Juliana Garnett (35 page)

Rolf drew in a breath of fresher air and glanced at Sir Guy. That knight was frowning, looking around him at the citizenry.

“Milord,” Guy said, turning to Rolf, “it is worrisome to think of your lady riding unguarded through these streets.”

“Yea.” Rolf had not allowed himself to think of all the fates she might have met on the road to London. In truth, she might yet be far afield, set upon by brigands far more foul than those in London.

Save for King John, he thought harshly. The king was the foulest robber of them all, robbing not only goods and monies, but lives.

“Plague take the woman,” he muttered. On the swift ride through the muddy shires, he had pleasantly envisioned beating her most energetically for this escapade.

Guy nudged his mount closer and leaned near to say
anxiously, “You mean her no harm for this, do you, milord? She came to London only to ease your burdens, I am certain.”

“Are you?” Rolf shot at him. He gazed at Guy with narrowed eyes. “You take her part most readily, I see. Did you know of her intent before we left Dragonwyck for Saint Edmunds?”

Startled, Guy shook his head. “Nay, lord! She would not tell me for fear I would divulge the truth to you. The lady must know that I consider her safety above all else and would not allow her to endanger herself.”

At last they reached court. Rolf asked for entrance to the king, but it was several hours before he was granted an audience. By then his already strained temper was beginning to fray, despite Sir Guy’s urgent pleas to remain calm.

Finally, Rolf was shown into the king’s court. His eyes fell first on the king, who sat leisurely upon a tall chair on a dais raised from the floor to a height of almost a foot. It gave John the illusion of being taller, more powerful, than the men ranging below him, a masquerade the king promoted with casual serenity. The chamber was crowded with court followers; some Rolf recognized and others he didn’t.

Straightening from his obeisance to the king, Rolf’s eyes fell on a woman seated near John. His mouth tightened. Annice. Garbed in elegant garments of silk and ermine, with a circlet of gold around her lovely throat, she sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap. He wanted to choke her.

Abruptly, he said, “I have come for Lady Annice, sire.”

His short words stilled the hum of conversation, and people turned to stare. Rolf ignored them, his gaze trained on Annice, who had grown pale but for two bright spots of color on her cheeks.

John drawled with open amusement, “Ah, so you have only come to retrieve your lovely wife from our court, Lord Rolf? It has been some time since we have seen you here.”

Rolf forced a smile. “Yea, sire, to my regret. England’s business has kept us apart for far too long.”

John smiled with his lips, but his eyes were wary. “Ever the facile tongue, as had your father. His presence is sorely missed in our court also.”

“Yea, sire, as everywhere else. My father was a wise and just man.” Rolf met the king’s narrowed gaze steadily This was not about his father, who had been dead these seven years past. There was an elusive point the king was certain to make at his leisure.

Waving indolently toward the ladies assembled on each side of him, John said, “You are acquainted with most of these ladies, I believe. And, of course, your wife is one of the brightest blossoms in our royal garden. It was very politic of you to allow her to visit us in your absence from home.”

Rolf’s gaze flickered to Annice and back to the king. What in the name of all that was holy had she really said? If John knew of his absence from Dragonwyck, then he most likely knew of the barons’ meeting at Bury Saint Edmunds.

“Nay, sire,” Rolf said steadily, ignoring the undertones of John’s comment. “My wife seems to take pleasure in gamboling about the countryside unchaperoned.”

“Oho.” John’s brow lifted with genuine amusement. “Do I detect dissension, Lord Rolf? ’Twas my understanding that your lady was given permission to visit us. Has she earned your displeasure with disobedience?”

“I am afraid that she has, sire.” Rolf was aware of Annice’s high color and angry blue eyes but kept his gaze on the king. He managed a light shrug of his shoulders. “She seems a bit willful, does she not? What, sire, do you think I should do with a wife who will not obey?”

John stroked his dark beard thoughtfully, eyes alight. “She should be rebuked, of course,” he said, and several of the ladies tittered. “Unless, mayhap, the lady is indeed obeying her lord and husband in coming to our court in secrecy.”

