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Chapter 23
"You there! Where do you think you're going?"
Joanna woke with a start, but Adrian's hand was already over her mouth, stilling any noise she might have made. She couldn't believe she had slept, his body covering hers, not after that astonishing occurrence. She was no fool—she'd seen enough men at the peak of their pleasure to know that it must be something very like what had happened to her. She just didn't understand how or why. Women were put on earth to suffer men's touch, not enjoy it. And it had been barely a touch, just the inadvertent rubbing of two bodies together.
Though not so inadvertent. She could see his eyes in the shrouded darkness, and she knew he'd intended it. Knew that he was hard and wanting, and she knew what to do about it.
She'd slid her hand between their bodies to touch him, stroke him, but he'd stopped her, pulling her hand up to his mouth and kissing it before he set it back down beside her.
"Much as I appreciate the thought, my lady, I think we'd best forgo that for the time being. I need my wits about me, and that might get a bit messy."
She'd been beyond comprehending him. A man who gave her pleasure and asked for no release of his own? A man whose body clearly demanded that release?
"But…"
He'd kissed her mouth, silencing her, and this time she hadn't fought him. She'd simply closed her eyes and slept, only to wake now in the smothering darkness with his hand on her mouth and his body tight with tension.
"Got a delivery for the holy sisters, my lord," Odo said. "Tithes from the villages here about—com and wool and the like."
"Which villages?"
"Aldenham and Whithall."
"Not Beckham? It should have been on your way."
Adrian moved, very slowly, and Joanna knew he was reaching for his knife.
"Not Beckham, my lord. They're a lazy bunch, born sinners. They wouldn't give the good sisters a crumb that they could use themselves."
"So you did not travel through Beckham?"
"Not this time, my lord. I came straight down the market road."
"And who did you see on this road? Anyone of interest?"
"Indeed I did, my lord. There were several groups of armed men moving about the countryside, looking for something. I have no idea what they wanted, and they didn't come near me, but they were right suspicious, if you ask me."
"I know of the hunting parties," the man said in a rough voice. "I want to know if you've seen anything unusual. A wounded monk, perhaps, accompanied by an uncommonly beautiful woman."
"Hunting parties? What would they be hunting around here? The game is sparse after a long winter—they'd be unlikely to find much to eat…"
"They were hunting the people I was asking about, you fool!"
"To cat?" The unveil voice was the perfect blend of gullibility and incredulousness.
"To kill!" the interrogator snapped. "And you haven't answered my question. Have you seen them?"
"Why would they want to kill a monk and a beautiful lady?"
"They're murderers and traitors. They tried to kill Prince William."
"Who's Prince William? Never heard of him, and if the king had an heir you'd think word would reach us…"
"He's a bastard."
"Then he's not a prince, is he?" Odo said. "So if someone tried to kill him it's plain murder, not treason. Doesn't matter, though. I've seen no monks, wounded or otherwise."
"He might be traveling in disguise. Have you seen any recently wounded men at all, be they serf or knight, alone or with a beautiful woman? And if you don't give me a quick answer I'll cut out your tongue."
"But then you won't get any answers at all," Odo said reasonably. "No, my lord, I've seen no strange men, no beautiful women, no traitorous murderers. Only you and your hunting parties. May I go on up to the convent now? It's been a long day and I have to deliver my goods before I can rest."
"Not tonight. No one's approaching the shrine tonight. There are guards patrolling, so don't even think to try another way. Your goods can wait." There was the steely slide of a sword being drawn. "Do you have a problem with that, vassal?"
"Not at all, my lord. It won't be the first time I've curled up and slept under my wagon, and I doubt it will be the last. What about tomorrow?"
"What about it?"
"Will I be allowed to enter then?"
"If the prince has left. In the meantime you can either wait or go elsewhere."
"Where are all these men you say are guarding the perimeter, my lord? You're the only one I can see."
"They'll be making their rounds soon enough. Why, do you think you can overpower me, peasant?"
Joanna knew what was going to happen, knew there was nothing she could do to stop him. His body was coiled, ready to spring, and his hand still covered her mouth, silencing any protest or warning she might have given.
And then his hand was gone, the rough covering thrown back to the night sky, and Adrian rose, his knife in his hand. "He might not, Rufus," he said, jumping down from the wagon. "But I can."
Joanna scrambled to her knees, only to moan in despair. Their unseen interrogator was a huge man, far bigger than Adrian's slender form, and he was heavily armed. Adrian had only the knife.
"I should have known," the man said in a grim voice. "The prince was right not to trust you! Things would have been so much easier if you'd been privy to the rescue party, but he said you would never allow it. You've gotten squeamish, Sir Adrian. It doesn't matter—you know I'm not going to let you pass."
"Then I'll have to kill you, Rufus."
"Now, why would you want to do that? We've fought side by side over the years. We're both the prince's men."
"There's a difference. You follow him, I keep watch over him."
"We both do his bidding."
"He tried to kill me, Rufus."
