His Fair Lady (47 page)

A shiver passed through Juliana. “Please,
let me through.”

She started to shove past the huge bird but
its wing shot up. ‘Twas no wing at all, but a feathered cloak, she
realized, as it enshrouded her totally, a hidden hand closing over
her mouth.

Juliana struggled against the mummer’s hold
as he dragged her into a separate corridor, then thrust her hard
against the wall. Pain exploded through the back of her head as it
contacted the stone. Dazedly, she felt the hand leave her mouth,
replaced by cold steel pressing into her throat.

“Not a word,” the man hissed in her ear.

Juliana ceased to breathe as she recognized
the voice of Rennart de Friston.

»«

“I am sorry, Lord Royce.” Lady Margaret
smiled politely. “I don’t know where your lady is. She didn’t
return to our table after the mummers left.”

Royce uttered his thanks then drew his gaze
over the chamber once again. Where had Juliana disappeared to?
Noting Guy of Lisors speaking with Friar Tupper at the lower end of
the hall, Royce started their way. Mayhap one of them had caught
sight of her.

“Lady Juliana was dancing with the mummers,
last I saw her,” Guy supplied, moments later.

“I as well,” Friar Tupper added.

Royce expelled a breath. He disliked not
knowing where she was, especially since she’d left without a
word.

“I’m beginning to regret encouraging her to
join the others. I’d expected her to return to our table once the
dance was finished.”

“But, I saw her after that, my son, amidst
the mummers as they capered out of the hall.”

Royce’s gaze vaulted to the monk. Most of
the players were nobles in disguise. Likely, they’d returned to
their quarters to change from their costumes. Had Juliana returned
to their own chamber as well? But why? Could his speaking with the
countess have provoked her to leave?

“I must find her,” Royce mumbled, heading
for the door.

Friar Tupper and Guy followed directly
behind, offering
their help. On questioning the castle
guards posted outside the door, the soldiers pointed them in the
direction the mummers took. Asked further if they’d seen a lady
with the performers, one with silvery bright hair, one man
nodded.

“Aye, a beauty. She favored the queen.”

Royce hastened on, following the
corridor, the minstrel and monk behind him. As they approached the
passage’s end, a young man with a cap of blond curls stumbled out
of a side room, holding his head, blood streaming through his
fingers. Royce caught him as the
fellow
^’
s knees folded and
eased him to the floor.

“‘
Tis Lord Edward
Haverlock
^’
s son,” Guy voiced
with some surprise, recognizing the noble.

Royce looked to the young man’s wound,
a nasty gash on the side of his head. “Who did this to
you?
^”
he pressed.

“Don’t know . . . a man. . .black hair . . .
scar on the side of his face . . . stole my costume . .

“Friston,
^”
Royce spat
the name. “What was the costume? What does it look
like?
^”

“V-Vulture . . . tall, very tall.”

“God’s wounds, Juliana was dancing with
Friston all along! He must have her now.”

The young man sagged heavily against
Royce, losing consciousness. “See to him, Friar,” Royce charged,
giving Haverlock
^’
s son over to
the monk
^’
s care.

Rising to his feet, Royce debated what to do
next. Friston’s unwavering determination to gain control of Juliana
boded ill. Very ill.

“Guy, call out Penhurst’s men-at-arms. Have
them check all of Guildford’s gates. See if anyone departed. I’ll
have others search the castle, room by room, though ‘tis more
likely he’ll try to reach the river with my lady. He seemed intent
on leaving English soil as swift as he could.”

Royce started back down the corridor, then
pivoted, calling back to Guy.

“Tell my men I’ll join them as soon as I am
armed. Should Friston harm Lady Juliana, he’s a dead man!”

»«

“Smile, my lady.” Friston pressed the tip of
his knife into Juliana’s side as they exited the keep, past a pair
of guards, and started down the long flight of steps.

“Is this how you treat your cousin?” She
taunted as he continued to clutch her against him, the blade hidden
beneath the folds of her mantle.

