Castle of Dreams (8 page)

“That was wise of you, Guy.” Isabel stared at
him, her deep blue eyes wide. “I think it would be a good idea for
you to sleep in the anteroom tonight. I’ll send the other servants
away, and then we can be absolutely certain no one else will hear
any raving he may do. You and I are trustworthy.”

“I suppose you are right. I am free of my
duties to the king until morning.” Guy looked down at the inert
mass that was Lionel. “I wish he wouldn’t drink so much. Is there
anything else I can do for him?”

“Yes, help me to take his clothes off.”

“All of them?”

“Every stitch. Then we’ll put him between the
covers. He’ll be more comfortable that way.”

They got Lionel undressed and into the bed.
Agnes fussed around them, wringing her hands and getting in the
way.

“Go down to the women’s quarters and stay
there, Isabel ordered. “I won’t need you until morning.”

“But, my lady, I can’t leave you alone.”

“I will be with my husband,” Isabel said.
“And Guy will be here to keep watch for us.”

After Lionel was settled, Isabel brought Guy
a blanket and a pillow.

“You should be comfortable here by the fire,”
she told him.

“It will be strange, sleeping by myself. I’m
usually with all the other pages,” Guy said.

“Good night. And thank you.” Isabel kissed
him lightly on the cheek and went into her bedroom.

Guy stretched out before the fire. The embers
were glowing red, the only light in the room. He was glad to be
alone. He was much troubled of late, not only by his older
brother’s irrational behavior but by the strange dreams that
tormented him,

For the first time in his life, Guy had
fallen madly into love, with Kate, one of the kitchen wenches, a
buxom, red-haired lass of eighteen. To make matters worse, he had
accidentally seen her in the bathhouse one day, catching a glimpse
of smooth, well-rounded white thighs and haunches and of a
tantalizing triangle of red hair, and he could not get: her out of
his mind. He knew it was sinful but he could not stop thinking of
her. Every night he dreamed of her, of her creamy flesh and that
alluring patch of hair. Guy had never had a woman, and sometimes he
doubted that he ever would. He had tried desperately to forget
Kate, knowing the attachment was unsuitable. Perhaps tonight, alone
in a strange place, with his brother and sister-in-law just a few
steps away, the spell would be broken and he at last would sleep
soundly and awaken refreshed and unashamed.

His mind wandered as he stared at the dying
embers in the fireplace. His eyelids drooped, and he drifted into
deep, dreamless sleep.

She came to him in the darkest part of the
night. The fire had gone out completely and he could see nothing,
but he knew it was Kate because her skin was as smooth and soft to
the touch as he had imagined it would be. He had been awakened by
someone pulling at his hose, unfastening them to lay his
masculinity bare, and when he put up protesting hands he felt
smooth female flesh. At the same moment a mouth had fastened itself
on his, stifling his astonished outcry. His youthful body responded
instantaneously, coming alive with a great, manly surge under her
searching fingers. He felt a hesitation, as though she was
surprised at what she had done to him.

He wanted to show her he was not unskilled in
such matters, so he thrust his tongue into her mouth, a trick one
of his friends had told him about, and Kate’s reaction was all his
friend had promised it would be. She gasped aloud, then squirmed
closer to him, opening her own mouth wider and touching his tongue
with hers, while all the time her fingers were stroking his manhood
until he thought he would burst. He knew he could not wait. It must
be now, this very instant. He rolled over, taking her with him, and
her fingers guided him to the place where he wanted to go. Blinding
lights flashed before his eyes as the world exploded. He would have
cried out but she held his mouth to hers, her hands now at his
head, and so, except for a few muffled groans, they made no
sound.

He could not believe it was done so quickly.
His hand brushed a small, rounded breast, and stayed there, feeling
a point rising from its center in response to his touch. He wished
the fire were not out. He wanted to see her face, with the grey
eyes and the freckles, and her funny pointed chin.

“Dear Kate,” he whispered, and heard a
chuckle. “Do you love me too? I thought you did, though you would
not say it.”

