"He's the spawn of Satan," Lady Hedwiga hissed. "He will seek to destroy your soul for his Evil Master."
"Surely Richard isn't evil," Alys said, not sure of any such thing. "A bit hot-headed, I grant you, but…"
"I'm talking about the devil, wench!" Hedwiga jabbed a pointy finger at Alys's chest "Simon of Navarre is a witch, a wizard who serves one master on earth and one master in hell. Take no pleasure from his foulness. Hold your mind aloof as he practices his wickedness upon your body."
"How could I take pleasure if it's disgusting, torturous, and evil?" Alys asked.
"Not to mention wet," Claire added helpfully.
"It's the devil's work. Part of his cunning plan to steal your soul. There are rumors that Simon of Navarre has been gelded. Do not count on God's being so merciful."
"God is always merciful." Brother Jerome stood in the doorway, and Alys felt her heart and stomach plummet. He was dressed in holy vestments, prepared for a holy rite, and since it didn't appear as if anyone was about to die or be baptized, there was only one disturbing alternative. "Trust in Him, Lady Alys, and be obedient."
Richard shouldered his way past the slender priest, his thinning blonde hair damped and draped over his skull, his impressive paunch decorated in a tunic of scarlet that clashed with the deep rose of Alys's dress. He paid it no mind, hauling Alys off of her bench and imprisoning her within the reach of one meaty arm. "You're prettier than I would have thought, lass," he said, leering down at her. "Perhaps I've been too hasty in promising you to Simon of Navarre." He caught her chin in his rough hand, pinching her painfully. "After all, he's pledged to me, and it would be a foolish man who dared betray me."
She knew he was there, she could feel his presence, even though Richard's bulk obscured almost everything. And she knew now why she'd been given a glorious rose-colored dress and ordered to appear at her brother's side.
She turned her head, and Simon stood there, dressed in black robes, a silver dragon adorning the front of his long tunic. If he were astounded, humbled by the sudden improvement in her appearance, his face didn't give it away. As usual, his expression was impossible to read, and his golden eyes moved over her with what seemed like distant curiosity.
"Perhaps Lady Alys should have a say in the matter, my lord," he murmured. "Marriage to me, now, or later to a different man of your choosing."
Richard laughed. "What say you, lass? Marriage to my Grendel, with a withered claw and probably a withered rod as well, or would you rather wait and see who else turns up?"
She couldn't believe he was really offering her the choice. She looked around her, at the faces of those in Lady Hedwiga's chilly solar. She glanced at Claire's stricken face and opened her mouth to speak, but Simon was already ahead of her.
"You have my bond whether I marry your sister or no," he said to Richard. "And I have no interest in the younger one. I'll take Lady Alys if she wishes, or continue as I am."
"You hear that, sister?" Richard said. "Not many women are given a choice in matters like this. Shall you marry my pet monster or live in celibacy for a bit longer?"
They waited for her answer. She didn't for one moment believe that she really had a choice—Richard would do with her as he wished, dispose of her as it pleased him. Whether she refused or accepted, it had all been preordained.
Simon stood a little apart from the others, tall, aloof, even forbidding, his right hand hidden beneath the folds of his black robe, his face expressionless, his mouth unsmiling. His mouth, that had kissed her and taunted her. His mouth.
"I will marry Simon of Navarre," she said in a clear calm voice belied by the tremor in her hands.
Simon looked neither gratified nor disappointed. He merely nodded, his golden eyes cool and distant. "Let it be done, then," he said. And coming up to her, he took her icy cold hand in his left one, taking her away from Richard's possessive grasp.
What am I doing? she thought in sudden panic. Why in heaven's name did I agree? Torture, Hedwiga said. Blood, pain and despair at the hands of a monster…
He pressed her hand, tearing her attention away from her panicked thoughts, and she looked up at him in swift surprise. His hand was warm, strong, holding hers, and there was an odd expression in his face. One might almost have thought it was reassurance, except that Simon of Navarre wouldn't care if she were frightened.