He made no reply, but on reaching the bottom
of the stairs, forced her across the castle’s inner ward. He
afforded a few friendly nods to those they encountered, presumably
wishing others to think them late-night revelers who sought some
private spot.

Juliana shuddered, part from fear, part from
the bitter cold. At least the Frenchman had allowed her the feather
cloak to wear. Her silken gown and mantle were little protection
against the frigid air, a fresh layer of snow having fallen earlier
and the breeze now moving off it, whipping particles of ice into
her cheeks. Friston fared better. He’d retrieved his own heavy
mantle along with his sword, hidden in a storage room. At the same
time, he discarded the vulture mask.

Friston propelled her toward the stables,
but when two soldiers appeared, making their rounds, he shoved her
against the wall of the nearest building, trapping her there with
his bulk while he buried his face in her hair. To any who looked
their way they would appear lovers. In truth, his knife was set
firmly between her breasts.

The back of Juliana’s head continued to ache
where she’d hit it, but now her temples began to throb also. She
winced at the pain, a fragment of memory flickering before her
mind’s eye — Friston again, the side of his face bleeding. What did
it mean? She couldn’t quite grasp it.

The soldiers strode on, coarsely cheering
the Frenchman to “snatch a bit” for them. Friston darted a glance
about the ward and assured they were alone. Once more, he began
dragging Juliana along with him.

“You’ll never get through the main gate.
‘Twill be barred for the night and heavily guarded.” Juliana hoped
what she said was true. Cities locked their gates at dark, why not
the king his castle?

“We won’t be using the main gate.”

Friston gave her a hard smile, one
that raised the hair on the nape of Juliana’s neck. Holding her arm
in a bruising grip, he drew her past the outbuildings, toward
the
west gate in Guildford’s curtain wall. She
recoiled, realizing it to be the entrance to the royal game
park.

“Why are you taking me here? I thought you
were eager to sail for France.”

“I am, and I shall.”

“Through the park?” she pressed, skepticism
in her voice.

“The river runs below the castle and I’ve
hired a packet there. We’ll reach it through the woods.”

“But how? The park is enclosed.” Juliana
resisted him, not trusting the Frenchman, not liking the idea of
venturing into the darkened forest, stocked with all manner of
beasts for the hunt. Friston drew her on, his knife a sharp
reminder to do as he said.

“Naught but a deep ravine compasses the
park,” he finally replied. “‘Twill be manageable enough.”

“For you, mayhap,” Juliana shot back. When
the Frenchman said nothing, a black fear seized her. Possibly he’d
no intention that she should leave the park at all. “There is still
the gate into the park. ‘Twill be locked and guarded too,” she
argued, her heart racing.

Friston eyed her, his look impenetrable.
“Like the boat, that too has been taken care of.”

As they approached the looming gate, oaken
and iron studded, Juliana saw that a single guard kept watch of it.
She started to cry out and appeal for help, but Friston jerked her
toward him and seized her lips brutally with his own. Silencing
her, he continued to pull her forward. To Juliana’s alarm, the
guard only laughed and drew out his keys. Unlocking the small
wicket door set within the larger gate, he opened it and allowed
them through.

When they continued on without stopping, the
guard followed behind. “Aren’t you forgetting something, friend?
The rest of the coin you promised?”

Friston halted, pulling his lips from
Juliana. “Sorry, the woman has me so hot, I forgot. Here you
are.”

As the guard moved behind them, Friston
reached toward his waist, momentarily releasing his hold on
Juliana. She stumbled back, then saw her chance to run. But before
she managed another step, Friston wheeled round, plunging his knife
into the man’s stomach. Slipping a second knife from his belt, he
slit the man’s throat in one quick movement.

Filled with horror, Juliana watched as the
guard sank to the snow, choking on his blood. A wave of dizziness
assaulted her, pain piercing her temples, all about her pressing
in.

Juliana broke into a run, panicked.
Suddenly, the edges of her vision dimmed, and she found herself
hurled back in time. She was a child of eight again, fleeing the
manor house, heading for the nearby stand of trees. Aldis, her
nurse, hurried her on, while behind them the village burned and the
people screamed their terror.

