Claudia Dain (35 page)

Roger and Father Matthew stood by the wellhead in the far corner of the great hall. It was a dark spot and quiet now that the meal was past. The broad stairs leading to the tower gate were across the wide hall from them, and they could hear the subdued voice of Juliane and the rumbling answer of a male voice within that sheltered place. Ulrich, each man surmised. Who else on the day of her marriage?

"He gave up Stamford," Roger said.

"Aye, but not to me," Father Matthew said. "He gave it to Crowland Abbey. Those rents Thomas will never see."

"I fear you are right, Father," Roger said. "By the king's law, he can lay claim to no rents in England now."

"The king's law," Father Matthew said, each word a stone of outrage. "The king is not above God, nor is his law. Thomas is God's man on earth, and no man of God shall ever bow to any but God. This must be put to rights. Thomas must return to England."

"And so the struggle continues," Roger said. "I come not to argue it out with you. I come only to find where your loyalties lie... and to get what coin I may for the purse of the just."

"I cannot give what is not mine to give."

"Is there no way to get Stamford under your hand?"

"Nay. The will is set and the ink dried. Stamford is given and not to me. I did what I could. At least it will go to serve God and not man's greed."

But it would also not aid Thomas of London in his holy battle with King Henry. Roger kept that thought to himself and merely nodded at this priest who would not give what was not his.

* * *

Father Matthew hurried into the chapel, late for Vespers. None there seemed to care. If any in that solemn and holy chamber had a thought for prayer, Ulrich would have been most surprised. Nay, all thought was devoted to the coming consummation of his marriage upon the bridal bed.

He was not looking forward to it.

All the carefully won effects of their wine wager were undone, vomited up in the portal of the tower gate. Juliane was sober again, disagreeably sober, and frowning up at Father Matthew. Ulrich had hoped to give her the haze of drunkenness to blunt the coming trial. The only thing blunted now was her good humor, and she had little of that to spare.

Nay, he was being ungenerous. She was awash in good humor, particularly at his expense, and he could not seem to fault her for it. Never had he jousted so willingly and so enthusiastically with a woman. She never cried "foul," and she never pretended offense. He enjoyed her fully, and that was something of a surprise.

He had played at the joust of seduction since his first chin hairs sprouted, and he had loved the game. He loved the smiling warfare, the twisting of words to suit his amorous purpose, the stolen kisses that were not stolen at all. He had excelled at the game from the start. He had made a name for himself, a name for courtly courtesy and ardent flattery and for the sweet winning of a lady's heart. 'Twas a noble game, smiled upon and encouraged by Eleanor, queen of England and lady of Aquitaine, and be performed in this ritual of hearts with ease.

He had nothing else to sell. He was proficient in arms, but so were all knights. He had sold his sword and his loyalty to many a baron and even a count, but he had been cast loose when money, that merchants' disease, ran thin or when favor ran out. Hard living, to be so free.

But no more. He had his place. He was not free upon the earth, like an eagle searching for hare and finding only mice. He was Ulrich of St. Ives, and he would give his child a place and a name. This would last. This would be where he would plant his feet and find his footing. St. Ives and Juliane. St. Ives because of Juliane.

For that alone he would cherish her.

For that alone he would protect her.

But it was sweet rejoicing that he found so much joy in her. That, he had not planned for.

It was also clear that she had not planned for him. What maid would? He brought nothing to her but a smile and a sword, and she had been awash in those since her breasts sprouted from her ribs, if he could judge. And he could. He was well versed in women and their attributes and saw the wealth of Juliane beyond the worth of Stamford, lost to her now by her father's hand. Juliane had a firm grasp of her own worth, rare in a woman not a queen, and resented him for tumbling her value in the eyes of the world. For so it would be. She married beneath her station, if not her blood.

He was proclaimed Henry's son.

That Philip believed his lineage had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. To be the bastard son of a dead king was honor small enough and worth nothing in coin. But his parentage mattered little now. He had the only thing he had ever sought: a wife and land. His son's place was secure.

"You seem quite pleased with yourself."

Ulrich looked down at the top of Juliane's blond head, "I am."

"You should be. You have what all men want. Me."

"I know," he said, grinning.

"You think you will keep me," she said, snorting delicately and derisively.

"Yea, I think I will keep you," he said, running a fingertip down her spine.

She swatted at his hand. "One other believed the same. You are not the first," she said with some satisfaction.

He pulled her hair lightly and whispered, "You are not my first either."

She glared at him and used her pointy elbow to prod him in the ribs. He grabbed her by both arms and held her elbows well behind her back. And smiled up at Father Matthew, who was watching them with a frown.

"You are angry," he said. "You thought you were the first to capture my eyes and then my heart. I have been long out in the world, lady wife. I have fallen many times for a lovely face and form, for a sweet mouth and honeyed discourse. You do outshine them all," he said playfully, "but you are not my first."

"'Twas my land you fell for," she said, trying to discreetly pull her arms back to her sides.

"That, too," he agreed with an innocent smile.

"And all for your son. I am bartered for a boy," she said. "A bastard."

"Aye," he said, looking up at Father Matthew, "he is a bastard, yet he is mine, my son, and I will give him better than was given me. He shall have a home, Juliane. Think on that. If you take no pleasure in giving me a name, think of how you give a small boy a home."

"Yet mine is lost to me by this giving," she said, looking up at him. "All of me is lost in this giving."

He could feel her eyes upon him and he looked down at her. Her blue eyes were sparkling bright with unshed tears, her face held stiff against pain and loss. He knew the look and would not be the author of such pain. But he could do nothing to counter this sorrow. He could not give up the land to assuage Juliane. He had to give his son a legacy and a place upon the earth. He could not give him less, not when the prize was won and in his hand.

