At The King's Command (20 page)

As she moved across the hall, she had only vague impressions of her surroundings. The entire room was unusual. Tables and chairs seemed to have shorter than normal legs and backs. Ceiling beams seemed uncomfortably close to the top of her head.

She put down the flaws to the inferiority of the unknown woman’s character and started for the stairs. They were made of solid masonry, narrow and spiraling upward.

Her skirts brushed the stone as she moved soundlessly up and found herself in a low, vaulted corridor. A single gold filament of light glowed in an outline around one of the three doors.

Juliana went toward it. Now she could hear sounds coming from the room. Her hair stood on end when she identified the noise: rough, ragged breaths from a man in the throes of lust.

As her resentment burgeoned, Stephen’s hoarse sounds of passion drifted out into the passageway to torment her.

“I am your
wife
, damn you,” she whispered. Still clutch
ing the knife, she quietly pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

And stopped as if the very hand of God had turned her to stone.

Stephen had his back to her, and he had not heard her enter. Contrary to the lust-ridden vision she had formed in her mind, he was fully dressed and kneeling on the floor.

Nothing could have prepared her for this.

His shoulders shook, not with the tremors of passion, but with sobs of heart-deep grief. His head bent, he crouched beside a tester bed. His big hands clutched convulsively into the coverlet as if they would rend the fabric into shreds.

And in the bed, sound asleep and oblivious to Stephen’s wild grief, lay a beautiful, golden-haired child.

In a flash, Juliana remembered the limnings she had discovered in her husband’s room. She had found portraits of two children, half-grown, though Stephen had sworn one died at birth.

In the moments since she had entered the room, she had forgotten to move. To breathe. Her mind filled with the image before her: Stephen, her magnificent husband who was always so full of swaggering confidence, hunched like a defeated man over this sleeping angel of a child.

Juliana finally found her voice. “S-Stephen?”

In one swift motion he stood and turned, his face stark with shock, wet with tears, ravaged with grief. And deep in his eyes burned a violent fire of pure hatred.

“Get out,” he said, his voice deadly yet low, for even in his state of grief he seemed mindful of the sleeping child. “Get out, Juliana, before I kill you.”

Stephen had never made a more sincere threat in his life, and he knew his intent was evident in his voice, in
his smarting eyes. And so he waited for Juliana to flee for her life. Just as everyone else fled from his wrath.

Instead, she remained standing inside the door. Her small figure caught the light from the long golden flame of the taper. She wore a net coif, but strands of her hair escaped it, making a frame of sable curls for her pale face. And she looked at him, truly looked at him in that unique and unsettling way she had, taking him apart by inches, probing deep, seeing all the way into his soul.

Finally she moved. She did not flee, but glanced down at the small knife in her hand. “I shall not be needing this after all,” she said, half to herself, and put the blade back into the jeweled sheath pinned to her bodice.

She took a step toward him.

“By all that I have, Juliana,” he said, “I mean that. I command you to leave. I want you to forget about this place. I want you out of my house, Juliana. Out of my life. Forever.”

She winced, and he felt a twinge of regret. He was not by nature a cruel man, but a moment of pain was preferable to inviting this ravishing stranger into his heart.

“I will not leave,” she said. “Not yet, at least.” Then she did the unthinkable. She went and sank to the floor beside the bed, her skirts pooling around her.

“Stay away from him!” Stephen hissed through his teeth.

She did not even look up. Her low-lidded gaze was fixed on the child. “What is your son’s name?”

Shaken, Stephen looked at his beautiful child. His beautiful, dying child.

“His name is Oliver, and if you don’t get away from him, I’ll remove you by the scruff of the neck.”

She brushed her fingers over the little lad’s brow, the gesture so sweetly maternal that Stephen’s throat filled
with fresh sorrow. Meg had never even held him in her arms. The golden head stirred a little.

“Remove me?” Juliana murmured. “A moment ago you were going to kill me. We are making progress, my lord.”

“Damn it.” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. “I do not permit anyone to touch him.”

She jerked away from him, and defiance blazed in her eyes. “This child is feverish, Stephen.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, you meddlesome bitch? He’s feverish nearly every night, damn your eyes—”

“Stephen,” she whispered, “you are hurting me.”

He glanced down at his hands. His strong fingers dug deep into the flesh of her upper arms. With an effort of will and a sigh of self-loathing, he released her.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said wearily.

“I had a right to come here. I am your wife, and I grew tired of your disappearances each night.” A tiny smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Believe me, Oliver is the last person I expected to find with you.”

He remembered her drawn knife. “Just what did you suppose?”

“Another woman. A mistress.”

He almost laughed. “Would you have used the dagger on me, or on her?”

“You will never know, my lord.” She gazed down, misty-eyed, at Oliver. The lad stirred, coughing softly and then turning on his side and tucking his hand up under his chin.

How thin and frail he was, thought Stephen with a lurch of his stomach. He thought of the robust village children with their bright eyes and muddy bare feet. Even the poorest tinker’s child outweighed Oliver.

Before Stephen could stop her, Juliana bent and
pressed a kiss on Oliver’s brow. Her lips lingered there, and for a moment she squeezed her eyes shut and caught her breath.

Then, serene and in control, she picked up the candle in its holder. “Come below, my lord. I wish to talk to you.”

Stephen told himself to grab the candle and send her on her way. But he kept seeing the look on her face when she had kissed Oliver. The tightly clenched eyes, the expression of heartfelt concern. In that moment, she had conquered something inside him, some fearful part of him that for years had not even let him speak of Oliver.

His mind was ablaze with wonder: Juliana had found out about Oliver, and the world had not come to an end.

“What is that herb I smell?” she asked. “It was very strong in his hair.”

