Chapter
XVII

The birds of Falaise fell quiet in the afternoon heat. Dragonflies floated above the moat in lazy somnolence, and the porter at the gate nodded as the cutpurse Inigo Culpepper walked his horse under the portcullis. The courtyard was deserted except for a stable boy who swatted at gnats from his perch in the shade beneath the eaves. Inigo roused the boy with a gentle kick on the shoulder and left the horse with him.

Inside, the smell of old ale and rancid food recalled Mag’s ordinary, and the dirty bodies strewn about completed the resemblance. Inigo picked his way through the mess, both human and culinary, and grabbed a handful of scraggly hair from the lord’s table. Simon Spry’s red nose snored at him.

Shaking the head, Inigo cursed at the horse thief. “Where is he?”

“Aw …” Simon muttered.

“Where is he? Are the guards like this, too?”

Simon slapped Inigo’s hands away and burped. “Nah.”

“Speak up, you son of a whore.”

“Nah, you know he doesn’t ’low drink on duty. He just had them hide theirselves so’s not to get underfoot.”

Curling his lip, Inigo ground out his question again. “Where is he?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The master, he couldn’t sleep. Wandered the house all night. In a taking, he was, cursing and pacing, pacing and cursing. Kept me awake, he did. Round dawn he took himself off on foot.”

“You let him go alone?” Inigo fastened a hand around Simon’s neck.

“Piss on yourself, Inigo. He didn’t want company, and I like my head on my shoulders and my cock between my legs, so I didn’t follow, thank you.”

Shoving the thief away, Inigo asked, “Which way did he go?”

“Into the forest, but—”

“He’s back,” Christian said.

Inigo whirled to face the young man standing in a pool of light and dust motes. He was studying the dead tree branch that dangled from his fingers.

“Kit,” Inigo said.

Christian poked a cup on the table with the branch. “Did you find the gardener?”

“Hext did, but the simpleton doesn’t know who gets the messages.”

“You used sufficient persuasion to be sure?”

“Of course,” Inigo said. “And we found out where he leaves the ciphers. At a printer’s shop near the palace owned by a fat hedgehog named Hugo Paderborn. But Hugo’s gone to visit his sister in Wales.”

“Tedious.”

Inigo nodded, eyeing his master.

Christian gave the cup a final poke, sighed, and dropped the tree branch. “Have the steward send word to Castle Montfort to make ready for my wife’s arrival. I’ll send her in a few days, and we will go back to London.”

Inigo cast an inquiring glance at Simon, who shook his head and fell to studying the congealed fat in a trencher. The sound of a door slamming and the tap of booted feet forestalled questions. Blade raced into the hall with his fencer’s stride and grabbed Christian’s shoulder. He twisted the older man around to face him and shook a fist at him.

“What have you done to her now, you piss-sucking blight?”

“Not now,” Christian said.

Blade grabbed Christian bodily, only to be hauled back by Inigo. Blade threw Inigo off and went for Christian again. This time Christian was ready and kicked the youth lightly in the chest. Blade bounced, ending up in Inigo’s grasp.

“Let go of me, whoreson,” Blade said, struggling. “He’s done something to Nora, and I’m going to make him send for a leach.”

Snatching Blade from Inigo, Christian brought the youth’s face close to his. “What mean you? She has sickened?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No,” Christian said. He released Blade and left the hall at a run.

Clearing the stairs to Nora’s chamber three at a time, Christian was in her room before the others mounted the staircase. She was alone, a small anthill beneath the rough linens that covered her bed. Her black hair, snarled and dull, lay strewn over the pillows. She made no sign that she heard him enter. She hardly moved at all, but as he neared the bed, he could see that she was awake.

He paused at the bedside, staring at her in silence. A steady flow of tears washed over Nora’s cheeks and down her neck. Silent tears. His hand inched toward her face, but he pulled back as Blade and Inigo ran into the chamber.

Blade perched beside Nora and touched the back of her hand where it lay on the covers. “She’s ill.”

