The Shattered Rose (8 page)

"I never said you
needed
to. Your father ordered me to make sure you didn't murder your wife, and then went back to spend the night in his tent. Do you fancy a game of chess?"

"No. I'm going to have a bath."

Raoul wrinkled his nose. "You certainly need one."

"And my wife is going to bathe me."

"Oh-ho!"

Galeran gave him a look, and Raoul assumed an innocent expression. "In that case, do I have your word you won't drown her?"

"Yes. Go explore the maids here. I'm sure one will be to your taste. But don't interfere with Jehanne's women."

"Sets strict standards, does she?" Then Raoul immediately threw up his hands. "Don't gut me. I apologize."

"Jehanne is my wife and will be treated with respect. Complete respect."

Raoul grimaced. "Galeran, at risk of my head, I have to say you can't just ignore what's happened. Even the people here, who seem to admire her all in all, expect her to suffer some retribution."

"By the Cross and Nails, what do they want? That I tie her to a post in the bailey and flog her?"

Raoul shrugged. "A good beating might clear the air. Then if you get rid of the bastard—"

Galeran just walked by him and climbed the steps.

God knows, but there was a part of him that thirsted for that beating just as much as the castle people and his brothers did. Probably most of Northumbria was waiting to hear Jehanne scream.

But he couldn't do it.

He could never do it.

Nor could he imagine snatching Jehanne's child from her arms.

As he reached the door to the hall, he suddenly realized that he didn't know whether it was a boy or a girl.

He entered the large chamber and found it just as it had been most evenings of his life. Two of Jehanne's women sat in the window-light spinning and gossiping. They flashed him a look and spoke more quietly. Servants busied themselves putting up trestle tables for the evening meal, and a couple of men-at-arms sat at one dicing. Each person slid him a look, then concentrated on their own business.

Each person expected violence.

They’ll be disappointed.

He hoped.

Would Jehanne have obeyed him and be prepared to bathe him? He thought she would. It was her
duty,
after all.

Raoul's plans for the evening prompted other thoughts, thoughts of sex with Jehanne. Galeran searched his mind, wondering if that was his intent.

Despite exhaustion, he was thinking of having sex with someone, or his body was. Approaching Heywood the previous day, he'd begun to release the tight control he'd kept on his desire, and like a stream undammed, it didn't seem possible to reverse the process.

He realized that his body had been smoldering in desire all day, and the flames were now licking higher and hotter. A plump, saucy maid slid him a sly glance, and seeing she had his attention, rolled her hips in subtle invitation, wetting her lips with her tongue.

Surely his vow no longer bound him. If one party broke a contract, the contract was void.

But he did not burn for
a
woman.

He burned for Jehanne.

He turned away from the wench and crossed the hall toward the solar. Jehanne was his wife and still had a duty to serve his needs. More to the point, he had never truly desired any other woman and still didn't.

He stopped dead when he saw the guard at the door to the solar. That could mean only that Jehanne was there and that his orders to guard her were being taken literally. But, he suddenly realized, he was going to present himself to her in a state of rampant erection.

A moment's effort convinced him that willpower could not change anything, so he went to a nearby garde-robe and changed things physically. With images of Jehanne burning in his mind, and her but a few steps away, it was both satisfying and bitterly frustrating.

He was, however, able to appear quite calm when he entered the solar.

It was all painfully familiar.

The large oak tub lined with thick linen cloths was half full of steaming, herb-scented water. Additional jugs of water, both hot and cold, stood ready. Drying cloths hung pristine white on a nearby rack, close enough to the brazier to be pleasantly warm when used.

In other words, everything was perfectly in order, just as it always had been with Jehanne in command.

She was awaiting him, dressed plainly now, her sleeves rolled up, and her hair bound under a scarf so it wouldn't get in the way. That was a shame. He'd quite like it to get in the way. ...

Dissatisfied lust was glowing again in the cinders.

How would she react if he said "Get on the bed. I want to fuck you." He'd never said anything so crude to her in his life.

How could he say "Come to bed. I want to make love to you?"