"Brother Jerome," Richard said, his voice rich with satisfaction, "marry them."
And the words were like a death knell.
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
She sat by his side, small and still and frozen. His little bride, a virgin sacrifice to the monster Grendel, eating little of her wedding banquet, drinking less as she awaited her doom. It should have amused him, but Simon wasn't in the mood to be amused.
The rest of the castle seemed inclined to celebrate the wedding despite the fate of the innocent bride. Richard was roaring drunk, grasping at every female within reach; both his sisters were kept well out of his way. The only person who looked more miserable than the bride was her younger sister, who watched the proceedings with real fear in her admittedly beautiful green eyes. Sir Thomas stood behind her, a glowering protector, and not even Richard dared approach. At least Lady Alys could be assured her sister was safe as she faced her own ruination. A virgin sacrifice indeed.
He hadn't been surprised when the summons had come. He knew Richard too well, had played chess with him too many times not to know when Richard would decide to use his bishop. He was fully prepared to be wed to the quiet little woman by his side, and she had accepted him, when he had done his best to make it clear there was no need.
Of course, Lady Alys was wise enough to know that all the promises in the world were no protection against fate. She'd barely met his eyes, though she'd let her hand rest in his without pulling away. He wondered how badly he'd wounded her the previous night. Quite badly indeed probably. He wondered if she had some stray notion of punishing him.
It would take more than a woman's tears and displeasure to punish Simon of Navarre. And the soft, sweet little wren that he'd married was singularly unversed in feminine wiles. She would be no match for him if it came to a battle.
They shared a trencher, but she made no move to offer him some of the choicest bits of food, nor did she eat much herself. And he watched her, like a peregrine falcon eyeing a tender white rabbit, wondering when he would choose to pounce.
He rose, abruptly, and the Great Hall fell into silence. Without a word he held out his left hand for his lady, looking down at her, daring her to ignore him, to show her panic, to try to escape.
She did none of those things. Her eyes met his, and for a moment he was shocked. There was fear in her eyes, yet there was a surprising tenderness. She placed her hand on his arm and rose, managing a tremulous smile.
"If you need some help ploughing the field I'm sure any number of my knights can oblige you!" Richard called out drunkenly. "Sir Emrick, what say you?"
Richard had overestimated the courage of his knights.
They might face a horde of Saracens without flinching, but none was willing to risk Simon of Navarre's anger.
Simon smiled faintly. He could feel the tremor in Alys's hand, and he wanted to lift his scarred right hand and cover hers, comforting her. He did no such thing. Comfort was an illusion, only delaying the painful truth. The truth that life was a bad business at best, full of pain and treachery, and the only reward was money and power.
Money and power he would claim with his bride. Richard's settlement had been generous, but Simon had no illusions that he was expected to enjoy it for long. Richard would take what he needed from Simon and then dispense with him. If he could find another tool like Aidan of Montrose, one who was a little more deft.
And if Simon were fool enough to relax his vigilance once he gave Richard what he wanted.
He took her arm and led her away from the hall. No chattering horde of women tried to accompany them. She was left to face the marr
iage bed alone, unprepared. Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen his sister-in-law struggle to her feet, but Sir Thomas had quickly subdued her. A wise move on his part. Alys had made her decision, but her sister's distress would distract her.
The halls were still and deserted as they climbed the stairs with stately grace, the torchlight flickering wickedly across her pale face. She was lovely, but then, he'd always known that, despite her ugly clothes and her tightly plaited hair, her downcast eyes and her demure behavior. She was lovely, and he wanted her with a need so fierce it frightened him. So fierce that he had no choice but to deny it.
The women hadn't even come to his room to prepare the bridal bower, but Godfrey had done his best. There were dried rose petals in the rushes that covered the floor, perfuming the air with sweetness, and soft linen covers on the wide bed where he'd already held her. Where he would take her innocence, and leave her with… what?
