Knight of Seduction (19 page)

All she’d ever wanted was to belong somewhere.  To live somewhere where people were happy to know her, where they were happy to have her.  But it had never occurred. 

Hugh of Manche had ridden into Morven like a tempest, and he’d swept everyone along in his wake.  She’d been pulled in, too, a pawn to his plots and schemes.  Tantalized by him, by what he’d offered, she’d imbued him with glimmers of character that he didn’t actually possess.

She shook her head with disgust.  She was so pathetic! 

No one would ever love her.  Despite how fervidly she yearned for it, despite how avidly she prayed, she was and always had been alone.  Even her new husband couldn’t abide her. 

She’d thought that being married would give her a purpose, would give her a chance to prove she was worthy, but she’d done such a poor job of being a wife that he’d already found her replacement.

The realization was unbearably sad, unbearably humiliating.  The weight of it pressed down on her, making her ache with remorse and shame. 

Her uncles would welcome her.  They would hide her or abscond with her or whatever else she requested of them.

They visited Morven once a year, and they constantly jested about her leaving with them, but Ranulf had refused to let her go.  But Ranulf was dead, and there was no longer anyone to tell her what she could and couldn’t do.

Except Hugh—but after she’d heard the name, Charmaine, spew from his lips, his wishes had ceased to matter.

Eventually, Blodwin came back.  She had an armload of clothes—a tunic, breeches, and boots—and she laid them on a chair.

“Let’s finish this,” she said, “before we’re discovered.”

Anne sighed with resignation and gestured to the clothes. 

“What’s all this?” she inquired.

“We’re turning you into a boy.”

“I’m to wear a pair of…breeches?”  Anne couldn’t imagine it.

“Did you think you could just stroll out the front gate?  I’m sure Hugh’s knights would stop you.”

“I’m sure they would, too.”

Anne’s form was slight enough that she could pass for an adolescent boy—if no one looked closely.  And people saw what they wanted to see.  If she was dressed like a boy, who would give her a second glance?

She shrugged and allowed Blodwin to help her disrobe.  The change went quickly, the most effort consumed with wrapping a scarf around her breasts to flatten them.  Then there were the exhausting attempts to conceal her hair. 

Blodwin had brought a cap, but there was no way Anne’s thick locks could be stuffed under it.

“What shall we do?” Anne finally fumed in frustration.

“We have to cut it.”

“Cut it!”

Anne was horrified.  She’d never trimmed so much as a single strand.

“Or don’t,” Blodwin retorted.  “How badly do you wish to sneak away?”

Anne pondered, then acquiesced.  Blodwin had a small knife she carried in a sheath at her waist.  With a few rough slices, she sawed through the curly tresses, shearing them at Anne’s shoulders.

Anne gaped at the floor, an auburn pile at her feet.

“Hugh always loved my hair,” she whispered, feeling inordinately naked without it.

“Hugh, bah!” Blodwin scoffed.  “He’ll have his Charmaine warming his bed before you can snap your fingers.”

Tears flooded Anne’s eyes, and she whipped away, not eager for Blodwin to see them, not eager to be ridiculed or teased.

Why was she crying anyway? 

She’d never belonged at Morven, and Hugh didn’t really want her.

It was time to go to her family.  It was time to seek out those who would take her in simply because she asked them to.

If she was sad about leaving, it was only due to the fact that she was scared of the unknown and the loss of what was familiar.  Hugh—for all his faults—had been someone she’d admired.  She’d thought they would build a life together, that Morven might become the home it had never been for her.

It was a childish dream, and she had to grow up and act like an adult.  Her mother had forged her own path, had found her own contentment.

Anne would do the same.  And it wouldn’t include duplicitous, lying Hugh.  It wouldn’t include Blodwin or Rosamunde or Cadel or any of the others at Morven who hated her merely because of who her parents had been. 

She spun back to Blodwin, and Blodwin stuffed her hair under the cap.  With it now being so short, it fit easily.

“How do I look?”

“Like a boy.  Like a scruffy boy with freckles on his nose.  No one will recognize you.”

“How will I find my uncles?  How will I know I am heading north toward Dumfries?” 

It was the town where they would be performing through the end of the summer.

