Sword for His Lady (24 page)

It was an admission. One she savored as she let the sound of his heart lure her into slumber.

It was enough.

Or at least, it would have to be.

Men did not love as women did.

* * *

Jacques was in a rage. He cursed and launched another attack on Donald, but the boy soon collapsed into an unconscious heap.

“Bastard!” he growled, before spitting on the unconscious boy.

He paced in a circle, his attention falling on Rauxana. He growled at her but she stared straight at him, no fear in her eyes. “Get from my sight, woman. I need more than the ease from your body.”

“I have the knowledge you need, my lord.”

He took a huge swallow of wine and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. “Do not start thinking, Rauxana. It's your flesh I enjoy having near. I have no use for a woman who doesn't know her place. Keep to yours,” he warned her viciously.

Rauxana didn't shrink away. She strode forward, far more confidently than she'd ever done before.

“I offer to share a woman's knowledge with my lord,” she purred softly. “In the harem, it is always important to make sure your rivals do not become wives by birthing sons. My mother made sure I knew these things.”

Jacques lifted his drinking bowl to his lips but stopped. “I bought you in the market. If you were more accomplished, you would never have been on the common slave block.”

“Am I as tiresome as the other women you have taken to your bed?” she asked smoothly. “Or do you notice how many skills my mother made sure I was trained in, my lord? Uncommon skills.”

He took a slow sip of his wine. “You don't bore me.”

She smiled, taking praise from his meager comment. He didn't care for her becoming anything more than his plaything, but he wanted to know what else she might say. There was a gleam in her eyes that he'd never noticed before, and some women were crafty. Men might rule the world, but only a fool forgot how resourceful women could be. Or that they might turn deadly when a man was sleeping. He considered having her dragged from his tent. It might be safer, for it was clear she had more wit than he'd realized. But there was also confidence simmering in her eyes and he wanted to know if it was bluster or fact.

“What do you know of value to me?”

“My mother was not without enemies. One of them stole me away to punish her for making her lose her babe and chance of becoming a wife.” Rauxana lifted her hand and opened it to show him a small leather pouch. It was waxed, to hold liquid, and tied tightly. “But she lost her babe all the same. This will see it done.”

She moved across the tent, her robe flowing in tiny ripples like a water siren from a fable. A sensation swept through him that he'd enjoyed before, but today he wondered if he shouldn't keep his guard up with her.

She lifted his hand, placed the pouch into it, and closed his fingers around it before kissing the back of his fingers. When she looked at him, her eyes held no remorse, only adoration.

“Where did you get the ingredients for this?” he asked. He set his drinking bowl down, suddenly realizing how foolish he'd been to leave it in the tent unattended. “How did you pay for them?”

Rauxana pointed to the small chest she kept her face paint and personal things in. “All of the ingredients are the same ones that I use to ensure I do not conceive without your permission. I have simply mixed a stronger dose. It will unseat the babe if taken early enough.”

Witchcraft.

Jacques rubbed his beard as he contemplated his pet. Oh, she was his pet, his creature to play with and toy with. Yet it would seem that she was more intelligent than he'd noticed.

“I would give you sons, master,” she offered, her eyes brightening. “Strong sons, and I will smother any daughters that come, if that is your will.”

He believed her. For the first time he noted her ruthlessness. He dangled the little pouch from his fingers. “How does this concoction work?”

She fluttered her eyelashes to conceal her disappointment.

“Mix it in the lady's drink, but make sure she consumes all of it.”

He closed his hand around it and nodded. “If it works, I will consider your offer.”

He was lying.

Not that it mattered. She wasn't a Christian. No one would judge him for slitting her throat. His men whispered about her—not that he cared what they thought. He was the master.

Rauxana smiled, enjoyment brightening her dark eyes. She withdrew to the bedchamber, settling herself in the doorway and allowing her robe to open. She trailed her fingers across her flat belly. “I will give you strong sons, my lord, and anything else you require. I will be the most loyal wife.”

