Juliana Garnett (13 page)

It was an excellent point. Jane returned to her store and took down a familiar concoction brewed from her precious supply of poppy seeds. Dark, vile-smelling, it was powerful and often dangerous. Her hand trembled as she measured out an amount in a shallow cup. Enough to summon oblivion but not death … too little better than too much.

She took it to Sir Guy, who disappeared into the storeroom again; the sounds of struggle escalated, then faded.

Guy emerged at last, a new rip in his tunic and his breath labored, but grimly pleased. “He drank it, though if he ever remembers what I said to him, I may need some of that potion myself.”

A faint smile in response, then: “When he is claimed by heavy sleep, take him to the chamber on the second floor. Dena has readied it for you.”

“And where will you be, milady?” Guy put out a hand when she turned to go, and she paused to look back at him.

“Where should I be?”

“It is best that you not leave Ravenshed for now. If you have needs, ask them of me. Until the sheriff recovers, no one may leave or enter the manor, save at my discretion.”

“How dare you come to my home and presume to give me orders as if you command here, sir!”

“Lady Neville, for the moment, I do command here.”

The quiet reminder was uncompromising. It served as a warning: Ravenshed was occupied by Normans, susceptible to Norman rules and retribution.

She thought of Little John, Alan, and Will, prayed they had made good their escape, and nodded calmly.

“I see, Sir Guy. If it pleases you, I shall retire to my daily duties, lest I give offense by withholding food or giving drink that is inadequate.”

His eyes thinned a bit; his mouth tightened. “You will receive proper recompense for your hospitality.”

“Hospitality? I am not hostage, but hostess, then. Is that correct, Sir Guy?”

For a moment he stared at her, then shook his head. “He was right, I trow. You have a most wicked tongue, milady.”

“If you mean the sheriff, his tongue was honed well upon me, so I do not waste remorse for any of my words to him.”

A grin widened his mouth. “Aye, fighting cocks are not so entertaining as would be the two of you. If I were not fearful of my own safety, I would set you one at the other.”

“There is no need of that. When the sheriff wakes, he will take up the reins of intimidation from you.”

“Doubtless.” He glanced up and past her to the quiet hall where none moved except for a hound seeking rest among the rushes. “It would serve thee best, milady, to bide thy tongue at times. Truth will be a better ally than deceit.”

The warning lay between them; a promise. A prophecy. She wondered why he had ventured it. Temptation reared; a need to know the sheriff’s intentions, but it would be a mistake to ask this man.

“Truth,” she said, “is a two-edged sword, Sir Guy.”

“Yea, but an unwise lie is always fatal.”

There was no answer that would not betray her, and she lapsed into silence marked by tension. It did not linger long, for he turned away to summon a man-at-arms.

“Tell Captain Oliver to secure the perimeters. He is to report to me should anything be amiss.” A pause, a glance at her, then to the guard: “Have the prisoners been taken?”

“Yea, Sir Guy. An escort left before cock’s crow to take them to Nottingham.”

Jane stood impassively, though she could not help a jolt of dismay. Rowan and Shandy had not been among those outlaws who ravaged the lands, but only joined with Will in the ill-fated attempt to recover monies the sheriff’s men had so brutally
seized. Harrowing, that honest men would pay such a price for desperation.

“I must gather more herbs to tend the sheriff,” she said when Sir Guy turned back to her. “Am I given permission to do so, or shall I begin the prayers for his soul?”

He did not miss the sharp bite of mockery; a faint smile curved his mouth. “Do not sharpen your tongue on me, Lady Neville. It will avail you little. Save your efforts for the sheriff. He will give you measure for measure.” A pause, then: “I will have a man escort you wherever you wish.”

She nodded, stiffly. When she returned to the small corner of the kitchens where she prepared herbs, the sharp smell of mint and bay leaves was pungent; the lingering scent of poppy juice still hung in the air.

For a long moment she stood silent and motionless. The familiar sounds of the house were invaded by the alien noises of the enemy; rattling swords, clink of mail, hooves on stone rent the serenity she had come to expect.

Yet it was the serenity of harmony she most missed, the knowledge that she was inviolate and safe. Nothing was safe now, and had not been for longer than she could recall.

