Juliana Garnett (3 page)

For some reason his reaction rankled. Though she had no idea why she should care, Annice took affront. Few men looked at her without interest; even those infrequent visitors who had not yet been made aware of her status as heiress had appreciated her looks. She was not vain about her appearance, but she would have been utterly ignorant not to realize the effect she had on men at times. Too many men had stammered out paeans of praise for her “fair, beauteous face.” It had never mattered to her before, yet it was oddly disturbing that the Lord of Dragonwyck did not seem to have the same opinion.

A crisp rustle of parchment drew le Draca’s immediate attention, as well as everyone else’s. Seabrook crumpled the document in one hand, his dark eyes narrowing into thin slits as he studied the man before him.

Annice was not at all surprised to hear Thurston murmur, “I regret that I must refuse your petition. Until King John returns from his sojourn in France, I have no authority to release the boy to you. It is at John’s request, after all, that I have been named protector for your son.” A faint, derisive smile curled Seabrook’s mouth. “Something to do with doubts about your loyalty to the crown, I warrant.”

“My loyalty to the crown and to England has never been in question,” was the sharp, snarling reply.

“P’raps I have heard wrongly, then. Forgive me. Alas, the outcome is the same. My decision is still no.” Seabrook’s smile grew a bit weaker when le Draca took an abrupt step forward, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. There was the metallic whisk of swords being drawn along the sides of the hall. No one else moved, though someone in the chamber gave a nervous cough.

Dragonwyck, however, seemed to recall his situation and paused, eyes still glittering with fury. There was a brief, sizzling
silence when even the great hounds seemed to hold their breath; then le Draca inclined his head in a terse acceptance of Seabrook’s edict. “As you will, my lord. When the king returns, I expect to see you again.”

“When King John returns from his foray into France, perhaps you should offer your petition to him.”

Holding out his hand, le Draca said evenly, “So I shall. Return it to me.”

There was a brief hesitation as Thurston clenched the document in his fist. His eyes clashed with le Draca’s; then, slowly, he held out the crumpled sheaf of parchment; le Draca took it from him. He gently smoothed it before refolding it and placing it back in a leather pouch. Then he looked up at Seabrook with a cool stare that made the earl shift uneasily in his chair.

Lip curling, le Draca asked curtly, “May I at least visit with my son? It has been over a year since I have seen him.”

“Of course. He is being held hostage, not prisoner.” Seabrook gave an airy wave of his hand. “I will have an escort accompany you to a private chamber for a visit.” He paused, then added, “You will understand, of course, if I insist that you leave your weapons with my bailiff.”

“From you, my lord, I would expect nothing else.”

Annice realized she was holding her breath when le Draca pivoted on his booted heel and strode from the hall. She let it out slowly and heard Alais do the same. A curious silence lengthened; there was only the sound of the scribe’s pen furiously scribbling notes. The hush was broken when the earl cleared his throat and gave the order for the Lord of Dragonwyck’s son to be taken to an antechamber.

Turning to his wife, Seabrook commanded, “Go with them.” He did not give a reason, but Annice knew that the earl expected Alais to report upon everything said between father and son. If he had sent one of his men, it would have been too obvious. A gentlewoman, however, would not be as suspect.

“Come with me,” Alais murmured as she obediently rose from her stool, and Annice assented. Curiosity as much as compassion prompted her to attend her cousin. No small child should be forced to confront a man of le Draca’s fierce
temperament alone, but Annice could not help but wonder what such a man would have to say to a son he had seen only a few times in five years.

And, she could not help but muse, it would give her the chance to study him at closer distance. For some reason she could not explain, Rolf le Draca intrigued her.

A
high window allowed in dusty streamers of light that fell in a square across the stone floor. Rolf stood stiffly in the center of the room, hands curled into fists around his gauntlets as he stared blindly at the furnishings. He could feel the slight warmth of sunlight on his face, but his gaze was trained on the open door through which his son would soon enter. He hoped. Thurston of Seabrook was not a man to be trusted, even with so small a courtesy.