“Borage,” said Stephen. He moved like the walking wounded, mindlessly following the light in her hand. “It is supposed to correct the imbalance of black bile and yellow bile.”

They reached the hall. Juliana set down the candle and faced him. The amber light imbued her features with a diffuse glow, flickering like a caress of fire across her high, proud cheekbones and the dainty wisps of hair brushing her neck. “So you have consulted a physician.”

“Of course.”

“And is your son getting better?”

Stephen did not speak for a moment. He merely stared at Juliana, who stood only inches away, her face soft with a compassion so deep and real that his knees nearly gave way. Then, without thinking, he caught her against him. God, how exquisite she felt, how warm and vibrant. Somehow, she gave him the strength to speak the truth.

“Juliana,” he whispered into her hair, “my son is dying. It is only a matter of time.”

He heard her breath snag in her throat. Then she pulled back and raised herself on tiptoe. Her kiss was soft and brief, a glimmer of healing warmth against his dry mouth. “Are you certain?”

Stephen nodded. “My first son, Dickon, had the same affliction. Most doctors and astrologers agree that the disease is an asthmatic fever of the lungs. Eventually Oliver will suffocate, as Dickon did.” The cold, unemotional words belied the raw soreness of grief in Stephen’s throat. “Dickon died in my arms. I could not slay that dragon for him. No matter how much I loved him, no matter how many prayers I said or candles I lit or doctors I consulted, I could not save him.”

“Ah, Stephen.” She touched his cheek. “You take too much upon yourself. Why do you keep Oliver’s existence a secret? Why do you let everyone believe he died at birth?”

“To protect him,” Stephen said fiercely. “My first son was summoned to court to serve as a page. Half a year later, he was dead. The rigors of court life drained the last of his strength.”

“And you fear Oliver will suffer the same fate.”

“Aye.”

“Then you did a wise thing.”

“No, I fear I did a very foolish thing.”

Dropping her hand, she picked up a wooden whirligig from a shelf on the wall. He had made it for Oliver’s fifth name day. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, watching the wooden blades spin.

“I’m not certain. Somehow, King Henry knows about Oliver.” Bitterness twisted Stephen’s mouth into a parody of a smile. “Haven’t you figured it out by now, Baroness?
The threat to summon Oliver to court is the ax hanging over my head. It is the reason I married you.”

She dropped the whirligig with a clatter. “You mean the king is using that poor child as a threat against you?”

“Compassion is one of His Majesty’s lesser virtues.”

She sank to a cushioned stool. In the wavering light of the candle, her hands trembled. Faintly from above came the sound of Oliver coughing. Stephen’s shoulders burned with helpless tension. Then the coughing subsided.

Juliana raised her troubled eyes to him. “You should have told me.”

He let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “’Twould have served nothing.”

“I would have understood.” She reached for his hands and clasped them in hers, drawing him down to the stool next to her. “I want to understand.”

He blew out a long, quavering breath. “After Dickon died, my wife perished giving birth to Oliver, our second son. From the very first breath he took, I heard the wheezing, and I knew he had the same affliction as his brother. It seemed simpler to allow everyone to believe Oliver had died at birth. That is the report that went out by mistake and I took no pains to correct it.”

“Who else knows of him?”

“Only my most trusted retainers. Old Nance Harbutt and her daughter Kristine, who lives here. She is an herbalist, convent trained and exceedingly learned. She oversees the place and tends to Oliver’s needs.”

Juliana glanced at the stairway. “She never leaves him?”

“No. Nor does she ever want to. She took her vows to heart, and the king’s break with Rome offended her deeply. Here, she can dedicate herself to study and prayer.”

“How did the king find out your son lives?”

Propping his elbow on his knee, Stephen winnowed his fingers into his hair. “Though Nance and Kristine and Dr. Strong swear they have kept their counsel, one of them must have let the secret slip.”

“Where is Kristine now?”

“She’s gone to fetch Dr. Strong from Chippenham. The fever worries me.”

As if prompted by the words, Oliver began to cough. Stephen grabbed the candle to light his way. His ears were sharply attuned to the sound, and he was on his feet and climbing the stairs in an instant.
Don’t think. Don’t feel
.

He heard the whisper of skirts on the stair behind him. “Stay back,” he ordered gruffly. “Seeing a stranger will only upset him if he wakes.”

Resentment flared in her eyes but she nodded curtly and hung back in the shadows outside Oliver’s chamber.

“Hush, son,” he whispered to the small figure on the bed. He lit a flame beneath the brazier. As he hurried to the cupboard, he saw from the corner of his eye that Oliver had lifted his hand, reaching for him.

“Lie still,” Stephen muttered, even as some invisible part of him leaped toward the boy. Dr. Strong advised that Oliver not be touched or squeezed in any way, save when he was being bled. Resisting his own instinct to hold Oliver close until the spell passed, Stephen went to work. The routine was painfully familiar—chamomile, chopped and dried, ground arrowroot, and white vinegar that sizzled when it touched the charing bowl over the brazier flame. Though the smoke was noxious, the doctor swore it was beneficial to the lungs.

Thankfully, a full-blown attack did not ensue. Oliver stopped coughing and never fully awakened, although for
a second, his eyes opened and he stared dully at his father. Stephen’s heart twisted with helpless love, but he made no move toward the lad, not wishing to excite him. Best to keep his feelings in check. His emotions numb. His hopes ruthlessly suppressed.

Oliver shut his eyes. He was twitchy and restless, but within a few minutes he was asleep. Stephen snatched up the candle and left the room.

Juliana waited, her fist pressed to her mouth and her eyes shining with tears. She looked as if her heart were breaking.

“You should have gone back to the house,” Stephen said, leading the way down the stairs. “I’ll thank you to leave now. Do not come here again.”