Juliana stumbled onto her knees and hands,
jarring her back to the present as her fingers turned to ice in the
snow. Picking herself up again, she forced herself on, her feet
numbed with cold in her thin slippers.

Gratefully, the full moon reflected off the
snow, brightening the landscape to near day, making its features
distinct — patterns of black and white. The forest’s edge lay near.
If only she could reach it, perhaps she could find cover and
hide.

Royce, where was he? Had he missed her yet?
Could he find her? She saw how the snow appeared churned, then
remembered the king had hunted with his barons this morn. Her heart
sank, realizing she was leaving no clear path for anyone to follow.
Remembering the mummer’s cloak she wore, she began to yank feathers
off the fabric, dropping them as she rushed on.

Juliana took no more than five steps when a
weight slammed down on her shoulders — two hands, Friston’s,
dragging her back down to the snowy ground. She clawed forward, but
he rolled her onto her back then lay atop her, jamming the bloody
knife blade beneath her chin.

“Will you kill me next? Like the guard?” she
challenged, her heart beating wildly. “Why? Is this how you claim
your rights to your kinswoman? Penhurst is not so grand a property
to do murder for it.”

“Come now, Lady Juliana. Do not play me for
a fool. We both know, I am not your cousin.”

“We do?” She feigned innocence, the pain in
her temples spreading.

“Aye, ‘tis easily read in your eyes. I knew,
once you returned to your homeland — to places familiar to you,
‘twas only a matter of time before you regained your memory.”

He slackened his pressure on the knife,
hauled her to her feet, and lowered the blade to her ribs. Then,
catching her by the arm, he forced her on toward the forest’s
edge.

“Why should my memory matter to you? Who are
you?” Juliana managed to drop another feather unnoticed.

Friston gave her a sidelong glance but did
not answer directly. “Pity that the people of Chinon are such
braggarts. News travels swiftly, especially when ‘tis so remarkable
a tale as your own — a peasant maid, revealed to be a lost heiress
of noble blood, carried off from the church steps on her wedding
day by a knight of the English realm. Had the townsfolk not been so
avid to boast their news, word still might not have reached me of
the maid who’d survived the bloodletting at that cursed patch of
earth named Vaux.”

“Vaux?” Juliana went to stone in his grip,
causing the Frenchman to lurch to a halt. She flinched again as
fresh pain shot through her temples, some image trying to emerge.
“What do you know of Vaux?”

“Enough.
”

“I’m not the only survivor,” she felt
suddenly compelled to say. “There were others.”

“Villagers only. None from the manor house
save you. I confess, on learning of your existence, ‘twas a relief
to discover you’d no memory of the event. Again the townsfolk of
Chinon were most helpful, especially a certain cooper who’d lost
his bride.”

“Gervase?” she uttered his name, aghast. How
many times had he betrayed her, knowingly or not?

The Frenchman dragged her on with him.
“Better for you to never regain your memory, Lady Juliana. But how
can I trust you won’t?”

“Why does it matter?” she countered. “‘Twas
ten years ago. What is Vaux to you?”

He halted, rounding on her. “Nothing, and
everything. Vaux’s lord was responsible for the death of my only
son and heir, and that of my wife, who could not bear the
loss.”

Juliana’s breath left her at the revelation,
but he’d already transferred his attention elsewhere. Seeing they
stood at the rim of the forest, Friston stared into it as if to
consider what might lurk there. Releasing Juliana, he drew his
sword from its scabbard and raised it before him. Moonlight danced
along the steel’s honed edge, riveting Juliana’s gaze. The sight
touched some memory deep inside her, something dark, long
buried.

The throbbing in her temples multiplied, a
searing pain arcing over the top of her head. As Friston turned his
scarred face toward her, his sword glinting in his hand, an
explosion of images burst forth in Juliana’s head. Screaming, she
clutched her head in her hands and crumpled to her knees, her past
flooding back in vivid detail.

»«

Royce bolted to his feet at the sound of a
woman’s scream. “Juliana!”

Judging the direction of her cry, he quickly
turned back to his companions at the wicket door where they
crouched over the slain guard.