The Champion (40 page)

John settled down to enjoy the food, the soft harp music in the background, and the delightful ambience of the spring day. He had intended riding on after a brief pause for refreshment, but now he decided he would remain overnight. He did not have to be at Château Gaillard just yet, and sitting beneath these trees eating sublime food and being waited upon hand and foot was a far better pastime than indulging in skirmishes along the border with the French. Richard would have opted for the latter, but John was not his sainted brother and was sick of dwelling in his shadow. But he had learned from his earlier mistakes and knew that the only remedy was to bide his time and play the loyal hound to the hilt, grateful for any morsels that came his way.

He fed one of his dogs a sliver of pigeon meat and decided that he would not spoil the moment by thinking of Richard when there were subjects far more pleasant to occupy his mind. A little distance away, the women of the household had brought their spinning and sewing into the fresh air. John’s gaze fell upon the sempstress who had mended his favourite silk robe with consummate skill. She had an arresting face, fresh and innocent at first glance, but with something hidden that made him keep on looking. A gown of russet silk shimmered over lithe, supple curves, and her wimple was short and open, exposing her long white throat. Obviously she was married, for a small boy kept clambering in and out of her lap.

John was thirty-two years old, and it was more than half a lifetime since he had taken his first woman to bed. He had been married for more than ten years to Isabella, heiress of Gloucester, but it was a match made for political purposes which had long outlived its use, and there was no love lost between him and his wife. Consummation achieved, they kept separate households. Intermittently, other women entered John’s life and bed. He enjoyed their company when he had the time and the inclination, and they in their turn, enjoyed his whilst he was smiling.

Hamon was talking to him about a book he had recently acquired for his small collection. Normally John enjoyed books and reading and would have taken to the conversation with zest, but now he cut brusquely across Hamon’s description. ‘Yonder sempstress,’ he said. ‘Tell me about her.’

For a moment Hamon’s mouth remained open in the surprise of aborted speech, then he rallied, his gaze falling where John’s already lay. ‘Ah, well, that is a story as detailed as any book,’ he said, changing tack to suit his guest’s mood. ‘Her name is Monday de Cerizay. She is my wife’s companion, and as you have seen, a sempstress of extraordinary skill.’ He relaxed in his seat, thoroughly prepared to enjoy himself. ‘She came to us a little over two years ago from the tourney circuit, but she is not one of the regular camp sluts.’

‘No?’ John prompted, without taking his eyes from her. His appetite sated, another kind of hunger was building rapidly and he shifted restlessly in his seat. Her mouth was a full, sensual cushion, and the way she pursed it as she sewed was slowly driving him mad.

‘Her mother, so she says, was the daughter of an English baron. I make no claims as to the veracity of the tale, but my wife is certain that it is true, and the girl’s manners are of the court, not the camp. She can even read and write.’

‘Is the child hers?’

‘She came to us pregnant, and the story was put about that she was a young widow in straitened circumstances.’

‘But it is not true?’

Hamon shrugged. ‘She has never admitted to it, but Aline suspects that the father of her child is a certain young man among the landless tourney followers. Whether he is or not, they are not part of each other now.’

John nodded and continued to study Monday with narrowed eyes, like a cat viewing its prey through the grass. He crumbled a honey cake between his fingers, but made no attempt to eat it. ‘Do you want her?’ he asked suddenly of Hamon.

Hamon choked on the mouthful of wine he had just drawn. ‘Me, my lord?’ he spluttered, as if the thought had never occurred to him. ‘Aline would kill me!’

‘No doubt,’ John said drily, ‘but that was not what I asked. Do you want her?’

Hamon drew several wheezy breaths. ‘Not at the expense of a dagger in my heart should Aline find out,’ he replied with a grimace.

John smiled, but said nothing, and his eyes continued to dwell on Monday with a feline, predatory intent.

That evening in Lavoux’s great hall, there was more feasting, together with entertainment and dancing to honour the royal guest. Monday sat at the side table reserved for Aline’s women, and unconsciously fiddled with the silver filigree brooch pinning the neck opening of the russet gown.