“No, I’m not ill.” Her faint voice made them all start. “It’s just that I can’t stop crying. I’ve tried. You must believe me. I’ve tried so hard to stop, but I can’t, and I don’t know what to do.” She closed her eyes.

Christian heard a sigh, a sigh that turned into a faint, long moan, and dread snaked through his gut. He touched Nora’s arm, and she cringed. Snatching his hand back, he made his voice steady.

“How long have you been like this?”

“I don’t know,” she said between sobs.

Without another word, Christian stalked out of the chamber and into Mag’s. The woman was lying sprawled on her own bed, a wet cloth covering her eyes. Christian jerked the cloth from her face and hauled her upright by one arm.

“I told you to watch Nora,” he snapped at her. “Why didn’t you call me when she started crying?”

Mag patted his cheek, “Weren’t her tears the whole purpose of last night’s masque?”

“There’s something amiss with her, and you know it.”

“But you wanted to see her suffer. You said you wanted vengeance.”

Christian swallowed and looked away from Mag’s derision. “How long has she been this way?”

Mag shrugged. Snagging a handful of the woman’s hair, Christian repeated his question slowly and with precise enunciation.

“How long has she been this way?”

“Since before I locked her in after you left, I suppose. Ow, Kit, my hair.”

“Fetch wine. Tell the steward I want his best, and clean cloths and water.” When Mag didn’t move, Christian lifted his hand. The gesture was enough to send the woman scrambling for the door.

Returning to Nora’s chamber, Christian noted that Inigo was gone and that Blade now held her hand.

“How haps it that you concern yourself with my wife?”

Blade scowled at him. “Even I can recognize true goodness when I see it. You married her and turned animal. If you don’t want her, let me take her away.”

“What did she do, swoon over your charms and admire your prowess at killing? Did she—” He bit off his torrent of viciousness at the sound of Nora’s moan.

Blade muttered soothing words to her, but she turned her head away and cried softly. With a shaking hand she tried to stifle the sounds coming from her throat. Blade lifted hate-filled eyes to Christian.

“Get you gone, for mercy’s sake. Can’t you see what your presence does to her?”

Pressing his lips together, Christian nodded to the youth and quit the chamber. As he stepped onto the landing, he heard footsteps pounding up from below. A rapid clatter joined them, and immediately after, a small missile plowed into his stomach.

“Come back here, you little plague!” Inigo yelled from the floor below.

Christian pulled the golden-haired arrow from his middle and set it before him. “How did you get here?”

“On a horse.” Arthur scraped a bow at Christian before sticking his chin out, staring up at the man above him. “We married you, but you left me behind. I asked the Earl if I could come to my lady again, and he gave his permission.”

“ ‘We’?”

Arthur tugged on the surcoat of his livery and poked his head to the side to peer past Christian. “We haven’t ever been married before, but the Earl explained that married folk like to be alone. But I—I haven’t been away from my lady in a long time.”

Inigo plunged up the stairs. “There you are, you little sneak.”

“I’ll take care of Arthur,” Christian said. “You go to the kitchens and help Mag.

“Come with me.” Christian took Arthur’s hand. It disappeared in his, and he was reminded of Nora’s. “Your lady isn’t feeling well, and you must give her cheer.”

“Is it the sweat?” Arthur asked.

“No. She’s a bit unhappy. I think she misses you.”

Christian led the boy to Nora, allowing him to approach alone while he held back. He beckoned to Blade, and Blade slipped off the bed so Arthur could take his place at Nora’s side. Arthur clambered up on the bed on all fours and stuck his face in front of Nora’s. Before he could speak, Nora gave a cry, sat up, and hugged the boy to her. Arthur laughed and wrapped his arms and legs around his mistress.

Watching Arthur bury his face in Nora’s neck, Christian held his breath. Nora cupped the back of Arthur’s head with one hand and rocked from side to side. The room filled with soft murmurs of nonsense as the two conversed. Christian began to breathe again when he saw Nora’s tears ebb. Glancing at Blade, he abandoned the two friends, with the youth in his wake.