"St. Ives will be your home, and mine. Can you not accept the gift? Take me and my son and the holding of St. Ives. Give us a home, Juliane, for I have wandered the world all my life, searching for the haven of you. Let me find my rest in you and the bounty of St. Ives."

He spoke from his heart, all chivalry and courtly manner abandoned in favor of blunt need and open pleading. He wanted her, for she was home and rest. He needed her.

"I will not submit to you, Ulrich," she said, her eyes shimmering and her look uneasy. "I cannot give up without a fight. It is not in me to do so, no matter your needs."

"This I know, Juliane le Gel. Fight on if you must, yet when this fight is done and past, will you be a good wife to me? Will you submit to loss with grace?"

Juliane smiled crookedly and said, "How can I answer you, Lord Mutton, when I have never lost? I do not know the manner of my losing. I pray to God I never shall partake of that knowing."

"Fair enough," he said, smiling down at her. She was a fair adversary, and there was much joy in fighting on level ground. She was a beauty, in truth, in body and in spirit, well deserving of her legend and her name. He would not tarnish her for all the holdings in England. "I shall win you in this wager, our final wager. I shall lay you down and you shall fall to me. Your virgin's blood is mine, Juliane," he said in soft promise.

"It will not be," she vowed solemnly.

Looking down at her, at the blond, shimmering fire of her, he said, "It must and will be, lady. Be sure of that."

"Oh, I am sure of many things, my lord," she said, all vulnerability sheathed again behind her cool allure.

"Then let the final wager begin, lady. The hour of Vespers is drawing to a close. It is time for our vows to be made full."

* * *

"It is time, past time," Conor said. "Our plans must be set and our action swift now. Nothing can stop this false marriage but the consummation, and I do not want to lay my hopes and plans upon the rising and falling of that knight's cock."

"I am with you, step for step. Let it begin now. I am ready," Nicholas said.

He had not been so keen until his thwarted kiss with hot Juliane and the double dose of insult he had taken from that errant knight who had smiled his way into land and title. Nay, now he was in it to the full. He wanted Juliane and he meant to have her. And it would be the sweeter for the sharp knife of lost winnings that he would hold to Ulrich's throat. To lose Juliane was hard.

"You are in this with me? Step for step?" Conor asked.

"'Tis for my house and my sister's name that I act. You have no such cause in this fight."

In his sister's name? Nay, this was all for Conor and the feeding of his pride and vengeance. Of his sister, there was only rancid memory, the foundation upon which his war was built. Nicholas knew enough of Conor to see that truth. But why argue it? They were allies now, allies in the taking of Juliane.

Had Philip's bond with Maud in the taking of Emmelia been any different? There were none living who cared.

"I have my name, which I prize as highly as you do your own. I want Juliane and I am worthy of her; an equal pairing we would make between us. I will not take insult from a nameless knight and not rise up to fight against it. That is my cause. It is enough."

"Aye, it is enough," Conor said, looking at him in hard appraisal.

Nicholas met the look and waited. In this pairing, they must trust each other well or all would fall apart.

"For my part, I must be swift," Nicholas said. "I must take her now, before he can lift her skirts and find her blood. Keep him from her for a time, as they leave the chapel and all is confusion. I will take her off, away from here, and make her mine."

"Of her seizing, I have no doubt, but are you certain you can find her blood and mark her? This is the crux upon which the whole matter falls, the taking of Juliane and the legendary failure of men to do so."

"Have no doubts, as I have none. I have tasted her mouth. I will taste the rest," Nicholas said. "What of the son of Ulrich? St. Ives may still be lost to you unless Ulrich can be dissuaded from giving chase."

"I know who is the son," Conor said, "and I will make a threat against him that no father could ignore."

"Who is the son of Ulrich? Is he here in Stanora? That was careless reckoning on Ulrich's part, to have the key to all his hopes lying about for any to grab and hold against his plans."

"Aye, he is here," Conor said. "'Tis yon boy of raven hair. William, he is called."

* * *

"But all are going to watch. That is most unfair," Lunete whispered to William as Father Matthew raised his voice to be heard above the muted conversations swirling below him.

"Only three," William said. "And 'twas her father's will and wish, none of Ulrich's. He should not be held to account."

"I do not hold him to account, but it is most unfair. I would not like it. I would not do it."

"What would you do to stop it?"

"I do not know, but... something," Lunete said, her fair cheeks turning pink at the thought.

"Will Juliane do something?"

"I do not know that I should tell you. You are with
him
."

"Aye, he is my lord, the knight I serve, but," he said, chewing his lip in thought, "but I will not betray you, if what you say does not betray my lord."

"Non-binding trust," Lunete said. "How much weight will that hold, I wonder?"

"I give you what I can, Lunete," he whispered, watching Father Matthew and the agitation in his eyes. The chapel was most loud today, and not with the holy strains of Latin. "Can I do more? I cannot betray my lord."

"Nay," she sighed. "You cannot. I will not ask it."

They said nothing for a time, watching Father Matthew with bright eyes and still lips, their thoughts far from Vespers and heavenly projects. The coming battle between Juliane and Ulrich consumed the thoughts of all within that chapel at that hour. Surely God, knowing the frailty of the human heart, would forgive?

"So," William whispered, "will Juliane do something to fight this? Will she break against her father's will?"

"She will not go down quietly, I can promise you that."

"But she will go down?"

Lunete chewed her bottom tip and shook her head. "I was not here before, for that first marriage that fell to ruin for lack of virgin's blood, but I know her legend is built on foundations firm. I cannot see how he will defeat her."