"That's right, you're wounded. I almost forgot. That'll make my job that much easier. I promise to make it fast, for the sake of our time together. A clean slice to the throat and you'll be dead in moments."
"I don't think so. The man you follow is a monster."
"Aye. And what do you think he'd do to me if I wasn't able to stop you?"
"I don't want to have to kill you."
"Better you than the prince. But you haven't a chance in hell of even pricking me with that little toy you're holding."
"You think not?" He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the larger man. "Joanna, I want you to run to the convent. Go fast, keep low, and you should make it. I'm hoping Peter has made it back, but if he hasn't, find someone, anyone who might be in charge. The mother abbess, the father abbot, anyone."
"And they'll take her word over the prince's? Don't be daft, man."
"Then why are you so determined to stop us?"
"They might listen to you. A trull is another matter."
"She's no trull."
Rufus's laugh rang out in the night. "Don't tell me you've fallen in love! You are a fool, Adrian, for all that you're a good fighter. If you've fallen in love with a whore you're better off dead."
"Run, Joanna. Find Father Abbot and warn him."
She scrambled out of the wagon, hesitating only a moment. She couldn't see how he could possibly survive, so mismatched, and she knew she would never see him again.
"I love you." She had no idea where those words had come from. She'd never given them to a man—no man had ever wanted them.
But there was no missing the blazing smile on Adrian's face. "I love you, too. Rufus is right on that one thing. Now run!"
She picked up her skirts and ran, through the trees, dodging the overgrown bushes as she listened to the sound of steel against steel. He was going to die, and she wanted to run back, to save him, to hold him as he died, but she kept onward, tears streaming down her face as the noise of the fight grew ominously still.
She expected there'd be guards at the front gate, but it was unattended. She staggered through, her heart ready to burst, her breath tear
ing at her chest, to fall weeping into the arms of the first person she saw. Someone who could only be the father abbot.
"Child, what is the matter?" he cried.
"Adrian! We came here to warn you… the prince… Adrian…" She gasped out the words.
"The prince is safe and well. He's completed his penance and has been absolved of his sins. He leaves tomorrow to start a new life."
"No!" she cried. "He's a murderer. Those were his men who attacked the party. His men who slaughtered the monks."
The abbot pulled back. "Those are very serious accusations."
"Don't let him leave. We have to help Adrian. That man was going to kill him."
"Sir Adrian is here? The prince told me he perished in the battle."
"The prince lied. We have to help him, Father. It may not be too late. Please!" she sobbed.
By this time a large crowd had gathered round them. "There, there, child. Mother Alison will take you someplace to rest. Brother Mellard, send my men to the front gate…"
"The side gate…" Joanna gasped.
"And have someone see to the prince. I wish to talk to him before he sets out for London."
"Yes, Father."
"But…" Joanna said as strong arms closed around her.
"Go with the sisters, child. And trust in God."
And Joanna had no other choice.
The cell Elizabeth was given was small and spare, but the bed was the first real one she'd had in what seemed like a lifetime. It was far too narrow to share with anyone, and she could spend the rest of her life in such a narrow bed and never notice the lack.
All the lies she'd been told over the last few days beat around her head like the wings of a thousand birds. She wanted to fling herself down on that narrow bed and weep. She wanted to hit someone, preferably Peter, and maybe herself, as well.
She had known. If she examined it honestly, she had known deep in her heart of hearts that he wasn't the true prince. But she hadn't wanted to consider who he could be, and who the real prince was.
It was odd. In his own way, the man she'd traveled with was far more princely than the king's son. And sweet-faced Brother Matthew fit the role of monk better than a man like… Peter, with his tortured eyes and simmering anger.
Prince William, the real Prince William, would look after her. And while she couldn't discount the stories that had sent him on a journey of penance, she knew that she would be safe from him. Brother Peter might have a taste for long-legged, flame-haired women, but the prince would have more exacting tastes. He'd have no interest in someone like her—she'd be perfectly safe traveling with him, even if the stories turned out to be true. And she couldn't believe he could be the monster he was rumored to be. You only had to look into his gentle blue eyes to know he could be trusted.
If she stayed in this tiny cell until it was time to go she might never have to see Peter again. That was what she needed—time and distance. Her wounded heart would heal, eventually, and her newfound knowledge of the world would help her. Knowledge and experience, no matter how bitter, were always a good thing.
The lone candle sent long shadows around the narrow room. She went to the barred window to look out over the moonlit landscape. She could hear noise in the background, a woman crying out, the sound of soldiers, and she climbed onto the ledge of the window, trying to see out, but it was to no avail. She turned to climb down, and saw Peter standing there, the door closed behind him.
He was wearing new robes, of a finer weave than the ones they'd both worn on the road. His face was freshly shaven, as well as the crown of his head, and she realized belatedly that the supposed prince of England hadn't been balding after all. His tonsure had been growing in.
She didn't like it. Didn't like the robe, didn't like the man. "What are you doing here?"