When she had first arrived at Lavoux, weary, pregnant, and filled with anxiety, Monday had forsworn men. It had been an easy vow to keep. Her burgeoning body was evidence enough of why it was not wise to trust them, and she could look upon even the most handsome of squires without so much as a flicker of interest, let alone lust. But gradually, the situation had changed. She had survived Florian’s birth, and even if she regretted the circumstances of his begetting, she could not regret her child. He had filled her life with love when all the light had gone from it, and satisfied a yearning maternal instinct. But there were other instincts too. Submerged by pregnancy and the early days of motherhood, they were now surfacing with a vengeance. Her eyes were drawn to the young men of the household, but when they glanced her way, she would feign indifference, wanting and fearing at one and the same time. The incident with Lord Hamon in the hall this morning had led her to realise how vulnerable her position here was.

Now Prince John had arrived, and the way he looked at her made her breathing short and brought an immodest burning to her woman’s parts. She kept remembering him stepping out of the bathtub, the mocking curve of his mouth as he enquired if she had ever been naughty.
Fates far worse
.

As she fiddled with the brooch, the scent of rose oil wafted from the inside of her wrist. Monday was not sure that she liked the perfume, but Aline had insisted she dab some there, and upon the pulse at her throat. Considering that she had caught Hamon flirting with Monday that morning, Aline seemed remarkably magnanimous. At one time Monday might just have credited the behaviour to Aline’s mercurial nature, but now that she knew her better, she suspected that there was a motive somewhere.

The feasting over, the dancing began – a medley of caroles and jigs performed by musicians with bone whistles, bagpipes, lutes and tabors. Full of high spirits, the other women dragged a protesting Monday from her seat and into the midst of the merriment. At first she hung back, feeling awkward and self-conscious. She had not danced since her days on the tourney field, when her mother was still alive and herself a carefree child.

But once learned, the movements belonged to the blood, and she recalled them with increasing ease as the music took over. Remembering the joy of meadow grass and camp fire, her feet began to perform the steps. Neatly and surely, swift as a needle arrowing through fabric. By the time the music ended, Monday was flushed with exertion and gasping for breath. She was also sparkling with the laughter of sheer enjoyment. There was just enough time to snatch a cup of wine, and then dart back into the ring of dancers as the next carole began. Round and round, whirling, stepping, the music a joyous galliard of sounds.

Monday danced until her feet were sore, and her hair was damp at her brow. She danced for her lost childhood, for all the days of unhappiness and care, for her mother, her father, and herself. It was both a wake and an awakening. And then, as the tempo slowed to give folk a chance to catch their breath, Prince John took her hand. Despite his stockiness, he was cat-light of foot, and because they were of a similar height, they matched well as their fingers clasped, and he turned her first to the right, then to the left. Her spine to his chest; his hands lifting and turning. Where they touched, she burned. The dance was progressive and he passed her down to the next man in the line, but in the end she came back to him, and on the last, triumphant note of pipe and tabor, he bowed over her hand and caressed the rose-scented pulse point with the very tip of his tongue. A shudder rippled down her spine, and sensing it, he smiled.

‘So you still do not fear me?’ he challenged softly.

Monday lowered her eyes. ‘No, my lord, I do not,’ she said unsteadily.

‘Well, you should, because I want to eat you alive.’

Another dance tune struck up, livelier than the last, and couples began to move and sway. Monday used the excuse of the steps to break from John, but she performed no more than the first few turns, and instead of joining hands with the woman at her side, made a breathless excuse, and fled the hall for the safety of the floors above.

Leaning her head against the cool stone newel post on the turret stairs, she listened to the thunder of her heart in her ears. She had told him the truth. She did not fear John – she was terrified of him. She could still feel the touch of his hands on her body, and see the wolfish glint in his eyes. Her body ached with desire, but last time she had given her senses control over her reason, the aftermath had changed her life and her perceptions forever.

