Juliana Garnett (3 page)

“A landless baron wields little enough power. You will be a warning to those who consider treason—evidence of our resolve, and our generosity in allowing you life and liberty.”

The king beckoned to his scribe, looked back at Tré. “Arrive in Nottingham before the first Sunday of Lent. Serve us well, Devaux, and we shall reward thee well. Fail us, and lose all.”

Devaux—I am already stripped of title and rank
.… He swallowed rage and unwise comment, held his tongue when John’s eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction.

Brayeton Keep, gone in the blink of an eye, seized for a false accusation. Now they belonged to King John: the stone keep where he had been born, and a hillside where two graves lay beneath an old oak.

Aimée
.…

Memory veered from the sharp pain, barricaded itself behind familiar grayness: hollow, empty of soft emotion, a vast desolation where it was safe. Where the anguish of loss could not reach him.

Ad noctum
—Into the darkness.

2
 

Rain glistened on the domed helmets and chainmail of Norman soldiers entering Nottingham Castle beneath the jagged iron teeth of the outer gate. Hooves pounded like brittle thunder. Vapor rose from steaming hides of muscular coursers near as fierce as their riders. The clatter of sheathed weapons was muffled but ominous. It was suddenly loud in the outer bailey, a warning to those within that the unknown would soon be upon them.

Jane, widow of Hugh de Neville, drew the edges of her furtrimmed mantle more closely around her. Nervous fingers tugged at the hood to cover her hair. There had not been time enough to don a wimple when word came that the new sheriff was near Nottingham at last. It had taken too long to coax her cousin into readiness, leaving her just enough time to club her own light brown hair into a plait and tuck it beneath her hood as they hastened from nearby Gedling to the castle. Rain misted her lashes. She blinked it away as she peered through the drizzle and jostling crowd toward the approaching Normans.

A contingent separated from the others to enter the middle bailey. A banner flew damply in the wind, snapping like the
crack of a whip above mailed heads to announce the sheriff’s arrival. Tension knotted in her stomach, twisting. So close now.

Beside her, Lissa made a sound of impatience and shoved roughly at the man in front of them. “Oaf! Beware of where thou trod!”

“ ’Ere now!” the man protested, but moved from her path. It opened up a hole in the throng, so the cousins had a much better view.

It was more crowded than Jane had anticipated; barons, freedmen, and merchants were allowed into the middle bailey to greet—or confront—the new sheriff. Saxon English and Norman French commingled in wanton intercourse of language, one ancient, the other the speech of the Conqueror. All of Nottingham had turned out. Now narrow streets held little more than cold wind and dread as citizens packed into the castle bailey; their collective support or resistance would be determined by the actions of the new sheriff.

Shivering as much from anticipation as the icy gusts that tugged at warm wool and skirts, Jane craned to see as the Normans drew close enough for her to pick out individual men instead of a blur of steel and arrogance.

Which one is the high sheriff?

There was no mace of office to identify him, no gold-linked chain of office worn around the neck to mark him as the king’s man.

But as the column of horsemen garbed in black and gold tunics slowed their mounts to a walk, she knew. He was
there
, flanked by other Normans, yet distinctly separate.

At her side, Lissa heaved a long, appreciative sigh. “It has been a long time since I have ridden something that big and magnificent.…”

Jane shifted her gaze from the Normans to her cousin. “I assume you mean the horse,” she murmured, and Lissa laughed.

“I could be speaking of the steed, of course—both are fine, muscular animals, sleek and dark and dangerous.”

“Mind your clacking tongue. Would you have others here remark upon your vulgar wit?”

A serene smile and shrug were ample evidence of Lissa’s indifference
to the warning. Her silk wimple fluttered in damp folds against her lovely face as her gaze returned to the line of Normans. “Do you think
he
is Devaux?”

Jane knew which man she meant without asking. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks on the uneven wet stones as a splendid black steed pranced arrogantly forward. The Norman in the saddle was even more impressive.

A negligent hand curbed the restive gait of the courser before it trod upon eager citizens; there was steel in the light grip that even the willful nature of the huge beast recognized. Snorting, nostrils flared in dangerous crimson flowers, the stallion obeyed the unspoken command and halted only a few feet from Jane. Her gaze moved in wary fascination from courser to master.

An eloquent centaur, spare of motion and expression, features devoid of all but regard for the animal, he seemed not to see those crowded among the barracks and stone walls of the bailey. The only sounds were the brisk rattle of military accoutrements. Fraught with suspense, the abrupt absence of conversation paid homage more to the bearing of the sheriff than to the apprehension of the people.

She understood completely.

Unencumbered by heavy mail, broad shoulders and a thick chest were encased in a flowing surcoat of ebony wool. Fine gilt tracery formed a stark pattern on the front, emblem of his rank and heritage. Soot-black hair was neatly trimmed in Norman fashion; rain-dampened strands fell forward over eyebrows that slashed across his forehead. He had a strong face, angular as most Normans’, with high carved cheekbones and a chiseled mouth that looked as if it had never known a smile.

Jane stirred uneasily. Unexpected appreciation of his masculine features fluttered briefly before she thrust it firmly aside.
Pray, let him be different from the last high sheriff
.…

She slipped one hand beneath her mantle, skimmed the rose-colored velvet of her cotte until her searching fingers found and curled tightly around a length of finely wrought gold chain. She drew the small gold cross at the chain’s end into her palm and rubbed her thumb over the carved surface.

Since de Lowdham’s departure, the undersheriff left to
mete out justice in the Saxon borough had been just as harsh. It did not bode well for Nottinghamshire if this man proved to be as merciless as had been his predecessors.

