Juliana Garnett (31 page)

“My God … Tré.…”

“Swear it, or I will curse you with my dying breath.”

“There must be another way—”

“Swear it now. Time flies, and I will not have her subjected to torment.
Swear it!
”

Closing his eyes, muscles quaking violently, Guy said softly, “I swear to you I will watch over your lady.”

“Good.” His mouth twisted; he glanced back at the guards still dicing under the torch. “It comes to me too late that I have been a fool, Guy. Go now, before I have another death on my soul.”

Rising to his feet, he slid his sword from the sheath with a metallic hiss that caused one of the guards to peer up into the shadows of the stairwell. As the soldier nudged his companion, Tré moved down the steps.

A small sound caught her attention; Jane lifted her head from arms folded over drawn-up knees, staring at the tiny grate in the door. Bars of light were faint stripes in the cell. Furtive rustling in the clumps of straw distracted her, and she glanced toward the shadowed wall with loathing. Rats among the fetid stink of rubbish.…

Another sound, closer this time, but outside the cell—a clank, as of keys. She stiffened, dismay coursing through her. Was it time? She had not said enough prayers, offered up enough penance … nor had she repented the sin of unchaste love. There was no hope for her. She was damned by God and church, and she could not summon the necessary remorse. Even knowing what she faced on the morrow, she could not find it in her soul to regret having lain with Tré Devaux.

It was a new thing, this raw emotion that took away her breath and scoured her soul. Shriveled hope was reborn … blight faded with the recognition that had escaped her—until now.

She had seen in his face what he felt, and knew that he loved her. His lips might lie, but his soul had looked out at her from his eyes. That last scalding glance had revealed more of him than had the past four months.

In that moment when his eyes met hers, she had seen the man too wary to trust or love—and recognized his surrender to it. It was her redemption.

Keys rattled loudly now, jerked her attention back to the door and what awaited her. Closing her eyes, she began to pray again.

“Jane.”

Her eyes snapped open at the familiar voice; she lurched to her feet, fear and joy meeting uncertainly. “Tré … are you well? The king has not arrested you?”

“The king,” he said with a sardonic laugh, “is closeted with a lively trull for the night. She will no doubt give him the pox, which he richly deserves. Make haste. There is not much time.”

“Am I being freed?”

“Yea, but not with the king’s sanction. Jane—” urgency lent his words weight, “hasten before we are both undone.”

The guards had not bothered with chains; her shoes were gone, and straw and cold stone stung bare feet. Ignoring the pain, she limped to him where he stood in the open door, the light behind him leaving his face in shadow.

“I must find Dena and Enid,” she said when she emerged into the cold, narrow corridor. Shivering, she looked up at him, and paused, horror-struck.

A livid bruise marred one side of his face, and a gash oozed blood. He saw her glance, grimaced, and put a hand on her arm. “There is only one passage. Avert your eyes when we pass the guards.”

The rusty smell of fresh blood filled her nostrils; she nodded silently. It would not be new to her, but death in all its forms was ugly. There was none of the glory men sang songs about, only a sudden absence of life, as if a candle had been extinguished.

Crumpled forms huddled in odd shapes on the hard floor; torchlight flickered over them, gleamed in dark pools spread on stone. A chill scrubbed down her spine, she shivered again. Then they were up the steep staircase and outside. She sucked in fresh air that didn’t smell of death, curled bare toes up from the paving stones, and looked at Tré. He was a dark silhouette above her, indistinguishable in the absence of light, save for the warmth of his hand on her arm. Her teeth began to chatter with reaction.

“We m-must rescue D-Dena and Enid.”

His fingers flexed tighter, his urgency transferring to her as he pulled her with him up the steep slope of the upper bailey. High walls soared above them, torches faint bobs of light to mark the way.

“I released them before the castle gates closed. They return to Ravenshed. Jane—you cannot return there. It is the first place the king will look when he learns you are gone. Giles waits to see you safely to a nunnery.”