An ugly insinuation surrounded his outwardly idle comment, the hint that Rolf would send his wife to spy upon the king for the rebel barons. If ’twere any other man who had voiced such a clearly treasonous suspicion, Rolf would have rammed the words back down the culprit’s throat. But it was not any other man. It was the king. He cleared his throat and smiled slightly.

“Nay, sire, I fear I have been wed to a rebellious woman
who insists upon her own way. She is ever taking vague notions and pursuing them despite my forbidding it.”

“Does she?” John laughed softly, and there was a touch of malice in the amusement. “Then I chose the Dragon a fit mate, I think. Ah, I see you agree.” He paused, pondering for a moment, then leaned forward in his chair, looking directly at Rolf. “But do you agree that those who rebel should be punished? Even when provoked, those loyal subjects who run astray must suffer the consequences of their actions. ’Tis said that only through penance can one gain redemption and absolution. Do you not agree, Lord Rolf?”

“With all my heart,
beau
sire.” Rolf took a deep breath. The double-edged conversation had snared the attention of all those near enough to hear, and the hall had grown quiet and still. It was no longer just a discussion about Lady Annice, but covertly, the northern barons who were in rebellion. He met John’s gaze steadily. “All men fall short of perfection and should subjugate themselves voluntarily to divine justice. Because I am the lady’s lord and master, and only mortal, I will seek guidance and wisdom from others before I mete out my justice, however.”

Silence lay thickly. There was the rustling of silk and shuffle of feet as those nearby waited to see if the king would take offense at Rolf’s reply. It was well-known that John avoided the Church, and it had been many years since he had accepted the holy sacrament of Communion. There were those who whispered John considered himself above God, and that was the reason he refused. Some whispered that the king was so evil, touching the holy sacrament would cause him to turn into a puff of smoke and disappear.

It did not, however, surprise Rolf when John nodded and decreed that he not be too harsh with the lady. “Well said, Lord Rolf. I commend the lady to your care, with the remonstration that she not be unduly harmed. Do not bruise her too greatly.”

Rolf bowed his head, outwardly humble, but inwardly seething at the king’s arrogance in believing that Rolf referred to him for wise counsel instead of to God. “My
thanks for your benevolence,
beau
sire,” he said. “I am certain my lady wife is appreciative.”

“And so should you be. She has, after all, pleaded most prettily for your cause as well as hers.”

“Has she.” Rolf did not dare look at Annice. If she so much as mouthed a single protest, he was not at all certain he could contain his anger with her until they were alone. So she had come to plead his case before the king? When she knew he did not wish it?

“Yea, she has indeed,” John said with a sly glance toward Annice. “ ’Tis our hope that you will linger here with us for a time. A chamber has been prepared for your visit, as we were certain you would soon join us. We have much yet to discuss, and I look forward to a long interview in private.”

“As do I, sire,” Rolf said, helpless to refuse. It was a thinly veiled command, and he knew it well. He was trapped. John would keep him in the royal court indefinitely, as assurance against his joining the rebel barons, and as retribution for his demands for justice. That would leave Dragonwyck defended only by its castellan.

Stepping forward, he held out his hand to Annice. After a brief hesitation she rose from her chair and put her hand in his open palm. Her fingers trembled in his clasp as his hand closed around hers, but he felt little sympathy. What he did feel was an increasing desire to fall to his knees with relief that she was well, mingled with the consuming urge to shake her until her teeth rattled as “prettily” as her tongue.

Neither of them spoke as they quit the hall and the king’s presence, and Rolf was relieved that at least she had sense enough not to provoke him further. That situation, he discovered immediately upon closing the chamber door behind them, was not to last.

Turning on him, Annice lashed out, “How dare you humiliate me that way! Do you think me so big a fool to take a risk such as this one when I wasn’t certain of my success? John would not harm me, nor turn me over to Seabrook when ’twas he who was responsible for our marriage. Whatever else he may be, the king is crafty enough to see the advantages to keeping you on his side, though he may still wish to keep you leashed. And I have all but secured his
promise for the return of your son, but you talk about me as if I’m some unruly child run amok through England without my nurse!”