He could, in fact, be kind. He was, occasionally, even if he regretted the necessity. He much preferred when people had no notion of his random charitable acts.
But Alys of Summersedge had done no harm. When he finished with her, and with Richard the Fair, he would see her safely to a convent, where she could live out her life in peace and contentment, happy in her books and the company of women.
Godfrey closed the heavy wooden door behind them as he left, and Simon looked down on his young wife. She was very small, very vulnerable.
"Do you know what happens in the marriage bed?" he asked abruptly, releasing her arm.
She stepped away from him, moving toward the bed as if in a dream. "Yes," she said.
"And where does this expert knowledge come from? The nuns?"
She stiffened her back beneath the flowing rose colored gown. "They are learned women."
"Not in the ways of sex."
She blushed. He hadn't seen her blush before—it made her pale skin glow. He wondered absently if she blushed all over her small, lush body. He wondered how long he would keep himself from finding out.
"I've been in plenty of farmyards," she said with comical dignity. "I understand the mechanics. And Lady Hedwiga instructed me in proper comportment."
He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound in the shadowy room, but he wasn't feeling particularly pleasant He was tense, frustrated, and angry. Angry at the woman who was willing to sacrifice herself to Grendel. Angry at himself for becoming a monster who frightened children and old men and young women. Sweet, soft young women.
"And what is proper comportment in the marriage bed, Alys?" he murmured.
"To submit."
"How arousing." His tone was sarcastic, but she was obviously too nervous to notice.
"I shouldn't cry or scream, no matter how painful, how degrading and disgusting," she continued in a voice marred only by a slight quaver. "If I close my eyes and lie very still it will soon be over. Madlen assured me that no one ever dies from it."
He could see them, the women of Constantinople, their bodies strewn in the streets. "Madlen is wrong," he said in a bleak voice.
It was hardly what she wanted to hear. "I could die?"
He roused himself. "No," he said. "Because I am not going to take you."
She blinked, staring at him, her mouth slightly opened in surprise. He wanted to kiss that mouth. He wanted to get as far away as possible from her. He wasn't going to do either.
"You won't?" she said breathlessly. "Or you can't?"
He knew that his smile was far from warming. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you'll lie in that bed alone tonight. I don't sleep much in the best of times, and there's work I have to finish. More important work than deflowering a nervous bride. Get in bed and dream of monsters, wife. And dream of noble knights to save you from devouring demons."
"I don't want one," she said in a very small voice.
"Don't want what?"
"A noble knight to rescue me."
She was braver than he'd imagined, standing there small and proud in his tower room. Brave enough to take him, perhaps, and he took a reluctant step toward her, unable to help himself.
The sizzle of lightning skittered past the wide window through which Aidan of Montrose had made his descent, followed by a low rumble of thunder. It was far away, but Alys jumped as if she'd confronted a dragon, and he halted, both relieved and disappointed.
"And I don't want a woman who'll submit."
His innocent bride looked shocked. "You want someone to fight you? You prefer rape?"
At that he did cross the space between them, cupping her face in his hands to tilt it upward. Her eyes were solemn, questioning, but she made no effort to break away. "For a wise woman you can be very stupid, Alys," he said gently. "There is such a thing as pleasure." He gently stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.
"Pleasure?" she echoed blankly, as if the word were in Arabic, even as her body arched towards his, unconsciously seeking him.
"Pleasure," he said, his voice low and beguiling. "Shimmering, endless longing and delight, touch and taste and delicate wonder." He moved his head closer, let his mouth hover over hers. "Heat and dampness and yearning," he whispered. "An empty aching that finally explodes into a small death that is like no other."
She stared up at him in a trance, caught by the magic of his words, the promise in his mouth. She wet her lips with a nervous tongue, still caught in his gaze. "It sounds terrifying," she whispered finally.