By now he knew that only too well. Aye, he had been overfoolish before in trusting Seabrook, and it had cost him dear. How could he have ever allowed Margerie to remain at Seabrook’s castle for the lying-in of their son? It was a mystery to him why he had succumbed to his wife’s wheedling. Guilt over his extended absences, mayhap, had led him to yield to her pleas. She had wanted to be at her family home for the birth of their first child, and he had agreed. If not for the small fracas over a disputed tract of land that had taken him away at a crucial time, he could have stopped Seabrook’s machinations. Alas, by the time news reached
him of his son’s birth, Margerie was dead and their babe held in guardianship by his uncle.

And now he was reduced to this, disarmed and pleading like a ragged beggar for even a few moments with his own child and heir. Justin was never far from his thoughts. Jésu, but there were moments when he wanted to surrender to the driving urge to lay waste to Stoneham and all those in it who would keep his son away from him. It was a constant weight in his belly, as if he had swallowed a stone.

A small sound in the hallway outside the chamber brought him to the present with a jerk, and his muscles tensed when he heard the light chatter of a child. Not until Justin entered the room did Rolf realize just how stiff he’d become; it was difficult even to move forward, harder still to force his lips into a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“Son,” he said, and was embarrassed by the hoarseness of his voice. The boy was accompanied by two women; he recognized Seabrook’s wife, but ’twas the other who had a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. Justin hung back shyly, and Rolf’s throat tightened with suppressed emotion. How could he expect a child to understand a father who was never there for him, when he didn’t understand it himself? His hands clenched into fists, and he gazed helplessly at his son.

“ ’Tis your father,” the woman bent to say softly beside Justin’s ear. Rolf tore his gaze from his son to glance at her. It was the woman from the lord’s table in the hall. He’d not seen her before today, for if he had, he would never have forgotten her. She was not a woman who would be quickly forgotten. Though she wore a simple cotte hardie of blue velvet, it was temptingly fitted at the bust, skirts widening only below a slender waist. Two thick strands of reddish-brown hair that was intertwined with blue ribbons hung down her back to her slim hips. The brilliant color of her hair alone would have been memorable, but ’twas her face that commanded the most interest. Yea, she was fair indeed.

Glancing back at him, the woman knelt beside Justin and smiled into his face. “Your father has come a great distance to see you,” she said, “and he has waited a long time.”

“I know,” Justin said simply. His eyes turned to Rolf with a steady, assessing gaze. “I remember him.”

Still, the boy did not move toward him, and Rolf hesitated. He did not wish to frighten him, but dear God, he wanted to touch him, to ruffle the pale-blond hair and see the winsome smile he had held close to his heart for so long.

Clearing his throat, he muttered, “I brought you a gift.”

Justin’s eyes widened, and a tremulous smile touched the corners of his lips. “A gift? For me?”

“Aye.” Feeling clumsy, and as if his hand bore five thumbs instead of fingers that were adept with a sword and battle-ax, Rolf dug into the leather pouch hanging from his belt. He drew out a carved wooden horse the size of his hand. He had hoped to give it to the boy on the journey home but had been practical enough to realize that it might be just another gift in another brief visit.

Delighted, Justin stepped close and took the horse from his father’s hand. Just the brush of those small fingers against his palm made Rolf’s heart lurch, and he found himself kneeling on the floor on one knee so that his face was level with the boy’s. The tip of his empty scabbard scraped loudly against the stones.

“See here,” he said, and pointed to the carved saddle and trappings on the horse. “ ’Tis my—our—family crest. Look closely, for it is not easy to see … aye, there. See the dragon? It stands for valor and courage against one’s enemies. My destrier carries the same charges on his armor. Because you are my son, I have added a cadency mark to your device. See this? It’s called a label, because you are the eldest son. I carved it very small, but you can still see it.”