Jacques felt a tingle on his nape again. This time he knew without a doubt that he had a viper in his tent.

The time was coming to be rid of her.

But the pouch in his hand was something he needed.

So he'd let her live today.

* * *

It was evil.

Donald felt as if the leather lying against his palm were burning his skin. He stared at it, trying to decide what to do. The line between right and wrong was blurring. What he'd known so well his entire life had suddenly become something that he wanted to question.

To question his lord was the same as questioning God.

How many times had he heard it said?

He couldn't count the times he'd heard it said, because that was what the church preached. A baron was given his title because God had decreed it, just as the king was in his place because of divine choice. He was a squire for the same reason. To question was to spit on God's will.

The leather pouch stung his palm.

He neared Thistle Keep and looked at the new keep. He was sure he could hear the echoes of the celebration that had taken place during the day. Now, the darkness was there to steal away that happiness, and he was the demon sent to snatch the soul of the innocent.

Why? He wanted to be worthy of taking a knight's vows. It was the hope of every squire. Loyalty and dedication were the tools that would turn him into a man who was strong enough in both body and will to be a knight.

Yet tonight, he found his loyalty wavering.

Was it a test from heaven?

Did he obey his master? Or throw the pouch on the ground and never enter the forest again?

He was tempted.

The pain stung him with every step he took and tempted him further. The starlight illuminated the pouch, proclaiming his guilt, so he tied it onto a length of leather and put it around his neck, hiding it inside his tunic.

He needed to think. Needed to listen to his conscience's warnings. Needed to find some way to justify disobeying his master. The problem was he had no idea if he would succeed.

In which case, he'd have to perform his duty.

* * *

“What are you doing?” Her nurse sounded and looked horrified. Isabel looked up at Mildred in surprised.

“Sewing. As I said I would be.”

Mildred hurried into the chamber, with two other women behind her. “It's what you're sewing I question.”

Mildred snatched the fabric from her hands and shook her head. “You cannae be making things for the babe. Why, the demons will learn of it and set out to steal its soul before it can be baptized.”

The other women nodded in agreement and made the sign of the cross over themselves.

“It was but one cap,” Isabel protested. “I might be making it for another woman.”

Mildred was busy picking out the stitches. “We'll not be taking any chances.”

“Best course of action,” one of the other women agreed. “With the way the fever took your last husband, best not to tempt fate.”

“You'll wait until the baby is baptized,” Mildred said firmly. “Don't fret, everyone will come and shower you with the things you need.”

Isabel wanted to argue but she'd been raised on such lore. Was it superstition? Perhaps. In truth, the real question was, did she want to risk not respecting tradition?

She did not.

Her babe was already the most precious thing in her life besides Ramon. She hadn't felt it move yet but she felt it in many other ways. She smiled ruefully. She felt it in the way that she couldn't keep anything but porridge in her belly, and even that had to be consumed in small amounts, as well as after noon.

“You are likely right.”

Mildred nodded. The other two women were making good use of the table Ramon had placed in the chamber, spreading out a new piece of linen. Mildred pulled a measuring ribbon from the sewing box.

“Up with you now, so we can measure.”

“Make sure you leave room for me to grow,” Isabel said as she stood.

Mildred's face crinkled as she smiled brightly. “I will, my lamb. Happily so.”

* * *

Jacques paced the confines of his tent.

Too much time had passed. The days had turned into a week and then a fortnight as he waited for Donald to return. Rauxana watched him but kept her mouth shut. She'd retreated to an oversized pillow near the foot of his bed to wait. He'd struck her for speaking out of turn a week ago; she'd been silent ever since. She knew something. He could see it glittering in her eyes, but he was the master.

He turned around but ended up facing the table where his father's letter rested.

“How long?” he asked as he turned back toward her. “How long does that concoction take to work?”

