Wings of the Storm (20 page)

He made her feel too much like a woman, she real-ized. She wished she'd met someone like him in her own time. Though she might not have noticed some-one like Sir Daffyd in her own world. It seemed as if she'd only begun to notice her own sensuality since she got dropped into the persona of Jehane FitzRose.

And little good it would do her, she also realized.

To keep her mind off all her own longings, she concentrated harder on enjoying the company, the conversation, and the bath. By refusing to dwell on her own homesickness she managed to push it into the background and ended up having a wonderful time.

It was only Stephan's banging on the door, demanding entrance into his own quarters and time with his dear lady in his own bed, that broke up the festivities.

Jane left with a smile, surrounded by a sense of fragile serenity. She felt as if she'd stepped into a little kingdom inside a bubble. It was full of laughter and love and dreams come true. It wasn't a real place, of course, and she wasn't really a part of it, but for now she was able to dwell inside the bubble, safely

away from the terrors of the real world.

The sense of serenity helped her sleep through the night before the wedding without having to resort to complete exhaustion to keep the nightmares away. That night there was a great deal of splashing going on in her dreams, with love play and laughter mixed with soap bubbles.

19

"Lavender," she said as she woke.She sat up sniffing, but there was no scent of the flower any-where in the room. Jane blinked and rubbed her eyes. "Must have dreamed it," she murmured as she got out of bed. As she combed her hair, she noticed it was still scented with last night's bathwater. Maybe that was where the lavender came from.

She was reminded of the day, and she smiled hap-pily. "Beginnings," she said. She dressed hurriedly and even said, "Good morning," as she passed her maid on her way out the door. It wasn't the poor woman's fault she wasn't Berthild, and it had been foolish to try to pretend the new maid wasn't there. Today, Jane resolved, she would put both the past and the future behind her. No comparisons, no regrets. Today she would live only for the moment. She didn't want the magic bubble to burst.

The household was already abuzz by the time she came downstairs. Several of the guests had arrived in time for the evening meal the night before, finding

bed space in chapel and pantry as well as around the hearth. Every landholder within a twenty-mile radius of Passfair was invited and had until high noon to arrive if they wished to witness the ceremony.

Jane was greeted enthusiastically by the earliest and most boisterous of the arrivals, Osbeorn of Blackchurch, a widower of substantial size. He'd arrived with his four offspring in tow and a gift of two barrels of French wine for the bride and groom. He was known locally as Osbeorn the Fat. Fat and Pickled, Jane thought, would be more appropriate.

He had tapped one of the barrels at supper last night and had been happily swigging, singing loudly to Michael's playing, when the women adjourned to the bower for their bath. From the looks of him this morning, rumpled, red-faced, and still boisterous, Jane didn't think he'd stopped celebrating all night.

He approached her with a flagon of wine in each hand. His smell reached her first. She blinked to keep her eyes from watering. "A good day to you. Sir Osbeorn," she greeted, taking the cup he held out.

"A toast to the happy couple," he proclaimed as his two adolescent sons came up to join them. He drained off his own wine while Jane took a tiny sip, then put the cup on the table.

Draping his arms around the boys' shoulders, he said, "Lady Jehane's a widow, lads. As sad and bereaved as we are. Such a sad thing not to have a good, stalwart lover in her bed." He peered blearily at her while the boys looked her over with less than boy-ish interest. "How you must grow cold at night,"

he elaborated. "Aching for a man's strength between your legs. Ah"—he sighed dramatically—"how I miss my own good woman." He perked up. "A toast to good women."

Jane backed away, smiling stiffly, happy to escape to her duties and leave Osbeorn the Fat to his cele-brating. She was living for the day, she reminded her-self as she stepped into the sweltering heat of the kitchen. But she would be happy when the guests went home.

Preparations for the feast were going on with fran-tic haste. The room smelled of cinnamon and

car-damom and the ever-present onions. She stood in a corner, chewing on a warm, crusty piece of white bread just brought in from the ovens behind the kitchen building. Wonderful, great round loaves of bread had been stacked on one of the tables like a mound of gold coins. It was planchet, white bread made from fine milled flour reserved for the nobility, and was a rare treat after the coarse grain produced by Passfair's mill. There were also pigeons and dried-fruit pies and honey cakes cooling on the table.