One of the things she hated most about him was his ability to mask his feelings. She had no idea whether he felt shame, anger, sorrow, lust or pity. He looked so different from the man she had first seen in her father's hall, the indolent, wicked prince with his strong face and mocking mouth. Now his eyes were dark and unreadable, his face impassive. Even the mouth that had done such sinful, glorious things to her was set in a grim line.
"Those robes don't become you. You aren't made to be a nun," he said.
"Not any longer, I suppose," she said. "Fortunately the holy sisters seem willing to accept soiled goods, and I find this robe to fit me very well indeed. I'll ask you one more time and then I'll call for help. Why are you here?"
"I came here to warn you."
"Against rapacious men? Too late. Get out or I'll scream, and no one will think of you as saintly Brother Peter any longer."
He didn't bother to defend himself. "The prince is not who he appears to be."
She had to laugh at that. "And what man is? In the last three days no man has been what he appeared to be. Next you'll be telling me that Brother Adrian is no monk."
"He isn't. He's the king's man. And my cousin."
In the bare cell there was nothing to throw at him but angry words. "Go away, you deceiving, miserable wretch of a human being. I'd rather converse with a rabid dog."
A small smile softened his mouth. "Your mouth will get you into trouble."
"As will yours." And, unbidden, the thought of just what his mouth had done on her body brought a rush of color to her face. Ensuring that he knew what she was thinking about, as well.
"Elizabeth, it doesn't matter what you think of me. I cannot let you go anywhere with Prince William. He's everything you heard and more."
"You have no say over what I will or will not do."
"A word to the mother abbess will keep you here."
"And if you did, I would see to it that that word would be followed with a detailed account of what happened between us during the last few days."
He raised an eyebrow. "A detailed account? Mother Abbess would never recover from the shock."
Rage swept through her. "Do you think this is funny?"
"Unlike you, I don't pass judgment, nor tend to think people are infallible. People do good and bad things. They make mistakes, commit sins, and pay for them as best they can."
"Go to hell."
"Without question. But you're not going with Prince William. He doesn't want you, you know. He's just trying to get to me, and he'll use anyone he has to."
That was the final straw. "Of course he doesn't want me. Why should any man want me? Lord knows you must have been completely desperate after God knows how many years of celibacy."
"Desperate is a good word for it," he said softly.
"And why would he want you? Don't try to tell me his tastes run to other men—I wouldn't believe you."
"His tastes run to nothing at all. He wants to kill me."
"And who can blame him?" Elizabeth said sweetly. "You bring that out in the best of us."
He laughed. "I'm glad to know you consider yourself among the best of us."
"Hardly. That doesn't mean I don't want to kill you with my bare hands."
It was the wrong thing to say. He walked toward her, slowly, giving her time to duck away, but the room was so small there was no real place to run to, so she stood still, meeting his gaze calmly.
"Then put your hands on me," he said softly. "Do it."
She could do him little harm and they both knew it. She had strong hands, but not strong enough to strangle him, as tempting as the notion was. She had no weapon, and in the convent neither did he, so she couldn't stab him. She was barefoot—she could hardly wear the monk's sandals and her feet were too big for any of the footwear at the abbey.
But she had her fists. She slammed one into his stomach, hard, surprising him, hitting him so hard it hurt her hand.
"You can do better than that," he murmured.
She punched him with her other hand, but this time he was prepared, and his stomach was so hard he must have barely noticed.
"I hate you," she said.
"Of course you do."
And she began pounding him, on his chest, beating against him with all her strength as she called him every name she could think of and more besides, hit his unmoving body, his unflinching face, hit him until her arms ached and her hands were numb and she could do nothing but cry as he put his arms around her and held her.
She could no more move away from him than she could fly. "I hate you," she sobbed again.
He kissed her. It was the last thing she expected, his mouth hard on hers, but the greater shock was that she kissed him back. Kissed the monk, knowing who and what he was.
She had no idea what would have happened next. Whether she would have been proved wrong about the narrowness of the bed, when someone knocked on the door, and by the time Mother Alison opened it he was across the room from her, shrouded in darkness.
"There you are, Brother Peter. Something's happened—Father Abbot wants you immediately. He's in the great hall." She turned to look at Elizabeth, and there was no way she could miss seeing the tears on her face. "Dear child…" she said.
"Leave her be, Mother," Peter said. "She'll be fine. But she won't be going anywhere with the prince."
"I think that's very wise," Mother Alison agreed.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but she shut it again, knowing nothing would come out but a helpless sob.
And in truth, Peter was right. She was going nowhere. There was no place for her in a world without Peter. There was no place for her in a world with Peter, either, but the cloister would be a start. God would quench the fire that was right now burning in her blood.
If it took the rest of her life.
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Chapter 24
"My lord, there's trouble."
Prince William turned slowly, covering his scarred flesh. Winston was his second in command, without the brute strength of Rufus but with far more cunning "Where's Rufus?"
"Dead, my lord. There are new arrivals—Sir Adrian and the woman managed to get through, and they're talking."
"Of course they are," William said in a furious voice. "The question is, does anyone believe them?"