“Once consumed, it works very quickly, my lord. Within hours.”

Jacques snarled.

“It must be done soon or nothing will unseat the growing babe,” Rauxana continued.

He stopped pacing and cursed. “Then I must make sure that boy knows what I expect of him. Or see to the matter myself.”

* * *

It would snow soon.

The rain was bitterly cold, freezing during the night and not thawing until noon. Jacques growled as icy mud made its way into his shoes with every step. He needed to look like a peasant, so his boots were back at his tent because they were the mark of a man with money.

His worn shoes and tunic did little to keep him warm. A woodsman's hood helped a bit, but more importantly, it hid his features. He felt naked without his sword, but the weapon was the mark of a knight. Segrave's men would never let a knight close enough to the keep.

He gritted his teeth against the icy mud in his shoes. He tried to change his walk into more of a trudge as he stooped. People didn't look long as he passed them, just curious looks as they hurried to make their way to someplace warmer. He moved around the new keep, hiding his approval behind the hood. At least Segrave had done a good job of improving the estate. He'd proven Isabel fertile as well.

The skies opened up before he made it to the kitchens.

Jacques smiled at his turn of good luck. What few people there were scattered as the rain turned to sleet. The wind was cutting and he entered Thistle Keep without anyone noticing. He settled into a corner storeroom and waited for the evening shadows to offer him the opportunity to achieve his goal.

* * *

“Come in, lad.”

Donald looked up and found one of the kitchen cooks waving to him.

“It will snow tonight.” She was an old crone but smiled kindly at him. She beckoned to him again. “I'll find you a spot to call your own for the winter. You've earned it.”

Donald felt his lips splitting in a grin. A rush of achievement went through him as he nodded and gathered up the bedroll he called his own. The cook guided him through the passageways of the older keep. The rooms were stuffed full, ready for the long winter.

“Mind you,” the woman warned, “I'm trusting you to keep your hands out of the stores. I don't need the lady or head cook angry with me.”

“I'll mind my place. I'm not a thief, only born to a poor mother. I'm God-fearing,” he promised and realized that he meant it. Tucked into the inside of his tunic, he felt the little leather pouch of poison. It felt as though it were smoldering, burning a hole through his tunic so that everyone might see it.

He was going to bury it in the woods tonight. In a deep hole, where no one would ever find it.

And he would beg God to forgive him for breaking his oath to Baron Raeburn. Because he wouldn't poison the Lady of Camoys.

He was going to serve her. Maybe he'd never be a knight, but he found it more to his liking than pouring poison into her cup. At least as a peasant he might be a good man.

“Here.” The cook stopped and looked at a pair of bunks made of stone along the side of one room. They were built right into the arches that helped support the next floor. “It is nae the warmest.”

“Far warmer than the yard,” he offered cheerfully.

She nodded. “It is that. I'll see if there are any spare tunics, yours is tattered. Even a worn one will give you some more warmth.”

“I'd be grateful.”

And he would be.

Her expression became soft with memory. “I had me a boy. He'd be about your age now, but he marched away on the Crusade some eight seasons ago and I've not heard from him or me husband.”

She smiled at him, showing off gaps in her teeth. “My hands ache when the cold sets in. You can help me haul the water and I'll make sure this is your place. The masons won't be needing you so much now that it is winter. My hands ache most in the snow.”

“I will haul as much as you like,” he promised quickly. “Any time that you call.”

“That's a good lad.” The way her voice cracked with happiness twisted his insides.

No one had ever been pleased to have him near.

She turned away and her feet shuffled down the passageway.

Donald smiled at the bunk as the woman moved away. He reached out and ran a hand over the stones. They were worn from years of being used but that just made them smooth. He sat down and enjoyed the lack of wind cutting through his clothing. For the first time in days, his toes felt as though they weren't going to freeze. He placed his bed roll in the bunk and settled onto his knees to thank God for guiding him to such a place.