She probably should have been terrified of traipsing off to locate them, should have been afraid and shaking in her new boots.  But she wasn’t.  She was too numb to feel anything.  Not fear.  Not sorrow.  Not anger at the unfairness of life.

Nothing.  She felt nothing.

“Go out the rear gate and skirt the village.  Stay on that road.”

“How many days of walking would you expect it to be?”

“Seven or eight.  There is usually a large market in Dumfries on Wednesdays.  As you get nearer, the crowds will increase.  You may be able to ride on the back of a wagon.”

“I’ll try that,” Anne said.

Blodwin handed her a bag.

“What’s in it?”

“A bit of food for the journey.  A blanket for the nights.”

“I appreciate it.”

There didn’t seem any more to say. 

Anne could have waxed on about old friendships, how she’d miss Blodwin or Morven, but none of it would be true.

Much to her surprise, she’d only miss Hugh.  Not the exalted, illustrious Lord Hugh who was her husband.  No, she would miss the fantasy Hugh, the one who might have loved her if she’d been a different sort of woman.

She trudged out as Blodwin called, “Anne!”

She whirled around, wondering if Blodwin might actually offer a kind remark.  Perhaps she’d decided—since it was farewell—to let bygones be bygones. 

“What?” Anne asked.

“Don’t come back.  In four weeks, I’m telling him I’ve received word that you’re dead.  If you suffer mishaps out on the road, you’re on your own.  Don’t show up here, begging for help.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, you’ll have to deal with me.  You’ll be sorry.”

“I’ve always been sorry,” Anne said, and she left.   

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“You worthless girl!”

“Let me go!”

“No.  You’ll tell Lord Hugh what plot you’ve hatched, or I’ll take a switch to your backside.”

Hugh stared down from the dais where he’d been holding his daily audience.  Dorag was dragging Rosamunde down the center aisle.  Rosamunde was struggling to escape, but Dorag’s grip was too tight. 

All morning, he’d kept peeking to the rear of the room, hoping to see Anne come through the doors, but she never had.  Mealtime was approaching, and he’d sent Dorag upstairs with the quiet instruction that he expected Anne to attend.

The previous day, word had circulated that she wasn’t to be disturbed.  He’d acceded to her wishes, but he wouldn’t continue coddling her.  They had to find a way forward, and he refused to dine without her. 

Rumors had spread that Anne wasn’t really indisposed, that Hugh had killed her in a fit of rage during a quarrel over Charmaine.  Henry had heard people claiming she was dead, that Hugh had buried her out in the woods.

Hugh had had enough and ordered Dorag to fetch her. 

Anne could bicker with him in private if she chose, but he intended that she would happily play her part in all public rituals.  She would appear at every meal, and she would arrive content and smiling.  She could pout later on—when she was alone. 

But now what?  Why hadn’t Dorag brought Anne with her?

“What is it, Dorag?” he asked as she advanced on the high table.

“I went to Lady Anne’s room, my lord Hugh.”

“And…?”

“This little devil was there, riffling through her clothes, picking out the items she planned to keep for herself.”

“Where was Anne?”

“Gone, my lord.”

A rumble of indignation rippled in the hall.  A few fools rose to their feet as if they might rush the dais.  Henry stood, joined by two other knights who flanked Hugh, drawing daggers, guarding his back. 

“What do you mean, she’s
gone
?” Hugh inquired.

“There was no sign of her, Lord Hugh.  Something’s happened—something bad—and Rosamunde knows what it is.  I’d stake my life on it.”

Hugh whipped his gaze to Rosamunde, and for a brief moment, she tried to return his stare, but couldn’t.  Shame flushed her cheeks, and she glanced away.

“Where is Anne?” Hugh demanded.

“I…don’t have any idea, Lord Hugh,” she insisted.

“You were merely examining her clothes for no reason?”

Rosamunde was mulishly silent, and Dorag whacked her between her shoulder blades.  She staggered, then caught herself.

“She…has such nice dresses,” Rosamunde said.  “I was just looking.  There was no harm done.”

Dorag grabbed her and shook her.  “You liar.  Would you rather I beat the truth out of you?”

Hugh wasn’t about to debate the situation in front of the whole castle.  He nodded to Henry, and Henry went down and took Rosamunde from Dorag.  Hugh walked to an anteroom behind the dais where he conducted his private business.  Henry followed, pulling a recalcitrant Rosamunde with him.