How could he make love to a woman who loved another?

Like a blow, he faced the question he'd hidden from all day. Did Jehanne love Lowick? Had she always, and merely made do with the husband forced on her?

Did she wish Galeran dead so she could be with Lowick for all time? Lowick, after all, was taller, broader, more handsome. ...

But how could a strong, clever woman love a man who wanted just her property?

He realized he'd been standing in silence for an embarrassingly long time, and moved to strip off his stinking garments. He was not so far gone, anyway, as to attempt carnal intimacy in this foul state. Jehanne had always been very fastidious.

For that reason, he didn't ask her to help him undress, and when he'd stripped, he opened the door and threw the clothes out into the hall. "Get someone to burn that lot," he told the guard.

Then he turned back and caught Jehanne looking him over intently. It reminded him too sharply of that time in his chamber before they were married—the time she'd thrown his clothes out the window. There was no embarrassment in her face now, though, just a rather objective concern.

"A few extra scars," he said.

"And many extra bites. "You must be infested. Get into the water." Her brisk tone was impersonal, but her eyes were not. He could not read them, though. Did she wish him dead?

If she did, he thought he would rather be.

As he eased into the tub, the sensation of hot, herb-scented water on his skin drew an involuntary sigh of delight from him. For the moment, other desires were suppressed and other pains forgotten.

She began with his feet. "How long since you've had a bath?"

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Months. Though until the last week, I changed my underclothes regularly." He didn't say that he'd refused to stop for such comforts in Bruges because he was so eager to reach her. Perhaps she guessed, for she didn't pursue it.

She scrubbed at his feet and pared the toenails, then worked up his legs. At times her fierce scrubbing bordered on pain, but he didn't complain. He knew she was just trying to make sure there were no unwanted inhabitants on his skin.

She stopped at his thighs, though, and moved around to start on his arms.

Galeran could almost fall asleep. Almost but not quite. This interlude was too precious to miss. If he let himself, he could imagine he was in the past and Jehanne was bathing him after a hard day's hunting.

She had always been clean when she came to bathe him, for bathing had always been followed by lovemaking and she believed clean should go with clean. Was she clean now? If he'd thought, he would have asked the guard whether the Lady Jehanne had bathed today.

Now his chest. "Thank goodness you don't have much hair here," she muttered. "I've picked off a dozen lice."

He almost smiled. It was good to hear her scolding. But amusement faded. These pleasant moments weren't going to solve anything.

Did he want to keep Jehanne as his wife?

Oh, yes.

Even if she loved Lowick?

Yes.

Was it
wise
to keep Jehanne as his wife?

He didn't know.

Was it
possible
to keep Jehanne as his wife after her open adultery, and suspicion of murder? The latter was surely untrue, but her unfaithfulness could not be ignored.

Was he going to have to beat her to redeem her?

If so, she was likely to go unredeemed. Of all the trials he had ever imagined facing in life, that one he shrank from. If he'd known how much he'd hate hitting her, he'd never have found the will to do it.

She cleaned down his torso, but again stopped just short of his genitals.

"Lean forward."

When he obeyed so she could get at his back, he saw the filthy scum on the water. "I'm sorry. I don't think you've ever had to deal with me in such a state."

"If I mind, I can think of any number of reasons why I should be inflicted."

Trust Jehanne. Sometimes life would be more comfortable if she would avoid a confrontation or allow herself a polite lie.

After a moment, she added. "Is any of this dirt from the Holy Land? If it is, we should preserve it and build a shrine."

He couldn't tell if she was serious or not. "No. I did have a thorough bath in Constantinople. They take bathing seriously there. You'd like it." Head resting on his knees, he went on to describe the beautiful city, the ornate baths, and the sensual bathing rituals, realizing only when it was too late that this was talk for the Jehanne of his dreams, not for his adulterous wife.

She stopped her cleansing and went to get the smaller bowl to wash his hair. "Shall I cut it?"

"I'm sure it will make it easier."

