

Silence.

The priest repeated his question. Nora jerked her hand from Flegge’s and folded her arms across her chest. William strode up behind her and yanked her to him by her hair, and she screamed.

A long whistle drowned out her cry. The chapel doors burst open, and a river of bodies flooded through them in waves, streaming over pews, down aisles, and toppling guards and retainers in its wake. William released Nora’s hair to put his hand to his sword hilt. It was halfway drawn when a giant in homespun planted his foot gently in William’s stomach.

“Outnumbered, coney,” the giant said.

William huffed and retreated from the bulk in front of him, his hand falling away from his weapon.

Peering about her in confusion, Nora witnessed several scuffles. An acrobat in scarlet, yellow, and green backflipped into a guard who was trying to strangle a minstrel. A young man who wore the riding outfit of a nobleman threatened to slice off the nose of the steward, while a beggar with false sores jumped on the back of the clerk and pounded his head.

Down the central aisle, the wave of intruders parted as the scuffling subsided. Quiet slowly prevailed, and Nora saw that the odd jumble of strangers had the upper hand. The giant beside her father whistled again, and the band turned to look at the doors. A tall figure appeared and strode toward the group in front of the priest.

Flegge growled. “Montfort.”

Christian de Rivers strolled down the aisle slapping his riding gloves against his thigh, his pace rapid and businesslike. He stopped two paces from Flegge and surveyed the man, with his brows lifted.

“I warned you, Flegge.” Christian ignored Flegge’s cursing and nodded to William. “My lord, well met.”

“Montfort, what madness is this?”

“I beg leave to introduce my friends,” Christian said with a sweep of his arm and an easy disregard for William’s irritation. “My father’s men you know, and Roger Mortimer.”

Nora’s mouth nearly dropped open when she spied Roger grinning at her. Several young noblemen positioned around the chapel bowed to the group at the altar.

“But you’ve yet to meet my jewels, my treasures, my prized coursers,” Christian added. He waved a hand at the jester, the beggar, and other ruffians. “Conjurers, priggers, whipjacks, prison-breakers. Victims of enclosures and evictions, rent raisings or lewd birth. As fine a band of spreaders of discontent to spoil, rob, and raven as were ever whipped at the cart’s tail—my bosom family.”

Nora slid between the giant and her father to stand beside Christian. He looked down at her, his eyes bright, his face flushed and damp. She almost touched her fingertips to his cheek, but he was in that mood. That fearsome, raw, and high-strung nastiness gleamed from his eyes, and she knew better than to touch him. His gaze flicked over the bruise on her cheek.

“As I said, Flegge, I warned you.” Christian spoke lightly as he stroked his soft leather gloves across the palm of one hand. He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You’ve irritated me, taking the lady from beneath my very roof when I was at my father’s sickbed.”

William burst in, confronting Flegge. “You said she was at an inn.”

The two launched into an argument. Their voices rose, and Nora saw Christian’s mouth twitch. It was the merest spasm, hardly noticeable, but she had seen it before.

“You shouldn’t have left the bedchamber,” she said, shaking her head in exasperation. “You were resting when I left.”

The simpleton grinned at her.

“Bedchamber?” William’s voice rose to a screech. “Bedchamber?”

Belatedly Nora covered her mouth with both hands. Christian’s grin widened as she turned crimson.

Flegge backed away from the furious William. “It doesn’t matter. I said I’d marry her and I will.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Christian said.

“I will. The ceremony is almost complete. All it needs is for the girl to say ‘I will’ and we’ll be married. Say it, Nora.”

“Say it,” William said.

Catching her father’s glare, Nora cringed. He would hate her if she refused, she saw that now. Still the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. She tried to move her lips, but they stayed closed. Her eyes ached from holding back tears that came from wishing for what she couldn’t have. Lord Montfort had come to help her out of pity, and perhaps gratitude. And she was making a spectacle of herself. Her tongue forced its way out to moisten her lips. She opened her mouth. As she did, Christian trampled over her newborn words.