She was trembling from head to toe, appearing guilty as sin.

Hugh knew how to rattle her, how to terrify her into supplying the details he sought.  He simply studied her, waiting, waiting, the interval becoming unbearable.

Then he told her, “I will give you one chance to confess, Rosamunde.  I will not play games, and I will not ask you twice.  Where is Anne?”

“You can’t do anything to me,” she declared.

He gestured to Henry.  “Take her to the dungeon.  Strip her, then have her flogged.  Don’t stop until she provides the information I’ve requested.”

Henry clasped her arm as if he’d march off to begin immediately, and she squealed with dismay. 

“My mother will never let you,” she fumed.

“Your mother isn’t here.”  He gestured to Henry again.  “Take her away.”

“No, no.”  She yanked herself from Henry’s grasp. 

She hemmed and hawed, calculating the best response.

“I’ll tell you,” she finally grumbled.

“Tell me what?”

“Anne has left Morven.”

“Where did she go?”

“North—to find her uncles in Dumfries.”

Hugh’s knees buckled with astonishment, and he could barely keep from stumbling over to the nearest chair and plopping down.

Anne had left the castle?  She was on the road alone?  Was she mad?

“To find her uncles?” he scoffed.

“Yes, they have a traveling troupe.  She plans to live with them.”

“And you know this because…?”

Rosamunde dithered, her anguish plain. 

“If Anne suffers a mishap,” Hugh warned, “I’ll blame you, Rose, and you’ll have to accept the consequences.  Unless you tell me the truth. 
All
of the truth.”

Apparently remorseful, she pondered, then woefully admitted, “I…heard my mother bragging to Father Eustace.”

“Your mother helped her?”

“I guess.”  Suddenly, Rosamunde burst into tears.  “I’m sorry, Lord Hugh.  I love, Anne.  If something’s happened to her, I’ll just die.”

“You love her?” he sneered.  “Is that why you came to me straightaway?”

“I wanted to come.  I really did.”

“But instead, you rushed off to steal some of her clothes.  You’re such a kind, compassionate sister!”

“I was afraid, Lord Hugh.  I’ve never been able to defy my mother.  I’ve behaved foolishly; I can’t deny it.”

She cried even harder, and Hugh snorted with disgust.  “Get her out of my sight and
keep
her out of my sight.”

He started out.

“Where will you be?” Henry asked.

“I’m off to find Blodwin and wring her neck.  Then I’m riding north to find Anne and bring her home.”

*          *          *          *

“I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Neither can I.”

“This is the greatest day of my life.  Even better than the morning I learned Ranulf had been hanged.”

Blodwin chuckled with glee and wrapped her arms around her dear Eustace.

He’d shed his robes, so she was pressed to his naked chest, but he never removed anything more.  They had traveled as far as they ever ventured toward physical passion.  He lusted after her, but would never act on his urges.

As punishment for his unruly ardor, he wore a hair shirt, he flayed himself, so he was often scraped and bloody.  He let her tend his wounds.

For years, he’d been her only solace, her only friend, but they had no future together.  They’d frequently talked of sneaking off, but they never would. 

Eustace would never forsake his vows to the church, and she would never give up Morven.  They weren’t the sort who could journey from place to place, sleeping in barns and begging for scraps.  They liked to discuss what they
might
do, what they
wished
they could do, but they would never proceed.

They’d stayed at Morven, running the castle as partners, while carefully conducting their depraved amour.  They were the very worst of sinners, plagued by weaknesses of the flesh, and Eustace was particularly concerned over the state of their immortal souls.

But Blodwin never agonized over her decision to involve herself with him.  From the moment of her birth, she’d been controlled by men, directed by men, her affairs arranged by men, and they’d never taken a single action on her behalf where they considered her opinion.

She’d been forced as a girl to marry Ranulf.  She’d had to endure his drinking and rutting and gambling.  Through it all, Eustace had been her ally, and it was typical of her life that she couldn’t have the thing she wanted most.

“You mustn’t celebrate Anne’s departure too openly,” Eustace scolded.  “From the smile on your face, it’s obvious you have a secret.  Once Anne is discovered to be missing, you can’t draw attention to yourself.”