She'd sent a bag of silver, a small part of the dowry Sibelle brought to Passfair, to Canterbury for supplies for this feast. She'd also accepted some of Sibelle's silver in exchange for the spices used to flavor the dishes.

The cook was working at the chopping block in the center of the room, sweating profusely, bloody up to the armpits, using his cleaver to whack great hunks of beef into chunks for a savory stew. He was having the time of his life with this bounty. The scullions were busy stuffing chickens with a mixture of saffron, raisins, onions, and rice from her supplies. There were dozens of eggs boiling in a blackened kettle. Bowls of tiny strawberries were being cleaned by another pair of boys. There were suckling pigs and

geese roasting on spits over slow, carefully tended fires. There would also be dishes of fish and eels and lamb.

And all this bounty was as much for the villagers as for the household and guests. The people of Pass-fair and Hwit had been talking of nothing but the upcoming feast for six days. It was more meat in one day than they usually saw in five years.

Nothing in the kitchen needed her attention, so she finished her bread and left. A group of riders was dismounting in the courtyard, two separate parties that had entered the bailey one after the other.

She'd never seen the thin, hatchet-faced man in the soiled gray and yellow surcoat who came with a half dozen men-at-arms trailing behind him. The device on his shield was a long, sinuous white dragon on a red field. Dragon, she thought. A dragon was a drake, if she recalled her heraldry. Lilies were white.

Hugh of Lilydrake, then. So, he styled himself the White Dragon. White Snake would have been a more suitable title.

She turned her attention to the other arrivals, rec-ognizing the colors of Sturry. She went to greet the man who'd ridden in while his groom took the horses to be stabled. He had brown hair liberally mixed with gray, and a slight paunch. He introduced himself as Yves, seneschal to the baron.

He looked around the bailey with sharp brown eyes, then said, "I commend your efforts here. Lady Jehane." His smile was both friendly and assessing as he looked her over head to foot. She was dressed in layers of bright yellow and white, trimmed in blue embroidery. She knew the colors flattered her tawny complexion.

"You are a widow, are you not?" he inquired curi-ously.

She wanted to cover her face with her hands and mutter, "Oh, God, not another one." Instead she gave him a polite smile and said, "I must greet our other guests."

When she approached Lilydrake, all the thin man said to her was, "You're DuVrai's spare woman. Fetch me some wine."

She could see why he wasn't popular in the neigh-borhood.

She bridled angrily beneath a fixed, polite smile and called for a servant to see to Lord Hugh's needs.

She then went into the castle and sat in the bower with Sibelle and the other women until word was brought that all was ready in the courtyard. Yves came up to escort the bride to her lord. Jane, Sibelle, and Alais followed them outside. Jane was happy to note Sibelle's steps were firm and sure. Her head, hair flowing loosely, was wreathed in flowers.

They stepped out into the sunlight, halting at the top of the steps where Stephan, Raoul DeCorte, and Father Jonathan waited before a courtyard crowded with onlookers.

Jonathan took Sibelle's delicate little hand from Yves's and placed it in Stephan's. Jane watched, her joy mixed with curiosity as the wedding proceeded. It was very different from the ceremony she thought of as a wedding. First, Yves read the marriage agree-ment aloud. During the recitation, someone, she thought it was Hugh of Lilydrake, kept hawking and spitting on the flagstones.

Then Jonathan listened as the couple exchanged vows. He blessed them as Stephan then put not one, but three rings on the fingers of Sibelle's right hand. The last and largest ring was slipped onto her ring finger while Jonathan murmured a benediction.

When Sibelle knelt and prostrated herself before Stephan, Jane stiffened all over with shock. She felt herself staring, a shudder going through her. She was a historian, and medieval history was her specialty; she knew as much about these people's customs as had been recorded. She'd read about this bridal sub-mission. Witnessing the gesture Sibelle made so easi-ly shocked her to the core of her being.

I
really am an alien here,
she thought.
Icould never do that. I. want out.