For answer, she groaned and kissed him again
and put her tongue in his mouth, and he realized he had been
rubbing her breast, on and on, and that she was writhing beneath
his touch. Odd, how small her breasts felt in the dark. She grabbed
at him with both hands. He had not imagined it was possible to do
it again so soon after the first time, but there was no question he
could, and this time it was different, for she was twisting and
pushing against him and crying out softly as if she no longer cared
if they awakened Lionel and Isabel, and he sensed that this time
the explosion was happening to her, too. It was taking him longer
than before and it felt wonderful. It went on and on … Never in his
life known such hot, sweet bliss.

He awakened in the grey dawn and thought it
had been a dream until he pushed aside the blanket and saw himself
exposed, his hose all undone. For a ghastly moment Guy thought he
had done this to himself while he slept, before he remembered Kate
and realized what must have happened. Kate had seen him taking
Lionel from the banquet hall, that was it, and she had followed
them. She must have seen Agnes depart from Isabel’s chambers and
guessed that he would be alone, guarding his brother’s door, and
she, dear, beloved Kate, had waited until everyone was asleep and
then had come to him to give him the marvelous gift of her love for
one night.

He could not understand why, when he found
her bending over the kitchen fire later that morning and went up to
her and put his arms around her, she pushed him away and slapped
him and called him a silly boy. Perhaps, he mused afterward, she
wanted to be discreet, to save her reputation. He did not think she
regretted the episode, for he believed she had enjoyed it as much
as he had. He whistled happily as he went about his page’s duties
that day, for here he was, Guy fitz Lionel of Adderbury, almost
fifteen years old, and a man at last.

Lionel opened bleary, red-rimmed eyes, and
after a few moments of trying to focus them, glared at his
wife.

“What the devil are you doing in my bed?” he
demanded.

“It is my bed, my lord.” Isabel glared right
back at him, looking as fierce as she possibly could. “Your brother
brought you here last night out of concern that you would ruin
yourself in a drunken rage at the king.”

“Guy did that?” Lionel lay back against the
pillows to ease his aching head. “He’s a good lad.”

“That may be, but I am not so pleased he
brought you here.” Isabel, who was truly upset, blinked hard,
letting two tears fall from her lovely eyes.

“What’s this?” Lionel stared at her. “My Lady
Ice, weeping? Are you so afraid I’ll ruin us both with the
king?”

“No, not that.” Isabel pressed her lips
together to stop their trembling, then plunged on. “I know it is
your right, my lord, and I know you had been drinking heavily.”

“Woman, what are you talking about?” Lionel
sat up, shaking his head carefully, as if to shake his wits into
order.

“You.” Isabel swallowed hard and looked
straight into his eyes. “You asserted your husbandly rights over
me, my lord.”

“I? Never!”

“Well, you did it once before, and though you
said it would never happen again, it did, last night.”

“It did?” Lionel looked at her with a blank
expression on his face.

“I assume it was because you were drunk. And
angry. You were very rough about it.”

“I don’t remember a thing.” Lionel put his
forehead between his hands, holding his head steady. “Get me some
wine before my head falls off.”

Isabel got out of bed and went to the table.
She picked up a jug of wine and a goblet and began to pour. She
knew Lionel was staring at her, for she had not a stitch on.

“Where’s your nightrobe?” he demanded.

“You ordered me to take it off last
night.”

“Well, put something on now. .You’re
disgusting!”

“Yes, my lord.” It was cold in the
bedchamber, so she wrapped herself in a woolen robe and came to
stand at his side of the bed.

“It’s all right, my lord. I won’t tell anyone
about this.” It occurred to her that it was an odd thing to be
worrying about, a man sleeping with his lawful wife, but this
jealous king’s court operated by its own peculiar rules. She
sighed, thinking how simple everything had been when she had been
an innocent girl in Brittany, dreaming of a handsome knight for her
husband. In a wave of unaccustomed tenderness, she reached forward
and brushed a lock of burnished golden hair off Lionel’s forehead.
He reared backward, nearly spilling wine out of the goblet she had
given him.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to upset you
further when you have so much on your mind just now, but I thought
it best to tell you at once. One never knows what the result will
be. An heir for Adderbury, perhaps.” Her voice held a note of faint
hope.