She retrieved a basket and left the kitchen; a guard waited, a silent presence at her side as she crossed the courtyard. The gate was open; wood planks bridged the moat and led to the fallow field beyond the hedge. There she gathered an abundance of chickweed under the watchful eye of her Norman guard.

Ignoring him, she tucked the leafy plants with tiny white flowers into her basket. It was useful for fever and, as an ointment, to draw the heat and corruption from wounds.

Morning light fell on the beads of heavy dew and thick blades of grass; dew wet her feet and the hem of her cotte as she moved along the hedgerows. Beyond the unharrowed field lay a bristle of trees and brush, dense and shadowed.

The discordant
chack!
of a jackdaw pierced the air, and her hand tightened on the basket handle. John? A signal? She waited, tensely; a soft breeze lifted the hair that escaped from beneath the silk edges of her caul. It blew in a caress across her
cheek, and she caught the errant curl with a slightly shaking hand.

“Milady,” the guard prompted when she remained unmoving and silent, “are you done?”

She rose to her feet. “Yes, We can return now.”

The familiar gloom of the hall enclosed her as she entered. The sudden change from morning light to darker interior left her momentarily blind and she paused; she did not know she was not alone until the voice came out of shadows:

“It is a pleasant day, milady.”

“It could be, Sir Guy.”

Soft laughter; as her eyes adjusted, she saw his fair hair gleam in the shadow beneath the stairs.

“Relentless lady. He is asleep.”

“I brought herbs for his fever.”

“Is your care of him out of concern or a desire to be rid of us?”

“It would be impolitic of me to reply with a lie when I have been advised to speak only truth, Sir Guy.”

“Yea,” he said, laughter still in his voice, “it would, indeed.”

He moved into the light; this Norman was not as dour as the sheriff.

“Where are your other servants, milady? Are there no yeomen pledged to your service? Your fields lie untilled.”

Behind the pleasant tone lay a quest, and she revised her brief impression of him as the less dangerous man.

“I have no yeomen left. There are not ten of us who remain here. The king’s summons left me with barely enough to tend our garden and beasts. There are no men left as guard. None hiding to leap upon you, or gone to join the outlaws.”

His steady gaze told her she had answered his question; a smile hovered on his mouth. “You are direct.”

“It does not waste as much time.”

“Another truth. Let us hope you are as full of truths when Devaux awakes.”

“Is that a warning, Sir Guy?”

“It is whatever you take from it.” He paused. “I find you intrepid. For your sake, I hope you are not foolish.”

Jane considered a reply, but discarded it as too reckless.
She moved past him into the small chamber with her basket of chickweed. Dena had already pulled some cabbage and cleaned the leaves in preparation.

“I knew you would make a poultice, milady.”

“Yes. Here. Strip the chickweed while I crush the leaves.” She busied their hands to engage their minds, unwilling to field questions she knew would come. She had no answers for them, did not want to dwell on the possibility that stared her in the face.

“With all these bloody Normans about, ’tis not easy to do what must be done—” Dena looked frightened when Jane shushed her.

“The walls have ears, Dena. Is Enid with Edwin?”

“Yea, milady. Safe with her father. I do not like the way some of those Normans look at her.”

“Keep her close. No harm should come to her. I do not think Sir Guy would allow it.”

Hopeful assurance, and based on what she’d observed of the blond Norman, not without reason. There had been no evidence of villainy; the soldiers were disciplined and not destructive. Perhaps it was not as bad as it seemed.

The poultice was soon ready; Jane cleaned her hands and smoothed the skirts of her cotte. It was plain, rose velvet absent of embroidery or gilt. A concession to vanity was the gold mesh caul she wore, her hair coiled over each ear inside the glittering net; her only jewelry was a gold cross on a long chain.

As she ascended the stairs, the damp hem of her garb tangled about her ankles and wet her hose. She had neglected to change shoes; they squelched soggily with each step.

The corridor at the head of the stairs was long and narrow; it stretched the length of the house, with rooms off it like the teeth of a comb. The master’s chamber was large enough to encompass a fourth of the second floor; the others were smaller, but all had windows facing the courtyard. Hugh had redesigned the upper story so that one no longer had to go through one room to reach the other. The corridor took a bit off the size of the rooms but lent privacy where there had been none. A rare privilege.