Blade closed the door and studied the shiny lock in silence. Christian let out an unsteady sigh, propped his back against the wall, and stared at the ceiling.

“Think you this is the cure?” Blade asked.

“How could I have forgotten?”

Blade looked at Christian. “Pardon?”

“It was the shock and the betrayal. They drove me into madness.”

“Forgotten what?” Blade asked.

“The puppies, the stray and starving cats, that great big heart compassed in a mite’s body.”

“You make no sense.”

“I know. I haven’t been sane since my wedding. God’s blood, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Just leave her be.”

Christian laughed. “I can’t, my comfit. You’ve asked me to do the one thing I find beyond my power. If you were to skewer me on a turnspit I still couldn’t leave her be.”

“You’re lying.”

“Shut your mouth.” Christian slipped his arm across Blade’s shoulders and forced him to walk toward the stairs. “You and I are going to eat and drink, and drink some more, and then mayhap I’ll find some release from my ‘foul yoke of sensual bondage.’ ”

After four days of Arthur’s company and none of Lord Montfort’s, Nora decided that only part of her heart had died. The most part, it was true, but some spark of life in that stubborn organ refused to drown under the flood of cruelty to which her husband had subjected her. On the fifth day she left her chamber.

Morning-crisp air jostled her spirits further, and she managed a smile as Arthur danced ahead of her, leading the way to a surprise. He pranced through the kitchens and out into the yard to a gate. This he opened and dragged Nora through. He pointed to rows of greenery and flowers.

“A herb garden, my lady. Cook says she hasn’t had time to tend it, what with all the company the master brought. Lord Montfort says it’s ours for as long as we want it.”

Pain stabbed her chest at the mention of her husband, but Nora was careful not to show Arthur her discomfort. He was so excited at having found a way to cheer her, and was skipping up and down the rows of plants, pointing as he went. He stopped by an herb with thick dark green leaves.

“Look, my lady, rosemary. And there’s mullein and horehound and valerian, and over there is some tansy. And in the corner there’s mugwort. I remembered all of those just from helping you.”

She followed Arthur and put her hand on his head, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Such a dear friend you are.”

“You are my very own lady. Nobody wanted me until you came.”

“And I shall always want you, my Arthur.” She smiled at the boy and knelt beside a broad-leaved plant. “Do you know what this is?”

He shook his head.

“It’s betony. Some call it wood, and one uses it as a countermagick. I’ve read that two serpents will fight and kill each other if placed in a ring of it. I use it for headaches and to calm nerves.”

“Let’s find two snakes,” Arthur said.

“No, you will not, sirrah. I shouldn’t have told you that story, I can see.”

“Would it work on frogs, or crickets?”

“I don’t know, but this garden needs weeding, and I’d like to collect a few herbs. Would you fetch a basket and my gloves please?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And, Arthur, no snakes.”

“My lady,” Arthur said with a groan.

Nora watched Arthur disappear in the direction of the work sheds beyond the kitchen yard. When he was gone, she fumbled at her girdle for a kerchief and wiped her eyes.

As had often happened in the past several days, she had to fight to stave off the sudden memory of Lord Montfort and that woman. To her surprise, though, the lewd images no longer slashed deep cuts into her soul. After so much weeping all that remained was a dragging weariness and a muted ache, and sadness. She was numb.

Arthur’s shout penetrated her numbness, sending her sprinting for the work sheds. As she ran, she could hear cursing and bellowing, a common occurrence when her page was about. She burst upon a scene of chaos.

Two gardeners were prying Arthur and another lad apart. Nearby lay an overturned wheelbarrow and two discarded shovels. As Nora skidded to a stop, the gardener lad kicked his captor’s shin. The man yelped and released the boy at the same time Arthur slithered free. Nora lunged at the two, for the gardener’s boy was larger and heavier than Arthur. She was too late. Arthur butted the older lad in the stomach and ran. Dodging the gardeners, he scrambled up a wood pile and onto the stone wall that surrounded Falaise.