The crowd shifted, closed ranks to block her view of him; Jane rose to her toes to peer over the heads in front of her. The tang of fresh horse droppings was on the rising wind; spurs jangled and curb chains clinked in brittle song. Servants’ rouncies snorted, pawed stone, backed into sumpters loaded with baggage. The horseboys came running to take charge of the animals.

The spell that had briefly gripped the crowd was broken, melded into chaotic babble. Anticipation rose sharply as the high sheriff lifted his head to survey the bailey with a raking glance. Arrogance was evident in every sharp angle and line of his powerful frame. He looked competent—and ruthless.

Jane sucked in a sharp, disappointed breath.

A horseboy held on to the reins of the fractious courser as the sheriff dismounted, betraying a slight stiffness of movement where she had expected more agility. Yet when he turned to face the barons lined up like wet crows on a hedge row, he exhibited no infirmity.

Slowly drawing off his leather gauntlets, he surveyed them all with a lifted brow. “I did not foresee such a welcome, my lords. To what do I owe this unexpected reception?”

The pretty consonants and vowels of Norman French were more of a growl on his tongue, the fluid language of the Conqueror bludgeoned into blunt inflection. Jane pushed forward to stand behind a baron she had known since childhood. A silent glance of disapproval was eloquent with his belief that females should remain in their place. She ignored it, her attention on the sheriff.

His breath formed frost clouds as Devaux waited for a reply. A brow angled sharply upward when no one came forward to answer him.

“Is there no spokesman?”

The drizzling rain made a soft hissing sound. Norman knights shifted, weapons clanking. When no Saxon summoned the courage to step forward or speak out, coarse laughter rippled through the Norman ranks.

Devaux’s lip curled in undisguised contempt. “So I thought. Get you home before the rains reduce you to naught but sodden curs.”

It was the shaming laughter from Norman ranks as much as the sheriff’s contempt that prompted her; Jane elbowed past Gilbert of Oxton. Her voice rose to be heard above the clank and clatter of the guards:

“My lord high sheriff, we come to ask that you listen to our concerns and give us redress.”

Rising wind muffled the words so that they sounded strangely distorted. Lord Oxton turned to look at her. Chagrin was evident on pale, sharp features, his Saxon English roughly familiar:

“Lady Neville, ’tis not necessary for you—”

“No, what you mean is that it is not
proper
for a lady to speak out thusly.” Impatient, she shrugged off the restraining hand he put on her arm. “Yet who else will have the courage to speak if I do not? ’Tis certain none of these brave barons can summon nerve enough.”

Her stinging barbs found accurate marks. Several Saxon barons suffused with angry color, but it was the sheriff who commanded her instant attention:

“Step forward, my lady, so that I may view this Saxon with enough courage to demand amends.”

His Saxon English was fluent, a warning to any baron who might think Norman scorn of the language gave them an advantage.

Jane tensed. Dread coiled in her belly. It would be impossible to walk without stumbling; sudden realization of the notice she had brought upon herself rendered her immobile. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, uncooperative and clumsy.

But I am the daughter of a valiant Saxon knight, widow of a Norman baron, and no man can shame me unless I allow it—

Her chin rose with a determined tilt. “Indeed, sir, ’tis not courage that prompts me to speak, but justice.”

“Justice?” A straight brow winged upward; the mouth she had thought too harsh to smile tucked inward with wry humor. “A strange word to find on English lips.”

“Not so strange, my lord, but certainly a word found too infrequently in Norman hearts.”

For an instant, their gazes locked. Distracted, taut with uncertainty, Jane had a brief impression of eyes as hard and green as emeralds; the wary gaze of a cat lurked beneath a brush of wet, black lashes.

“I find your assertions intriguing, my lady.” The words were smooth, the voice a low rasp. Rain hissed on stones and bare heads. “Such a mettlesome adherent of justice requires an introduction. What is your family name?”

Hunting eyes, keen and watchful, waiting for an answer and a misstep
.… “My late husband was Hugh de Neville, the king’s Baron of Ravenshed. My father was Rolf of Ashfield, loyal knight to the Lionheart.”

“Neville was your husband?” He paused, finally adding, “I knew him, Lady Neville. He was a fine man and valiant knight in his day.”

“Yea, so he was, sir. His death is most grievous.”

The words were steady enough, though there was a curious crumbling inside as she said them. Hugh’s loss had been painful but not unexpected. It was the desolation she had not foreseen. There were times she felt so alone.…

A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. The rain began to worsen. It struck the bailey with increasing force, pinging loudly against metal helmets and shields.

Devaux gave a terse order for the barons to accompany him into the hall, then turned to Jane and held out his arm.

“You will do me the honor of being my guest, milady.”

It was not a request but a demand. Though she bridled at his arrogance, she placed her hand on his arm. Eyes followed her: Oxton’s angry, others’ shocked, Lissa’s round with awe. Trapped, Jane did not betray her own dread.

Her slight stature was dwarfed by the towering Norman. She had never felt more keenly vulnerable than she did at that moment. Her fingers lay lightly on his sleeve; beneath rich wool was ample evidence of taut muscles and strength. It was daunting, a suddenly inescapable feeling of walking into a lion’s lair—no less daunting than Nottingham Castle itself.

High curtain walls of buff-colored sandstone fifteen feet thick rose in concentric circles to protect a castle studded with gates and turrets. In daylight, crenelated stone battlements resembled jagged teeth gnawing at the sky; at night, some said ’twas the devil’s backbone.

A massive precipice of sandstone provided the natural advantage of unscalable height. Forbidding rock cliffs and the River Leen bounded the south side. Between the River Leen and the River Trent in the distance lay only vast meadows, now browned by winter sear and thin traces of snow—a bare expanse with no tree or structure to obscure the view of possible enemy approach. The fortress was intimidating, brooding over town and countryside like a great, hulking bird of prey, slitted eyes keeping watch from high towers.