“God’s blood, of course she’ll say ‘I will,’ but not to you, Flegge. To me.”

“She’s betrothed to me!” Flegge exclaimed. “It was I who was made to look the fool when she ran. I deserve her.”

“You don’t deserve the hand of Medusa in marriage,” Christian said.

“My daughter is betrothed.” William eyed Christian speculatively. “She’s in the middle of marrying Flegge.”

“Beshrew me, sir, for contradicting you, but Nora was in the middle of sharing a bed with me when Flegge interrupted.”

William’s roar made Nora cringe. Her face drained of color, and she felt her legs wobble. An arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she was dragged into the shelter of Christian’s body.

“I’ll still marry her,” Flegge said.

Sighing, Christian addressed the giant. “Anthony Now-Now, my good fellow, toss this ferret into the Thames at once.”

Flegge was snatched up by the collar, his arms and legs flailing, and carried from the chapel to the jeers of Lord Montfort’s ruffians. Nora almost smiled, so great was her satisfaction at witnessing Flegge’s humiliation. She looked up at Christian, but he was returning the calculating gaze of her father.

“You’ve dishonored my daughter.”

“It’s a fault, I know.”

“I’ll complain to the Queen.”

“She hears complaints about me daily.”

“Your title won’t protect you.”

“I know. Nothing seems to protect me from your daughter, so I’ve decided to rid myself of the necessity of protection by marrying her.”

“Good.”

“What?” Nora twisted beneath Christian’s arm to gawk at him.

He was rubbing his damp brow. “My wits are addled from this fever.”

“Get you home to rest when we finish here,” William said. “We must petition the Queen for permission.”

“Unbalanced humors, that’s what it is.” Christian gave his head a slight shake.

Nora chewed her lip as she assessed Christian’s flushed skin and bleary eyes. “Father, Lord Montfort suffers from an ague. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Of course I know.” Christian whirled away from her, spreading his arms wide. “Come, kittens, our business here is finished, and if I stay, she’ll dose me with her foul stew of roots and branches.”

“Montfort, we haven’t finished discussing terms,” William said.

Christian vanished in the midst of knights, beggars, and thieves.

“Montfort, you’re not running away from this. Montfort!”

“It’s no use,” Nora said. “He never listens to anything he doesn’t want to hear.”

“He’ll listen to me,” William said. “Son of an earl or no, he’s not going to ruin my family’s honor. The banns have been waived, all we have to do is change the name on the contracts. It shouldn’t take more than a week to arrange.”

“But the Earl is dangerously ill, and Lord Montfort suffers, too.”

“It matters not,” William said. “By next week, the Earl will either be dead or recovering, and either way, Christian de Rivers will have himself a bride if I have to bring the priest to his father’s bier.”

Nora shook her head and whispered, “He would kill you.”

“Nonsense. In any case, you have no say in the matter. Get you to your chambers and refresh yourself. You look like you’ve spent the night in a rabbit’s burrow.”

William strode away, intent on his plans to corner Lord Montfort. Hugging her waist, Nora sank down on a pew and tried to make sense of what had happened. Had Christian meant to offer for her hand when he invaded the chapel? He’d been so fevered, she wasn’t sure he hadn’t merely intended to ruin the ceremony. After all, he was distraught over his father and ill himself. To hold him to promises made while in such pain would be dishonest.

And he’d told everyone he’d seduced her! Though she herself had implied such attempts to the Queen, she hadn’t gone so far as to claim carnal relations. But Lord Montfort’s scruples were as rare as scales on a bear.

Sinking back, Nora rested her head on the hard wood of the pew. Ah, well, she’d wanted him, so what right did she have to complain about the way she got him? For she did indeed have him. Her father and the Queen would see to that. But in guarding her honor, they would also see to it that she would never know if he wanted her for herself—or out of charity.