Stephan helped the girl to her feet, smiling loving-ly into her adoring eyes. The crowd cheered, and they kissed while Jonathan's prayers rolled over them, good Church Latin sealing the happy couple as man and wife in the eyes of God and man. Jonathan even-tually had to tap Stephan hard on the shoulder to keep the kiss from turning into a more erotic specta-cle on the castle steps.

"You should be ashamed," he whispered jokingly to the young knight.

Stephan delicately touched a lovebite showing on his long throat. "Me?" Sibelle rested her head on his chest, shoulders quivering with unabashed laughter. "Come, love," Stephan said to her. "Let's lead these good people into the feast."

Her eyes sparked up at him. "Soonest begun, soon-est done," she told him.

"My thoughts exactly," he agreed. He put his arm around her shoulder. Holding his wife close to his side.

Sir Stephan led the way into his hall.

Sir Daffyd arrived just as everyone was seated at the tables. The man did know how to make an entrance, Jane thought, watching him as he stood poised in the screen doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the faces in the hall. He gave the faintest of nods in Lilydrake's direction, and kept his left hand resting easily on his sword hilt. For once he wasn't dressed in armor, but for a party. Jane found herself gazing, mesmerized, at the strong sure hand, fingers curled loosely on his weapon. A shiver raced up her spine, and she forced herself to look elsewhere. She still couldn't take her eyes off Daffyd.

He was wearing a tight-sleeved black undertunic, which emphasized his long, strong arms. It was

cov-ered with a long, belted tunic of rich scarlet. Metallic gold embroidery trimmed the slit front, the short, belled sleeves, and the hem swinging around his calves. His long hair glistened cleanly to well below his shoulders, its thick texture and natural curl enough to make even Sibelle jealous.

He certainly cleaned up well, Jane conceded, as if by making flippant mental comments, she could ignore her racing heart.

After making his greetings to the bride and groom, Daffyd's eyes found hers. She was seated to Sir Stephan's right, between Jonathan and Osbeorn. She signaled for another chair to be brought. She didn't mean for Michael to squeeze the seat between her and the gently soused Osbeorn. Once it was done, she couldn't very well order the man be placed anywhere besides next to her. He came around the table and

slid onto the chair.

"You're looking well, lady," he said in greeting. "Much better than when we last met."

She gave the Welshman a nod. His size and

masculine presence made her nervous. Vivid memo-ries assailed her. The way he'd stroked her bruised cheek. His rich voice teasing her with a bet. His eyes roaming boldly over her while he stood naked before her. The smile as he killed her would-be rapist. Her flesh went hot, then cold. She turned her attention to the safe presence of the priest.

His blue eyes smiled gently into hers. She had to take a sip of wine to clear her dry throat before she spoke. "Citrom? It doesn't sound like a Norman name."

"It's not," he answered. "It's what I've been called since I was a lad."

"Oh," she encouraged.

"My family holds a stronghold on Sicily; I was born there. There are citrus orchards on the estate.

Citrom is a pet name a Magyar slave gave me when I was young." His smile held fond remembrance. "I think it means 'lemon' in his rough language."

She was very aware of Sir Daffyd's hand reaching across the table to snatch a piece of bread, of his fin-gers slowly tearing the piece to bits. "Really," she said. "How interesting."

"How interesting," Sir Daffyd echoed mockingly beside her.

She kept her back half-turned to him and went on. "You've traveled far from Sicily. I was there once."

She had spent a summer in college working on an archaeological dig. She hated to think the ruins of the Norman keep she'd helped painstakingly uncover might have been where the Templar priest was born.

"After my husband died," she added.

"On your long journey to England?"

"Yes."

"Do you miss your husband much?" Daffyd asked, the purr of his voice very close to her ear.

She was beginning to think Sir Daffyd's caustic comments were a play for her attention. Could it be he was jealous of her talking to Father Jonathan? No. Impossible. She too clearly recalled his remarks when he'd called off their bet. His interest in her had been a "joke."

Michael appeared, holding a clay jug almost as big as he was. He refilled her cup and Jonathan's, then turned, too quickly, to Sir Daffyd. Wine splashed out on the scarlet tunic. The man jumped in surprise.

Jane put out a protective hand, placing herself between the boy and the knight. Her hand brushed against the Welshman's in passing. The warm touch of flesh to flesh sent a searing shock of desire through her.