The Shattered Rose (2 page)

Raoul scanned the area. Here by the river, trees softened the landscape, but to the west and north lay sweeping moorland made sullen by the cloudy day. "It's hard to imagine anyone wanting this place. "You warned me, my friend, but I didn't expect something quite so ... bleak."

"I gather it was somewhat less bleak before it was fought over in 'sixty-eight."

Raoul grimaced. "I don't think fighting caused the climate."

Galeran laughed. "I suppose not. The sun does shine sometimes, I promise." He urged his horse up the slope to the road. "And you're right. We're safe enough. If the Scots were bold enough to raid hereabouts, my father and brothers would drive them back with their tails between their legs."

Raoul joined him, and they went forward at a walk to ease the horses. "Your father's castle is close by our road?"

"Yes."

"That's good. We can get a proper meal."

"Do you think of nothing but food?"

"Someone has to."

"Well, hungry or not, we ride by."

Raoul stared at him. "After two years abroad?"

"I can hardly stop, gobble a hunk of beef, and leave, can I? And I intend to be home today. I'll do the happy family reunion another time."

After a moment, Raoul said, "Have you thought that it might be a shock, you just showing up at your gate?"

Galeran looked sideways. "Oh, is that it? You want me to stop at Brome and send a polite message to warn Jehanne to air the mattress?"

"It might be a—"

"No."

Raoul shrugged with a rattle of mail. "So be it, but if your wife falls into a dead faint at your feet, don't blame me."

"Jehanne never faints."

"The Lady Jehanne has probably never had a husband turn up from nowhere before. You should have written from Bruges."

"What point, when a letter would travel no faster than I?"

"When
did
you last write? Will she have any idea to expect you?"

"Before Jerusalem." And Galeran kicked the dun up to speed before his startled friend could ask more questions.

He'd written regularly on the way out, sending letters from Rome, Cyprus, and Antioch. After the horrors of Jerusalem, however, he'd not been able to write anything to anyone. He'd concentrated blindly on getting home. Without Raoul's help he might not have made it, and in order to keep going he had blocked out all thought except his goal.

Heywood, Jehanne, and his son.

It hadn't occurred to him until now that for Jehanne there would have been a silence of over a year. In a way, he'd expected her to know where he was and what he was doing without being told.

But Jehanne wouldn't faint. She hadn't fainted when told she had to marry him. She hadn't fainted when they'd been attacked by brigands and one of her attendants had died before her eyes. Those were probably the two most shocking events in her life.

Then he remembered the boar.

But she hadn't fainted then, either.

They'd been in the woods making love. Yes, making love—for in those early days it had seemed to him that each joyous coupling had added love to the world.

Jehanne had liked to make love in the open. She found me idea of someone interrupting them exciting rather than embarrassing. A boar, however, was rather more than either of them had counted on, and it came upon them at a miserable time.

Jehanne was on top and Galeran was close to release. Then she was gone, and when Galeran gathered together the scraps of his shattered mind, he found her straddled over him, his heavy sword in her small hands. "Hell's flames, Galeran. Get your brain out of your cock and kill the beast! Or do I have to do it myself?"

There'd been many a time when he'd wished he'd said "Go ahead" and watched her have to beg.

She wouldn't have begged, though.

Jehanne never begged.

She'd have tried. She might even have succeeded. Jehanne was tall for a woman, which had not best pleased him as a youth. Though slender, she was strong. Of course, she wouldn't have been able to kill a boar with a swords— that was a difficult feat for a skillful man—but she would have tried.

Perhaps the boar knew it. Unusually for that animal, it had backed away and fled, perhaps dismayed by the tall, white-skinned, pale-haired woman snarling at it, sword in hand.

Galeran had dissolved into laughter, and the next he knew, Jehanne was back, driving him into another, more wonderful dissolution.

A form of dissolution he longed to experience once again.

No. Not just once . . .