Light filtered through a closed shutter in the room where
the sheriff lay. She entered quietly, shoes scraping softly on wood floors that creaked with every other step. The chamber was gloomy and smelled of old wine and herbs. Tré Devaux did not stir, save for an occasional mutter or grimace.

Sir Guy leaned in the open doorway. She was aware of him behind her, watching.

“You should get some rest,” she said as she set down the tray on a broken table that wobbled beneath the burden; a casualty of the sheriff’s thrashing. “You will be no good to him if you fall ill.”

“When he rests, so will I.”

Shrugging, Jane moved to Tré’s side. He was cooler to the touch, but still warm. “Open the shutters,” she said, and, after a pause, Guy moved to the window.

Sunlight spilled into the room, chasing shadows to the far corners with gleeful efficiency. Jane lifted the light cover and peeled away the bandages. The wound had begun to heal, though it was still red.

With swift, soft hands, Jane cleaned the wound again; she smeared an ointment of crushed chickweed leaves and wool grease against it, then covered it with a large cabbage leaf.

“I will need your aid,” she said without glancing around, for she knew that Beaufort had resumed his position in the doorway. He lent his strength so that she could bind Devaux, wrapping long strips of linen around his middle and tying them snugly.

“It looks better, milady.”

She smiled. “It should. The surgeon who cauterized it was incompetent.”

“Why do you say that?”

She glanced up at him, saw the frown on his brow, and said, “It should have been washed with strong wine before a hot iron was applied. Any decent surgeon knows that.”

“It was not a surgeon who treated him.” His tone was defensive. “There was not time. There rarely is on a battlefield.”

“I see.”

Silence, then: “You do not see. A woman never sees. I thought a baron’s widow different from the others.”

She stood up, gathered herbs and linen strips in her hands.
“If you mean that I do not understand why men must be ever chasing death, you are right. I do not. I never will. It is foolish, reckless, and accomplishes little.”

Hazel eyes cooled to frost. “It wins kingdoms, milady.”

“And loses them again.” Her brow lifted at his soft curse. “King John has lost all of France and Normandy. Men have died to regain it, yet it is still lost. England is under an interdict by the pope for the king’s refusal to accept his appointment of Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury, yet all John thinks of is war with Philip of France. Futile battles to regain lost kingdoms, while England is scoured clean of men, arms, and food, left too weak to stand against her enemies.”

“Treason, milady?”

“Disgust, Sir Guy, at the waste of lives.”

“Strange words, coming from the widow of a valiant knight such as Sir Hugh.”

“Hugh was valiant, but constant warfare took its toll and ended up killing him far too young.”

“He was past fifty, to my recollection. Not young at all for a knight.”

“Not for a knight, no. But for a husband, yes.” Lifting the tray, she turned to leave.

Then Guy said softly, “All men are not as your husband, milady.”

Though she gave no indication of hearing him, her step faltered as she continued out the door, his words ringing in her ears. No, all men were not as Hugh. Yet women were left behind, forced to fight or lose all. She had struggled since Hugh’s death, nearly a year of balancing like a juggler’s dog in the effort to keep her home. There were moments when she bowed beneath the burden, yielded to utter despair, yet knew she must rise the next day and continue the struggle. It was not in her to submit.

An errant ray of afternoon light poked persistently through half-closed shutters, marched boldly across the floor to paint the bed and resting sheriff.

Jane watched idly. It was quiet now, Guy downstairs with
the other Normans. She was to observe Tré Devaux, alone and trusted; a dubious honor for a pointless task. If he awoke, all would know it swiftly enough.

Yet there she was, perched in an uncomfortable chair with no bolsters, listening to him breathe. She thought of the name he had called out, wondered who the woman had been to him. Wife? Lover? He seemed too harsh a man to carry a memory. Somehow, it made him vulnerable.

Jane settled her cheek into the cup of her palm and propped her elbow atop the damaged table to survey Devaux more closely. Easier to stare at him now that he was asleep. Awake, nearly impossible.…

His face was bathed in half-light from the window; an odd golden wash of color spread over features softened in sleep. It muted the harshness, the mockery she usually saw there. A small scar etched his jaw, pale against dark beard stubble. His lashes were long, thick, black; his nose was straight and strong, without the Norman curve to it she had come to expect. His mouth—