“Yes.” Lionel stared into his wine. “I’m glad
you told me. You have always been honest with me, Isabel. You are
the only honest woman I have ever known. If only my mother had been
like you.”

“I have tried to be the kind of wife you
want, my lord,” Isabel said, her eyes lowered.

“You have done your best, though I am not the
husband you deserved to be given.” Unexpectedly, he caught her hand
and held it. “Do they mock you much, those gossiping ladies who
adorn the court, because you have no child?”

“Sometimes. I pay them no heed.” She had not
known he was aware of the unkind way she was often treated. “I am
the lady of Adderbury. What others say matters nothing to me.”

“Brave Isabel.” He kissed her hand lightly,
then let it go. He rose, reaching for his clothes, which Guy had
folded neatly and laid on a low wooden chest the night before.

“I would wish I had given you a child last
night,” Lionel said, pulling on his linen undershirt, “but I doubt
a man such as myself could get a healthy child, and even if I did,
what sort of creature would it grow up to be?”

She went to him, to help him fasten his hose,
her fingers suddenly trembling and unable to hold the laces. She
put her arms around his waist instead and laid her head on his
chest.

“Don’t.” He pushed her aside, not roughly,
but in firm dismissal.

“My lady?” Agnes appeared at the bedroom
door. “Good morning, my lord. Your brother Guy has just left. He
asked me to tell you he stayed all night in the anteroom. He has
gone to the kitchen to get something to eat before he must attend
the king. What dress will you wear today, my lady?”

“Put on your new red gown,” Lionel said, “and
the ruby necklace I gave you last Christmas, and come down to the
king’s banquet at noon. And do be especially pleasant to the
king.”

There was no war with Scotland after all.
Instead, a treaty, which few expected to last long, was concluded
with King Malcolm, who then took his soldiers back across the
border. Meanwhile, Duke Robert, having no other fighting to do once
the war was cancelled, soon quarreled again with his equally
bellicose brother, the king, and returned to Normandy just before
Christmas. Within a few days of Robert’s departure Lionel had
resumed his former close relationship with William, and spent that
Christmastide in high good humor, blithely ignoring the increasing
irritation of Ralph Flambard, the king’s other close friend. Isabel
was soon weighted down with new jewels and had several gowns made
from some of the many lengths of fine silk William had given
Lionel.

“And lands,” Lionel exulted. “New honors.
William is making up for all the embarrassment he caused me in the
last few months. I’ve seen to that. No one pleases him as I
do.”

Isabel said nothing to this. She did not want
to know exactly how Lionel pleased the king. She had come to detest
the tall, brassy-haired ruler, who flattered her until she felt ill
with his falseness, and often made her sit beside him at his
day-long banquets. On those occasions he drank himself into sodden
quarrelsomeness, and all the while his hard blue eyes regarded her
with cold malice, knowing she could not leave her place at table
until he gave her permission. She was sure King William disliked
her as much as she disliked him. She could have forgiven him his
scandalous private life, even though that life included her husband
on the most intimate terms, if only he had been a good king. But he
was not.

William Rufus believed that England was his
own private preserve. All that was in it, even revenues rightly
belonging to the Church, and all of the people who inhabited
England were, in William’s eyes, his personal property, to do with
as he wished.

Isabel knew taxes had been raised to
ridiculously high levels, for even Lionel was not exempt from them.
He had complained privately to her that the wealth of Adderbury as
well as his other holdings was being drained away to support
William’s opulent way of life. Other noblemen were enduring the
same strains.

William was aided in his exactions by his
clever henchman, Ralph Flambard, whom Lionel loathed and who
continually tried to undermine Lionel’s relationship with the king.
Ralph had devised a plan whereby upon each nobleman’s death his
lands were inherited by the king and had to bought back from
William by the dead man’s heirs. Furthermore, widows, daughters,
and minor sons became wards of the king, who not only managed their
properties for them, taking all the revenues for himself, but could
sell off heirs in marriages he arranged, thus increasing the
crown’s income even more.