At The King's Command (21 page)

She followed him meekly enough, but stopped in the hall. “When I was ill as a child, my nurse always pulled me into her lap and told me stories. I thought it strange that you did not touch your son, kiss him and tell him it will be all right.”

“That, dear Baroness, would be a lie,” Stephen said furiously. He went to the door.

Her face flushed. “I thought you left each night to visit a mistress.” She glanced at the stairwell. The strong herbal smell was beginning to pervade the house. “I had no idea, Stephen.”

“You were not meant to.”

“But if I had known, I would not have thought ill of you.”

Suddenly the urge to hold her was so great that it scared him. It would be too easy to bring Juliana into his world, into his heart. Too easy to repeat the mistakes of the past—to sell his soul to a beautiful woman.

With an effort of will, he pointedly yanked the door open. “Juliana,” he said, injecting a lethal dose of venom into his voice, “by now you should know that I care not at all what you think of me.”

A son. Stephen had a living son. The thought had kept pace with Juliana as she made her way back through the maze to the manor. She took the idea to bed with her and awoke with the image of the fair-haired child in her mind.

She knew what she must do. “I will be away most of the day, Jillie.”

The burly maid looped Juliana’s long hair into a net coif. “Working at the weaving house again, milady?”

“No.” Juliana stepped into a pair of velvet slippers. “Perhaps your father could use your help in the dye shop.”

“I trow he could. Since the weaving’s begun, he’s got work aplenty.”

“Go, then. I’ll have no need of you today.” Juliana waited until Jillie left, then took out a large tapestry bag. In it she placed a lute, a book and a gypsy tambourine.

Then, when she felt certain no one was observing her, she went down through the long garden, out the gate and through the break in the hedge.

A sense of resolve quickened her steps. For years her sole purpose had been to avenge the murder of her family. That had been a dark and furious goal, one that sapped her strength and sometimes frightened her.

This was different. It was a task lit by the brightness of compassion and warmed by the radiance of hope. Her heart felt feather light as she and Pavlo made their way through the tangled maze and emerged into the sun-filled garden of the cottage.

By day it was even more fantastical than it had been in moonlight. The creatures seemed ready to spring to life as they stood in eternal vigil by the fountain.

She pushed open the door to the cottage and stepped into the room where she had left Stephen. There were the
stools where they had held hands, where he had finally told her of his past, his voice shaking, his eyes haunted by darkness.

It was here that she had faced the truth: she had fallen deeply in love with her handsome, tormented husband.

And it was here that he had cut her off, so swiftly and so brutally.

I care not at all what you think of me
.

She winced at the memory. Then she cast it aside, squared her shoulders and prepared to climb the stairs.

A crash sounded from above, making her jump.

“I won’t eat it!” came a shrill, angry voice. “I will not, and you can’t make me!”

A feminine murmur came in reply.

“You dare not!” said the child. “If you do, I’ll—I’ll tell my father you pinched me.”

Juliana mounted the steps and went to Oliver’s chamber. The door was ajar. Oliver sat up in bed, the color high in his cheeks as he glared mutinously at the young, black-clad woman. Beside the bed lay the pieces of a crockery bowl, and grayish gruel oozed over the floorboards.

“Master Oliver, please—”

“Go and find him something else to break his fast,” Juliana suggested, stepping into the room.

The woman gasped. The boy stared.

“I am Juliana de Lacey,” she said calmly. “His lordship’s wife. And you must be—”

“Dame Kristine Harbutt,” the woman said, her mouth agape as she bumbled through a curtsy. Like so many of the West Country women, she was strong of limb and broad of feature. She wore her rich chestnut hair scraped back into a plain coif, and not a single ornament graced
her drab costume save the heavy rosary beads at her waist. As she recovered from her surprise, keen intelligence shone in her face.

“Nance told me about you,” Juliana said. “It is an honor to meet you. You may leave us now.”

“But—but his lordship said—”

“I am his wife, and I wish to acquaint myself with my stepson. Please.”

Pale and shaken, Dame Kristine picked up the broken bits of pottery and hurried out.

Juliana set down her bag and paused for a moment, looking about the room. Everywhere she saw gifts from Stephen—little clockwork animals, a chess table, stacks and stacks of precious books. A copybook lay open on a table; Oliver had been practicing his penmanship. At the end of the page the careful penstrokes had dissolved into a frustrated scrawl, and the lad had written
Papa is a pysse-potte
.

Trying to look pleasant yet unamused, she crossed the room and pressed at the window latch to open it.

“I’m not to breathe the outdoor air,” said a glum, suspicious voice behind her.

“Nonsense,” Juliana said over her shoulder, pounding at the edge with the heels of her hands. The limewash crumbled and finally gave way, and the dormer window swung open. “It is a glorious day, and the herbs and flowers in the garden smell delicious.”

She went to the bed and sat on the edge, smiling into the boy’s startled face. “So,” she said lightly, “you are Oliver de Lacey.”

He seemed leery of answering her. He continued to stare, and she was amazed at how very like his father he was. Though Oliver’s hair was several shades lighter than
Stephen’s, it seemed to be of the same texture, thick and wavy as a lion’s mane. Equally reminiscent of Stephen were the chiseled shape of the face, the serious mouth. And the strange, cold, moonstone eyes.

Oh, God,
she thought,
he has his father’s eyes.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said at last. He had a raspy, little-boy voice, both wary and petulant.

“Of course I am supposed to be here.” Juliana took care not to smile, for she knew at once that this was a proud, serious little boy who would not care to be patronized. “I am your stepmother.”

“Dame Krissie said my father had married a filthy gypsy.”

“I am gypsy by adoption. And I know many gypsies. They are no cleaner or dirtier than anyone else.”