She used the sharp knife with skill to cut his hair quite short, shorter than was fashionable. The working of her fingers against his scalp was almost unbearably arousing. Then she soaped and washed it three times before combing it carefully and squashing some nits. "It's not too bad," she said. "A pennyroyal rinse should keep it free of pests. Shall I shave you, or do you want one of the men to do it?"

He looked up at her. "If you were going to cut my throat, you'd have already done it."

"They burn women who kill their husbands."

He stared at her, trying to read meaning into the flat words, but then sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes. Shave me."

As she used the sharp edge of the blade to scrape away his rough beard, he wondered how long he could live in this wasteland without cutting his own throat.

At one point he thought he felt her fingers trace the scar down his chin, but she said nothing. Then she was wiping the soap away. "Stand up, and I'll get the rinse water."

He stood, finally irritated by her calm. "You've forgotten some bits of me."

She turned sharply, almost at bay, and he knew she wasn't calm. But being Jehanne, she didn't back down. "The water's too dirty now. I'll rinse you first."

She sluiced him with clean water. Then, without noticeable hesitation, soaped her cloth and began to wash his genitals. At the first touch he caught his breath, and in moments he was hard.

Her hands faltered. "Galeran?"

The rising edge of it revealed the true state of her nerves. It asked for guidance, but carried with it a note of submission, an agreement to do whatever he commanded. If he said, "Take me in your mouth. Clean me with your tongue," she would do it.

Was this all that was left between them—fear and penance?

"I'll do it." He took the cloth and completed the cleaning, then stepped out of the bath, rinsing each scummy foot.

She was composed again and ready with the cloths, but he noticed she kept her eyes lowered. Jehanne, who never lowered her eyes except in church. He rubbed himself dry, then wrapped a clean cloth loosely about his hips and sat on a bench.

Finally he said the words he had avoided all day. "Tell me about Gallot."

She was folding a cloth and her hands froze. "He's dead."

"I know that. When did he die?"

"Ten and a half months ago."

He had the feeling she could record it in days, hours, heartbeats even.

"How did he die?"

She finished folding the cloth with untypically clumsy movements. "He just died."

"Children don't just die, Jehanne. Was it a fever? Gripe?"

She turned to face him. "He just died. He was happy and healthy. He slept with me. We played together before he slept. . . ."

He thought she wouldn't go on, and in the face of her pain, he wasn't sure he wanted her to.

"Perhaps he was a little more fractious than usual. I don't know. ... I tended some accounts and joined him in the bed and went to sleep too. When I awoke," she whispered, "he was dead."

Galeran stared at her as if her frozen face could provide answers. "Of what?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be foolish! You must know. Did you overlay him?"

"No." But she wouldn't look at him.

"Jehanne. It can happen... ."

She turned on him. "I did
not
overlay him! Drunken women do that I was not drunk. I'm even a light sleeper and he was eight months old If I'd begun to smother him, he'd have struggled...." Her lips trembled and she pressed them together. "He did nothing. . . ."

"Was he sick?"

"No. No.... He had some marks about him, but nothing to kill. . . . Don’t you think this hasn't been gone over?"

"Then how, in God's name, did my son die?"

She turned icy eyes on him. "Perhaps I killed him. Is that what you're thinking, like Gil? You were dead, or so that passing monk said. Lowick was here, wanting to replace you, but not wanting your son replacing his. Easy enough to get rid of a small child. A hand covering mouth and nose .. ."

"Easy enough for him."

Her face changed and he knew it wasn't a novel idea. "I was sleeping with Gallot," she said shakily. "It isn't possible."

"Perhaps you were sleeping with both of them. Rutting with Lowick beside my son's body."

"No!"

He lunged to his feet. "By the Holy Nails and Spear, Jehanne, I'll have the truth!"

An unsteady hand covered her mouth. "Oh, Galeran, no more vows ..."

The squawk of a babe pierced the moment, the demanding squawk of a hungry young babe. Jehanne put her arm over her breasts and Galeran saw a damp patch begin to spread there. Those breasts had poured fourth milk on demand for his son once, and now they gushed for the child of Raymond of Lowick.