Her breath caught. “Are you not going with me?”

“Nay, I cannot. You must know that.”

“How would I know that?” Despair rose in her throat; fear offered more protests: “If you stay, the king will slay you.”

He stopped, swung around to face her, his hand still on her
arm. Tautly: “I am a baron. My father’s grandfather held the lands that John now plunders … those lands are
mine
.”

“Yea, but they are now lost to you.”

Quiet reminder, painful truth; pale moonlight played on his tense features. He blew out a sharp gust of air, his voice low and bitter: “The king may take my lands, but I will not lie down and give them to him. Nor does he dare slay me. The barons would rise up in protest—not for love of me, but fear of dangerous precedent. John knows that.”

Desperation rendered her cruel beyond what she had ever dreamed she could be. “Fool—do you think John will care for that? He does not. He will rend you limb from limb without a thought for aught but the revenues from your land. You will make it simple for him if you linger to face his wrath. Do so, and you deserve your fate!”

He did not reply, but pulled her higher up the steep incline. She slid, fell to one knee, bare feet slipping on wet grass and mud. A half-sob of frustration escaped; pausing, he bent and scooped her into his arms, lifting her against him as he continued up the slope. He carried her easily, as if her weight were of no consequence.

His breath was a steady bellows on her hair, warm and smelling faintly of wine. Her hand splayed against wool and muscle; her fingers wadded his tunic in her palm. “I pray thee, my sweet lord, do not give yourself to John.”

Grim perseverance was her only reply. Long strides took them swiftly to the upper bailey. His muscles strained as he kept to the dense shadows, moving as stealthily as a cat along the wall.

She wanted to weep, to plead, to rail at him not to be so foolish. It would be futile. She knew that. Her hand moved to touch his jaw in a soft caress. Painful emotion left a raw ache within her; her lips moved against his throat. Her hand on his neck encountered sticky warmth: dead men’s blood.

Closing her eyes, she shuddered, said blindly, “I just found thee. Do not forsake me now.”

“Ah, God. Jane.” He stopped, tightening his grip and raking his mouth across the top of her bare head. Her hair was loose, plaits frayed into tangles down her back, caught beneath the
pressure of his arm around her. “I do not forsake thee—there is no other way. If I take flight, there are those here who will suffer for my deeds. Guy is wounded. He cannot withstand a perilous journey. Wounded, too, is captain of the king’s guards—Gaudet’s men attacked him on the road to Ravenshed. Oliver is loyal. He risked much to return here to warn me. I will not throw such loyal men to the wolves, and especially not to the Angevin wolf.”

Despair filled her. She pressed her nose into wool and muscle. How could she ever have thought him false? He was a truer man than most she had known. Now she might lose him; empty days stretched ahead of her, hope and joy extinguished with his death. There would be no chance for happiness if Tré was gone. There were too few chances in life now.

Words muffled against wool and tunic, she said, “If you die, let me die with you.”

An involuntary contraction made him hold her closer; unbelievably, he laughed. “So impassioned … sweet lady, I do not intend to die. Nor do I intend to let you do anything so foolish.”

He swung her to her feet, kept his hand tight on her arm, glanced at the round tower in front of them. Shadows eclipsed the stairwell inside, a coiled entrance to the wall and battlements above. He looked back at her.

“Can you run if necessary?”

Her heart thudded painfully; she nodded. “Yea.”

“Once in the stairwell, any sound will cany. The guard will pass in a moment, then we will go.”

“Where?” She looked uncertainly from tower to bailey: A rough oval was flanked by the king’s apartments, a chapel—unused by John, it was said—guardhouse, and granary. There was no escape there that she could see.

Tré took her hand between his; a taut smile played on his lips. “Do you trust me, Jane?”

No hesitation: “Yea, Tré Devaux. With my life.”

A harsh breath, and he pressed his mouth against her palm, then her wrist. He held it there while her pulse beat against his lips, wild and swift.