Oliver coughed absently. “You talk funny.”

“Then you should laugh at me.”

“Not that sort of funny,” he said impatiently. “I mean you sound odd.”

“English is not my mother tongue. I first spoke Russian, and then Romany, the language of the gypsies. Some of your words are hard for me to say. Perhaps you could help me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why should I?”

“Everyone needs help, Oliver. We should all help each other.”

“I don’t want a mother,” he said abruptly.

“Everyone needs a mother, too.”

His fingers, with the nails chewed low, plucked at the counterpane. “I’ve never had a mother.”

“Well, I have never had a little boy. Perhaps we should not worry about that. Perhaps we should simply agree to be friends.”

He tucked his chin against his chest and mumbled something.

“What did you say?” she asked, beginning to ache at the way he huddled on the bed, pale and withdrawn and distant.

He drew a deep breath, then wheezed a little as he tried to expel it. He glared. “I said, I’ve never had a friend, either.’

Juliana caught her breath. She looked quickly away, blinking fast to conquer the tears that pressed at the backs of her eyes. And even as she fought to subdue her sadness, she felt a little lick of rage leap to life inside her. What in God’s name could Stephen be thinking, hiding the lad away like this?

She tamped down her anger, tucked it away to unfurl later, when she would not frighten the boy.

“Oh, Oliver,” she whispered, and she barely got the words past the lump in her throat. She had failed to get hold of herself after all. When words deserted her, she did the only thing she knew to give comfort. She hugged him hard and close, his warm cheek against her chest. Her heart broke for this strange, pitiful boy who lived alone in a world of his own. “Oliver, what is the matter?”

“Don’t…touch…me!” he half shouted, half wheezed. His eyes were bright, the color a more vivid blue than they had been a moment earlier. With a great whoop, he sucked in air, then seemed to struggle to let it out. A thin wheeze escaped him, yet he still seemed to be struggling to exhale.

The lad was air-hungry, strangling; his eyes lost focus and rolled while a gurgling sound rose in his throat. He tore off his bedshirt as if the garment were a prison. With each desperate breath, he sucked in the skin below his breastbone and between his ribs.

“Dame Kristine!” Juliana shouted. “Come quickly! Oliver needs you!”

Dame Kristine pounded up the stairs, burst into the room and rushed to the cupboard. Bottles and crockery clinked as she gathered up medicines and instruments.

Still gasping, Oliver shrank against the headboard. Horrendous hives peppered his neck and chest. It was not simply inhaled air that he was trying to expel, but the panic, too, as if it were a demon to be exorcised.

Dame Kristine shot an outraged look at the wide-open window and slammed it shut, the panes shaking. Then she set a flame to a bag of herbs in the brazier by the bed. Noxious smoke filled the air, and around the smoldering leaves she placed three small, shallow glass cups.

“What set him off?” she asked briskly.

Juliana coughed at the rank odor of the burning herbs. “I—I embraced him.”

Dame Kristine scowled through the thickening smoke. “What do you mean, you embraced him?”

Juliana crossed to the bed. Some of Oliver’s exhalations were long and labored; others were short and shallow. She had never in her life felt so helpless. Despite what had happened earlier, she yearned to smooth a white-blond lock of hair from his brow.

“I held him close.” She dropped to her knees and gazed intently into his eyes. The terror was buried so deep she knew she could not reach him. “I am sorry, Oliver,” she whispered while the voice inside her begged him to stay with her, pleaded with him not to be sucked down by the fear.

“Oliver, I have never met a boy like you. I didn’t know you did not like to be touched. Dame Kristine is here and she is fixing some medicine. Come back to us.” Juliana
stayed there until her knees ached. She stayed until they went numb. She kept up a gentle endless patter reminiscent of the way she would speak if she were trying to calm a skittish colt.

Oliver’s fear-filled gaze clung to her, and she dared not even blink for fear of losing him.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“My lady, it is over.”

No!
Juliana screamed inside. “He cannot be…” She choked back a sob.

“The attack, my lady. Master Oliver’s breathing is better now.”

At last Juliana began to understand what Stephen endured every minute of every day. The unbearable apprehension, the uncertainty. A careless word by a servant could send Stephen into a panic.

“Oliver?” she whispered. “You are feeling better, yes?”

“Yes,” he said in a thin voice.

Dame Kristine busied herself with the tray of instruments. Oliver’s face showed only blank disinterest as he lowered the twisted bedclothes and turned over on his stomach.

His ribs stood out like a starveling’s, and his skin was nearly as pale as the bleached linen sheets. Horrid scars in a sinister pattern scored his back. He turned his head to the side and asked, “Is it to be the leeches or the cups this time, Dame Kristine?”

Dame Kristine sucked her tongue, her manner brisk. “Cupping, I think. Lie still now….”

She worked with the deftness of long habit, drawing a thin knife along Oliver’s left shoulder and placing a hot cup over the wound. Juliana stayed on her knees in a state of horror and awe as Dame Kristine made two more cuts.

The herbal smoke hung like a blue-gray shroud over the room. A pounding began in Juliana’s ears and a soft moan escaped her.

“Never seen a cupping before?” Oliver asked in a flat, chillingly adult tone.

“No.”

“You look greensick.” Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Maybe Dame Kristine has something in the cupboard for you.”

Realizing that this was an attempt at jesting, Juliana forced herself to smile. “Not today. I think my humors are properly balanced.”

He drifted off to sleep, and the hives on his skin faded away. Dame Kristine put up her medicaments.

“Will he be all right?” Juliana whispered.

Dame Kristine gave a curt nod. “The spell passed more quickly than usual. He seemed to like having you here, talking to him.”