“Arthur,” Nora shouted, “come down at once!”

Sporting a cut lip, sweating, and furious, Arthur grabbed a log and hurled it at his opponent’s feet. The wood hit the boy on the toes, and the lad jumped, falling backward to land on his rump.

“He called you a name,” Arthur said to Nora. “No one calls my lady names, you son of a weasel.”

“Donkey’s arse!” the gardener boy yelled. He shoved himself to his feet and hurled a stone at Arthur.

Nora cried out and hurtled for Arthur as the stone hit him on the side of the head. He crumpled, falling into her arms. Nora sank to the ground, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered in response to the din. Cradling Arthur, she brushed aside bloodied locks of hair to reveal a gash in his temple. She pressed her kerchief to the wound.

“What passes here?”

She heard the voice of her tormentor but didn’t look up. “He fought with another lad and was hit by a stone,” she said. “Help me take him to my chamber.”

Gardeners and servants gave way before their lord, and Lord Montfort lifted Arthur into his arms. Heedless of those around her, Nora ran ahead, snapping out orders to maidservants as she went. Frantic, she could hardly contain her impatience as her husband lowered Arthur’s body to her bed. She shoved Christian aside, commanding him as she did so.

“Bring me herbs from the garden, agrimony, rosemary, verbena, and basil, but first I’ll need Saint-John’s-wort. Hurry.”

She bathed the wound, cursing inwardly at Arthur’s pallor and the bleeding. Mild head wounds could kill if not tended properly. At this thought, her hands shook and tears threatened. She bit her lip to keep calm, but an unwelcome truth assaulted her: Arthur had been injured in a fight about her. He’d been swallowed by the war between herself and Lord Montfort.

Dear God, if she had protested her husband’s actions, fought him, demanded fair treatment, Arthur wouldn’t have been injured. She pressed her kerchief to the boy’s wound to stanch the bleeding while she castigated herself. She should have realized Arthur would defend her, and should have spoken to Lord Montfort. She should have sent Arthur back to the Earl. She could have done any number of things to prevent such a tragedy, but she’d been too caught up in her own misery, too busy playing the coward.

Lord Montfort arrived with leaves plucked from Saint-John’s-wort. After crushing them between the table and the base of a cup, Nora applied the leaves to Arthur’s wound. Anxiously she listened to the boy’s breathing. It was shallow but steady.

“Will he be all right?” Lord Montfort asked.

Nora didn’t take her eyes from Arthur’s face. “I don’t know. I think so, but I must watch over him until he wakes. Then I’ll know more.”

“What happened?”

Pursing her lips, she finally turned to her husband. His dark violet eyes met hers, but she could see no emotion in them.

“He fought that boy because of me. Because of me.”

“I’ll get rid of the lad.”

“No. There is no need. And why would you, when you’ve taken so much trouble to see that everyone knows of your contempt for me?”

“I’ll not have fighting among my servants.”

Turning back to Arthur, she waved a hand. “I have no time to listen, my lord. I beg you to leave me to nurse the child.”

“I’ll bring the other herbs.”

Taking no heed of him, Nora resumed her vigil beside Arthur. In the hour that passed before the boy roused, she remembered what it was to fear for a loved one—remembered the terror she’d felt when Bishop Bonner had threatened Lord Montfort.

She imagined Arthur waking blind or never waking at all, losing his memory as she’d heard sometimes happened, or suffering terrible pain. Whatever the outcome, Arthur was hurt because she’d been too much of a coward to stand up for herself.

In the end, Arthur woke in pain and suffered a day and a night. During that time Nora slept little and ran off everyone who tried to help. No one could care for Arthur as she could, and the boy grew fretful if she left his side for long. As she tended him, Nora realized how much they depended on each other, far more than either of them had realized.