Monday raised her head from the stone and made her way to the small wall chamber where Florian had been put to sleep in the same bed as Aline’s son, the children watched over by Giles’s nurse. A cresset lamp burned on the coffer, shedding dim light on the two little heads, one reddish-fair, the other black as a raven’s wing. She gazed on the rounded, innocent features of her son, the thumb touching the pursed lips, the thick black lashes seeming almost too heavy for the translucent lids. A pang knotted her belly. How easy his begetting had been, a simple, single moment, and how difficult the road since. She was the greatest fool on God’s earth to be considering a repetition of the experience.

She stroked Florian’s soft cheek, smiled at the nursemaid, and turned to leave, only to discover that John had followed her, and was blocking her escape. The nurse leaped to her feet with a stifled cry of surprise. John motioned her to be seated, and then ignored her.

‘You did not stay to dance,’ he said to Monday.

‘I came to look at my son, my lord,’ she answered more confidently than she felt. ‘Sometimes he wakens and cries for me.’

He brushed past her into the room to look at the two sleeping children. ‘I remember when my own two were this small,’ he said.

Monday saw a rare expression on his face. There was gentleness there, a yielding that made the cynical mouth tender and the dark eyes less predatory. ‘They are so innocent at this age,’ he murmured, ‘they do not put conditions on their affection, or masks on their faces in order to snatch from you what they can.’

‘I did not know that you had children, my lord.’ Even as she spoke, Monday knew how foolish her statement was. Unless John was barren, his reputation with women made it almost certain that he had bastards somewhere.

‘A boy and a girl of different mothers,’ he said. ‘Richard is nine, and Joanna is seven.’

‘What … what happened to their mothers?’

John turned his head, and the softness in his eyes was banished by hard amusement. ‘You are wondering if I threw them to the wolves once my lust was sated?’

Monday held her ground. ‘Should I not?’

‘Is that what happened to you?’ He indicated Florian. ‘Did his father not want to know?’

Monday was aware of the nurse sitting on her stool. Although the woman’s head was bowed, she could not help but hear what was being said. Lowering her voice, Monday turned so that she was facing away from the nurse. ‘His father would have married me, but I thought it better if our ways parted.’

‘So you are not the respectable widow you would have others believe?’ John’s voice fell to match hers, but his eyes sparkled with laughter.

‘I am not a widow, no.’

‘But very respectable,’ he said solemnly. He too glanced towards the woman on her stool, and spoke out on a louder level now. ‘I was most pleased with the miracle you worked with your needle this morning. I have another robe in need of refurbishment before I leave. Come to my chamber and I will give it to you.’

Monday stared at him. It would be like following a wolf into its lair and hoping not to be devoured.

‘My squires will be there,’ he said, as if he had read her mind, and made an ushering motion at the open door. ‘You have naught to fear.’

Without looking at him, Monday went out. John had taken over the main bedchamber and anteroom that were the usual haunt of Aline and the women of the household. She walked past her own pallet and saw a man’s saddle bags and a pair of gilt spurs standing on it. Two squires were busy in the main chamber, one polishing John’s helm with an oiled cloth, the other grooming the hairiest of the dogs with a teasel brush. John dismissed them both to the outer room with a flick of his fingers.

Monday gazed around the room, which was no longer a familiar haven. Aline’s personality had already been subjugated by John’s. ‘You do not really have a robe, do you?’ she asked.

‘Would I lure you here under false pretences?’ A dark eyebrow rose to mock her. He went to the bed, picked up a woollen tunic and showed her a long split in the side seam.

‘You might.’ She took it from him and saw that it would be a simple task to mend. A squire could do it easily; there was no great degree of skill required. ‘You might well indeed.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘You have not told me what happened to the women who bore your children.’

He shrugged. ‘There is no mystery. Joanna’s mother died soon after the birth. Richard was born of a single night’s folly. His mother is well provided for.’

Monday winced at his casual mention and dismissal of a ‘single night’s folly’, and wondered if the woman concerned had been as sanguine.

‘They are in the past,’ he said impatiently. ‘No woman warms my bed at the moment.’ A jewelled ring flashed on his index finger as he raised it. ‘But if you say yes, then all that can change.’

Monday clutched the robe in her hands. The smell of sandalwood and citrus rose from its folds, speaking of the wealth and privilege that was John’s to command. ‘There are women aplenty in Lavoux who would share your bed, why not seek one of them?’