"My lady," he whispered, "it is."
And he pulled away from her, turning his back on her without another glance, heading toward his worktable.
"Go to bed, sweet Alys. Dream of safety. I have work to do."
He half expected her to protest. To follow him, put her hand on his shoulder, and then he would turn and pull her into his arms, lift her up onto the high table and take her there and then, amid the tumbled herbs and elements, teach her the true terror and wonder that awaited her.
But the thunder rumbled again, only a low warning, and with a muffled cry she scampered toward the bed.
There was no one to get her out of her dress, and he wasn't about to offer. He couldn't afford the distraction. He was too close to getting the proportions just right in the lethal sleeping draught. A few more hours of work and it would be done. And then he could decide what to do with his bride.
He had no idea what he would do with the poison. Whether he would, in truth, hand it over to Richard the Fair and let him kill an innocent child.
Not that any child of Plantagenet blood could ever be innocent. Particularly a son of John Lackland, the worst king England had yet known. And the chance of an early death for the monarch was high—if Richard didn't see to it then someone else would likely do the job.
Still, Simon hadn't decided. And he wouldn't decide until the sleeping draught was made, tested, and hidden away from Richard's prying servants.
His virgin bride fell asleep almost immediately, which shouldn't have come as a surprise to him. There was something infinitely restful about the ease with which she slept, particularly in his presence. He was accustomed to unnerving people, and he had little doubt that Alys found him unsettling. Just not enough to keep her awake.
He stripped off his enveloping robe, moving about the room in his tunic and hose, his sleeves rolled up to bare the scarred hand and arm. She slept and he would resist her. He worked and she would dream of him.
And it would be a long, stormy night indeed.
Thomas had no choice but to drag her from the room. Claire had watched her sister depart, horrified tears filling her beautiful eyes, and she'd risen, obviously planning to go after her, to pull her sister away from Simon of Navarre.
It would have been foolish and useless, but Thomas felt a grudging softness in his heart for her. He'd shielded her smaller frame with his large one, drawing her into the shadows by force as Richard was distracted by a troupe of acrobats.
She fought him, but he simply wrapped his strong arms around her slender form and held her tight against
his body, one hand clamped over her mouth as he half carried, half dragged her through the arched portal into the darkened hall beyond. She kicked him, her soft leather shoes negligible against his tall boots, and he half expected her to aim for his balls. She didn't though, and he considered she might not even know where a man was most vulnerable.
Ah, but she did know. She could knee him between the legs and he would writhe with pain, but it was nothing compared to what she could do to his carefully protected honor.
He waited until they were out in the courtyard before he released her mouth, and he was rewarded with a shrill, furious scream, one that was echoed in the stables. Thomas had no doubt which horse was answering his mistress. "Bastard," she said furiously. "Cowardly dog! I won't let her be sacrificed! I'll stop it, I swear…"
She tried to turn and run, but he caught her around the waist and dragged her back against him. She was panting with fury and exertion, her silken hair was tickling his nose, and he could smell the heady scent of musk perfume that she wore. It aroused him, as always, a fact he deplored. Her rounded buttocks were pressed against his hips, and he knew he was growing hard, and he knew there wasn't a thing he could do about it Prayers and repentance had no effect except to make him feel more guilty. No matter what his soul and honor said, his body knew the truth.
"There's nothing you can do," he said grimly, letting her wear herself out. "He's her husband, she spoke the wedding vows. No one forced her—it was her choice."
"She did it for me!" Claire wailed. "She went with that… that monster for my sake, and I can't let her do it! If you won't help me, at least let me go and save her myself. If I don't hurry it will be too late!"
"She's only been gone a few minutes," Thomas said wryly. "It'll take him that long to get her up to his solar."
"What if he stops to kiss her on the stairs?"
There was sudden silence between them. He had done just that, kissed her on the stairs, kissed her with his heart and soul and body, and if he were any other man it wouldn't have stopped there.