As the hours passed and she held Arthur’s hand while he tried not to cry, Nora lived through an agony of regret. Slowly, as the boy grew stronger, resolve sprang into being within her, and with it, determination. What she would not do for herself, she would do for Arthur. She would fight.

In a fortnight Arthur regained his health. During that time Nora saw little of her husband. He left her to the care of his longtime servants, those who belonged to Falaise and had been warned to avoid Nora upon her arrival. Mag and her bawds vanished, as did most of Lord Montfort’s ruffians. In their place stepped forth honest folk who gave service with dignity and good spirit. Nora wondered at the changes in Lord Montfort’s household, but wasn’t curious enough to brave asking her husband about them.

As the days passed, Nora gradually recovered from the plague of the spirit that had infested her since her wedding. Now that she was calm, she perceived within herself a great dread of Lord Montfort, as well as an abiding hatred. In spite of her pleas for trust, he had used her love as an instrument of punishment. Because he had done this, she couldn’t think of him without physical pain, and—during the long, sleepless hours after dark-she no longer recalled his touch without experiencing shame and terror.

While she underwent this clearheaded suffering, Arthur rose from his sickbed, and her fears for him renewed. Indomitable of will, stubborn and contentious when aroused, he was sure to get into trouble again. She was in her tower room, trying to entertain her restless page with a game of cards and worrying about this problem, when Lord Montfort entered. Forcing her hands not to shake, Nora placed her cards on a stool and rose.

Lord Montfort approached her slowly, smiling at Arthur as he did so. Nora’s heart lurched, and she clamped her teeth together. Clasping her hands in front of her, she didn’t bother to curtsy. He didn’t deserve her respect, and she was tired of bowing her head only to have it knocked against a wall.

Lord Montfort sent Arthur to the kitchens for sweetmeats and waited for him to leave before speaking.

“Now that Arthur is well, I have arranged for you to go to Castle Montfort. You will leave in the morning, and I shall return to London to ask questions.”

“Castle Montfort? But that’s so far away.”

“Indeed. It suits my purpose, for you’ll be far from London and any mischief, and if I receive unhappy news about you, well, there is an old keep in the middle of the bailey.”

She stiffened her legs to keep them from wobbling. “You will shut me up in some ancient keep? For how long?”

“I don’t know. But don’t look so frightened. I’ve not decided upon the matter yet, and it may not come to that. Unless, of course, you turn out to be the most accomplished player I’ve ever known. In that case, you will deserve far worse than being shut up in stone.”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

Cocking his head to one side, Lord Montfort reached out to touch her cheek with his fingertips. Nora jerked her head away as she felt the warmth of his flesh brush her skin. His hand paused in midair, and he frowned.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “Even when I wanted to hit you, I couldn’t, and now … now I would cry peace.”

He put out his hand again, but she skittered to the window seat and grabbed a cushion. Clutching it to her chest, she shook her head. Her husband’s frown deepened. He came toward her, and with each step Nora’s heart pounded harder. All the moisture disappeared from her mouth and throat when he stopped mere inches away. The full sleeve of his doublet brushed her hand where it grasped the cushion, and she tried to back farther away. Her heels rammed into the window seat.

Thrown off balance, she teetered, and Montfort steadied her, grasping her upper arms. She hurled herself into the window seat with a cry.

“Please! Don’t touch me!”

Lifting his hands, Lord Montfort held them up as if to reassure her. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Don’t.”

“Have you another touch of melancholy? I’ll fetch some wine.”

She buried her chin and nose in the cushion she held like a shield and spoke into it. “No.”

He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Explain then.”

Peering at him over the cushion, Nora forced herself to speak. If she didn’t he would keep at her, keep touching her until she went mad.

“It is your touch that causes pain.” At his look of confusion, she gritted her teeth and continued. “When you touch me, I hurt.”

“Damnation. I never raised my hand to you.” He reached out again.