Justin examined the horse eagerly, face alight. “I see it! Did you really carve this for me?”

“Aye. Just for you. ’Tis a horse like my own. I have even given him the same wild look in his eye as Wulfsige.” He smiled when Justin leaned casually against his bent knee, and put an arm trembling with strain around the lad. He was so small, yet so sturdy. Beneath the short tunic he wore, Justin had the wiry muscles that would one day make him a strong man. His hose were slightly baggy and twisted, his
shoes scuffed as if he was used to rough play. Yea, one day Justin would be a man full-grown, a son to be proud of. What would he say to his father then?

“Can you make more horses?” Justin was asking. “Some with my mother’s charges, perhaps?” Long lashes shadowed his childish cheeks as he clutched his horse to his chest, then looked up. Green eyes gazed trustingly at him, and Rolf could only nod silently while he struggled for control.

“Aye,” he finally whispered. “I can carve more horses. This winter past I carved several knights and another destrier for you. I thought p’raps you could play with them.”

Brightening, Justin exclaimed, “I can have my own lists, can’t I? Just like a real tournament. Did you bring them with you?”

Rolf shook his head. “Nay, lad. Not this time. If I am able, I will bring them to you soon.”

Disbelief was frankly reflected in his expression as he regarded his father for a long moment. “Aye,” he said flatly, “bring them the next year you come.”

At a loss Rolf floundered, wanting to tell his son that ’twas not his fault he could not come more often, but not wanting to burden the boy with troubles that might be too adult for him to comprehend. Angry and feeling helpless, his hands curled into tight fists as he stared silently at Justin.

It was the russet-haired woman who intervened. “May I see your gift?” she asked, kneeling beside Justin. She admired the horse for a moment, remarking on the exquisite craftsmanship and love that had gone into the carving. Slowly, as she talked of how thoughtful a gift it was, and how much time it must have taken to carve it, some of the disappointment faded from Justin’s eyes and expression. A faint smile curved his mouth again.

“Tell your father about your new pony,” the woman urged, and Justin hesitated.

“ ’Tis just a pony,” he said in a small voice. “Not as big or fierce as my father’s destrier.”

“I’m certain your father had a pony long before he ever rode a destrier,” the woman said, and gave Rolf a pointed
stare. He returned it for a moment blankly, then realized what she was about.

“Aye,” he said hurriedly, “my first mount was a fat pony named Bramble. It didn’t take me long to discover how he had earned that name. ’Twas his wont to toss me into the brambles every chance he got, until I was covered with weals and scratches.”

Justin laughed delightedly and said, “My pony threw me, too! I named him Spiteful. But I truly like him. Next week, if my riding is better, I can ride outside the bailey walls. Montrose promised, and he always keeps his promises. He’s the head ostler in the stables—oh, you should see the horses in my lord Seabrook’s stables. Some are as big as three ponies.…”

As the boy chattered, Rolf looked up at the woman with a rush of gratitude. He did not know why she had done it—’twas obvious to even a complete lackwit that the women had been sent with the boy to report anything of note he might say—but he was grateful she had come to his aid. Visits with Justin were so few and precious that any constraint between them would be devastating.

At his glance the woman flushed slightly. Color made her blue eyes seem brighter, and he noted distractedly that she needed no enhancement to her considerable beauty. He wondered who she was. One of Seabrook’s multitude of conquests, mayhap? Nay, that could not be so, or she would not have been seated next to the earl’s wife in her obvious high favor. Most likely a family member, or some visiting lord’s wife.

Justin’s hand on his knee drew his attention back to his son, and Rolf smiled. Yielding to his earlier compulsion, he ruffled the lad’s blond hair so that it stuck up in wisps like straws. It was coarse like his own, without the fineness of his mother’s, but he had Margerie’s pale skin. A complex blending of two families into one small child that should have united them had somehow gone awry. The struggle for power was never ending, and he was as guilty in his way as Seabrook.