He urged his mount to greater speed, wondering if their marriage would be as if he had never left.

Or better?

He knew he'd changed while away. He'd been twenty-two when he'd taken the cross, and had generally led a pleasant life. Now, at twenty-five, he was leaner, harder, and callused on body and soul. He'd seen marvels to strengthen his faith, and horrors to sour it.

Jehanne must have changed too.

Perhaps she would have plumped up after having a child. He'd always admired her slender elegance, but bigger breasts and a cozy armful might be good too.

Jehanne in any form would be good.

Raoul was right; he should have sent warning from Bruges. He should stop and send warning today.

He wouldn't, though.

With an anticipatory grin, Galeran realized he
wanted
to surprise her. He wanted to catch his cool wife in her working clothes, skirt kirtled up, her fine hair escaping its braids as it always did. He wanted her to look up and gape with shock, then flush with joy.

Jehanne didn't like to be caught unawares, so every now and then he liked to do it. Like when he gave her the rose . . .

He wasn't a man for giving fancy gifts, and up north they didn't see many, but on a trip to York he'd spotted the rose on a merchant's stall, wonderfully carved out of ivory, each petal edge fine as a real one. It was an impractical thing, too small to decorate a room and too big for jewelry, but he'd bought it anyway because its sharp-edged beauty made him think of Jehanne, and after just a few days away he missed her.

When he'd given it to her, her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had shone, perhaps even with a hint of tears. Jehanne rarely cried.

She'd cried, though, when she broke it. He smiled ruefully at the memory of her grief over the accident. Other losses had been met with fierce composure, but the rose— sent flying off its shelf in a careless moment—had melted her to tears. They'd stuck the broken petals back with wax, but one was chipped and another cracked and it had never been as perfect as it was.

Ah, well. He'd brought her gifts from the Holy Land. Perhaps one of them would be the equal of the rose.

He thought he might have some bed tricks, too, that would catch her unawares. He'd kept his vow, but other men had explored the Eastern women and brought back stories. Jehanne would be interested. She liked to experiment, and now that there was no anxiety about barrenness she would be happy to play again.

Tonight.

Jehanne.

Jehanne in bed.

Or on the bed so he could feast on the sight of her—pale blond hair spilling loose over the mattress, supple body his again to touch, to taste, to finally, finally enter . . .

Such thoughts were not wise.

He was hard as a rock, bulging, throbbing, as if he might prove Raoul's words true and explode.

He'd controlled lust and frustration for over two years, so he should be able to do so for a few more hours, but he had to adjust carefully in the saddle to find a tolerable position as he rode.

He realized then that he was into familiar land at last— his own valley land, the strip fields rich with summer, the fells dotted with plump sheep. The sun was setting and the dun was beginning to tire, but now was no time to stop. He kicked him on, galloping through familiar villages, scattering geese, chickens, and people. The cries of "It's Lord Galeran! Lord Galeran!" fell quickly behind like the cries of the startled birds.

Then he saw the square stone keep of Heywood Castle beyond some trees and reined in sharply. He'd dreamed of this so many times that it almost felt like another dream. He needed a moment to convince himself that it was finally, blessedly, real.

It looked no different. It was as if he'd ridden away yesterday.

Raoul reined up beside him, his horse foaming with effort. "So, we made it, though your men are straggled out behind for a league. Do we wait for them to gather and ride down quietly, as if there had been no hurry at all?"

The thought had crossed Galeran's mind. Trust Raoul to read him so well. "No," he said, and kicked into a canter to ride around the curve of the road and into fall view of his home. . . .

He hauled the dun to a rearing stop.

An army seethed around Heywood.

His castle was under siege!

"By the five wounds, who?"

Raoul shaded his eyes from the flare of the setting sun. "The pennant shows red and green."

Raoul's eyesight had always been remarkable, but Galeran could scarcely believe it. "That's my father's pennant."

"Then your father is besieging your castle."