Cringing, Nora blurted out the truth. “I can’t! When you touch me, I remember the—the night. The wedding night. The love and then the hurt. No, don’t touch me, please.”

“God’s blood,” Montfort said. He took a step back and once more held his hands out so she could see them. “Calm yourself, or you’ll take a fit. Look, you. I give my promise that I won’t touch you unless you allow it.”

Nora had buried her face in her cushion, but as he moved away, she lifted her head to survey him with one eye. He was staring at her, brows raised in alarm. He thought she was going to collapse into a weeping fit again, she realized. She’d done with useless weeping, though. Mayhap she did tremble and cower a bit, but she could face him. Not long ago she couldn’t have done so much.

Watching as he lowered his hands to his sides, she perceived a change in his mood. The alarm gradually faded, but as it did, his eyes narrowed, then closed. He hardly moved except to lower his head.

“God forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

To Nora his words made no sense. It was plain to her he wanted to make her more miserable than the meanest criminal in gaol.

“You want to hate me,” she said. “It’s what you do best, my lord. You learned young and have practiced for years.” She couldn’t believe she was saying such things to him. He would kill her for it.

“I …”

He turned from her and folded his arms over his chest. His face was in profile to her, and she could see the muscles of his jaw clench.

“I don’t want to hate you,” he said. “It seems I have no choice, and I have no choice in something else as well.”

“What?”

“I’ve changed my mind about sending you away.”

“My lord, you make no sense.”

Spinning to face her, he stepped toward her, then stopped abruptly, as if he’d remembered that she couldn’t abide his nearness.

“It was a mistake to bargain with my body. A habit gained in my childhood, I fear. It seems I have lied to myself, for in truth, I offered the bargain only to get back in your bed, and only in part to get a confession from you.”

She lunged up and past him, thrusting the cushion at him as she fled. Lord Montfort batted the cushion aside but made no effort to chase her. She paused at the door, her hand on the latch, her body tense and ready to spring.

“Running won’t do any good, sweeting,” he said.

“If you touch me, I’ll go mad.”

“I don’t think so.”

He walked toward her, and she flung the door open.

“Don’t run,” he said. “I give you my word that I’m not going to chase you down and take you in the hall.”

As her husband continued to approach, Nora matched his every step with one that took her farther away. Unfortunately, she’d moved into the chamber next to hers and had her back to the bed. Montfort halted when they stood a bare foot apart. As he looked at her, Nora caught the telltale flicker in his gaze, the slight quickening in the rhythm of his breathing. The monster wanted her.

Whisperings of sweetness, murmurings from a low voice suffused with rough desire haunted her memory, and she felt again the pinpricks of arousal. Those fine stabs woke her fears of the ugliness that followed the pleasure, and she pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming.

Her fear was so great, she didn’t notice Montfort’s response until he’d strode back across the room to the door. Hesitating on the threshold, he stroked the polished wood of the frame with a sun-browned hand, then threw a furious glance at her over his shoulder. She realized his anger was directed at himself, and perhaps at being thwarted by her aversion.

“You have this night to accustom yourself to the idea,” he said, “but remember now that I’ve admitted to myself my true desire, I will have it—wife.”

She jumped when the door slammed shut, then stood there gawking at it.

He was going to make her do it, she was certain of it. He was going to touch her, make love to her. No, not make love. He was going to couple with her for his own pleasure. In spite of his hate, or mayhap because of it. If he tried to use her she would fight him, and lose, and go mad. Mad. Then he could shut her up in his keep forever and no one would care. Was that his plan? To drive her mad?

Hugging her stomach to stifle the frogs that leaped about inside it, Nora paced the chamber and strove for calm. He would come for her tomorrow. He wouldn’t wait for sunset, either. Tomorrow she would go mad, and when she did, Arthur would be left alone and unprotected. The boy would know Montfort was responsible. Dear Lord, Arthur would attack Montfort. But she couldn’t allow that to happen. She had to protect Arthur, and therefore … therefore …

She had to protect herself.