Grabbing her before she could continue her tirade, Rolf said through clenched teeth, “Bide your tongue, my lady, or you may swiftly wish you had.”

Annice gaped up at him and lapsed into silence. He released her as if stung, and he wondered what she had seen in his face to silence her so swiftly. Rage? Yea, that and more.

Rolf drew in a deep breath and turned away from her. He stalked to a window that looked out onto the courtyard. In spring, roses would climb the walls to fill the air with fragrance. Now there were only stiff, empty vines that looked forlorn without the blossoms. He closed his eyes, recalling John’s emphasis as he’d said Annice was one of the brightest blossoms in his garden. ’Twas no secret that the king was a lecher. More than one man had seen his wife attempted by the king, and there was little that could prevent him. He wanted to ask Annice but dared not. If John had so much as …

His hands curled into fists on the stone ledge of the window.

“Milord?” Annice came up behind him, stopping a few feet away. “I know you have cause to be angry with me.”

He turned and leaned his hip against the ledge. “Do you? Not from the evidence of my ears.”

She flushed. “I was angry and embarrassed and spoke unwisely. You are right. I should not have attempted this alone. I but hoped to convince the king to allow you to regain your son.”

“So you rode out of my secure keep to brave the elements and outlaws just for me. I’m impressed, milady, with your courage and selflessness for my cause.”

The flush faded from her face to leave it pale, but he continued ruthlessly, his voice flaying her. “Obviously, not once did you halt to consider that I might not wish to request personally the king’s aid, for with aid comes indebtedness. Being indebted to a king is like borrowing from the moneylenders—there is always a balance left on the loan.
Never is there enough payment to the king, whether it be money or time or men. John will not allow me my son until forced to it—or until I yield him a greater prize.”

Turning away from her again, he looked out into the bleak winter courtyard that was distorted by glass windowpanes, scraping his hand over the stone ledge. His breath blew harshly between his teeth as he struggled for control, focusing on the hard edge of the stone rather than on the perilous future yawning before him.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he whispered into the heavy silence. His breath frosted the glass windowpane. He dragged his thumb across the mist, leaving a clear swipe. Behind him he could hear the slight scuff of Annice’s silk shoes over the stones. Then her hand touched his shoulder. It may have been a firmer touch than it felt, for he still wore his harness of mail, and over it a thick surcoat and mantle for warmth. He looked down at his feet, muscles tensing, and in a moment her hand lifted from his shoulder.

There was mud on the hem of his mantle. It clung in streaks and clumps, breaking loose as it dried to litter the floor at his boots. So much mud smeared his boots that his spurs no longer clinked, as they were too clogged with it.

“Milord,” Annice said in a choked voice, and he turned finally, feeling suddenly weary. Her face bore traces of tears, and she was staring at him with a look in her eyes that transfixed him. He’d seen that look before, yea, too many times. It had stared at him from eyes in France, Ireland, Wales, and England. It was the empty look of a child who has lost everything that gave stability to his world. It was the look of widows who have seen their husbands slain, mothers who have lost their children—there were times he even saw the soulless reflection of those empty eyes in his sleep.

His throat tight, Rolf reached out and drew her to him. “I feared I had lost you,” he said roughly, and rubbed his jaw against the neat coil of hair she’d twisted atop her head. “I looked in hedgerows, monasteries, ditches, hayricks—in burned-out hovels where you might have taken refuge.”

She twisted to look up at him. Putting a finger over his
lips, she whispered, “I was desperate to aid you, milord. I acted unwisely. Please forgive me.”

Some of the tension eased from him. He sighed and took her hand in his, kissing her fingertips. “Perhaps you acted as I should have done. With John, one never knows. I had hoped he would view the return of your lands and my son as only what is my legal right, which is why I appealed to the justiciar for redress.”

“But John has already agreed to negotiate the reversion of my lands.” Annice curled her fingers into the edges of his mantle. “We spoke of it yesterday, and he set his scribes to writing the proper letters to Thurston.”

Shaking his head, Rolf muttered, “John writes many letters as a matter of form.”

“But he has promised to set his seal upon them—do you truly think them worthless?”

“Do you truly think Thurston of Seabrook will be moved by letters?”