His gaze shifted, locked with hers, a faint shine in the gloom, distant torchlight reflecting green. Fierce intensity trembled in his voice: “Then obey me without question this eve, for it may well mean both our lives.”

She nodded, her throat working to swallow her fear. A whisper: “I understand.”

His thumb stroked her skin gently. “I knew you would.”

Footsteps sounded above, accompanied by the clink of sword and mail. Tré stepped into the shadows and pulled her with him. They waited until the sound of steps faded and the challenge was answered, guard to guard, a confirmation that all was quiet.

A squeeze of her hand warned her he was ready, and they moved from the bailey into the tower where shadows claimed them. He released her, moved away, furtive sounds in airless gloom the only indication he was still there. Trembling, she heard a faint scrape of metal, then a grating of stone. A rush of air swept over her, musty and smelling of the river.

Tré’s hand came out of the blackness at last; he guided her a few steps, whispering against her ear a soft warning to tread gently. She had an eerie sensation like that of falling; two tentative steps found solid footing beneath her, grit powdering the soles of her feet.
Sandstone … a cave?

She was not unfamiliar with the caves of Nottingham; they were everywhere, beneath pubs, taverns, streets, and shops. Used as storerooms, even homes, most were large, but led nowhere. She slid slightly, caught at Tré to stop herself; he tucked her against him, a safe, solid presence.

Deeper they went into the void; she felt her way along with a palm against the wall, the pads of her fingers grazing cool sandstone. Every breath was a heavy gasp that sounded like a smithy’s bellows.

Steep decline into absolute darkness, musty drafts—apprehension escalated to smothering panic. Her mouth went dry, palms damp; desperation seeped into her bones.

“Tré.…” Faintly, voice a mere whisper, she felt her tenuous balance crumbling as her senses drifted.

He caught her before she fell. Boneless, she was caught up
in his arms as he pressed on. Deeper and deeper until black emptiness went gray, then lightened to dense blue. Clean air gusted, smelling strongly of river and moat.

With the return of perception between dark and light came relief. Her head began to clear, her heart to slow its rapid pace. She heard the sound of water lapping on rock. A sweet breeze drifted over her face, grew stronger. Finally, Tré halted. His voice was low:

“Can you stand now?”

“Yes. Are we near the river?”

“The Leen lies below. Don’t look down—I have no desire to fish you out.”

“Tré—” She put a hand on his chest to steady herself as he lowered her to her feet. “I cannot swim.”

“No, I did not expect you could. Giles waits below with a punt. Make haste, Jane, before the dead guards are found.”

A shiver racked her; her fingers felt traces of gilt raven beneath her palm.
Too soon … I have not loved him long enough yet
.…

Dignity demanded that she depart with grace. Love bade her seek reassurance.

“Will you find me? Will you come for me when the king is gone?”

“Yea, my heart.” A finger touched her cheek, then her mouth. Clouds parted, light from a lopsided moon the shape of a hen’s egg glistened on the silver-edged rock. He kissed her. Lips moved on hers with unfamiliar tenderness, absent of passion but filled with new emotion. She clung to him, rising on bare toes to press her body against his.

“Do not tarry,” she whispered when he broke away, “for I will languish without thee.”

“You are stronger than that, Jane of Ravenshed.” He took her arms from his neck, pressed her hands together. “Do not forget your oath to obey me. It is time to part.”

Seized by a grief that threatened to overwhelm her, she could only nod. Tears stung her eyes, hot and blinding, as she tried to memorize his bruised face.

Then he turned her, stepped to the edge of the smooth sandstone, and called down softly, “She comes.”

Before she could protest, Tré swung her out and over the water and released her. The short drop stole her breath; gasping, she landed in the flat bottom of the punt with an ungraceful thud. Giles braced the vessel with a long pole and spread legs, but water still sloshed over the sides and wet her bedraggled skirts.