Failing that, she could, of course, kill him.
She found she could laugh at herself, even through her dizzy, faintly drunken confusion. She couldn't bring herself to kill a spider—she would hardly be a match for a man such as Simon of Navarre. Besides, if he had even half the powers he was vaunted to have, he would already know her plans.
Pushing away from the wall, she wandered farther, ending up at the base of one of the towers. Richard and the absent Lady Hedwiga resided in one of them, but she doubted this was it. Richard insisted on pomp and majesty, on rich tapestries and precious gems. This dark, almost bleak curve of staircase wouldn't lead to his sumptuous quarters.
She knew where these stairs would lead, knew without asking. The pale, nervous-looking serving woman who scuttled down them stopped and stared at her, clutching an armload of linens against her thin chest. "You don't want to go up there, my lady," she said hoarsely.
"Why not?"
"Grendel's up there. Them's his quarters. You don't want to go anywhere near that demon unless you have to. Go back to your room, lady. As fast you can. Before he can smell you coming."
"Smell me… ?" Alys began, suitably annoyed. She bathed far more frequently than most people considered necessary.
"He's a monster. Eats people. Can sniff 'em out like a hunting dog."
"Then why hasn't he eaten you?" she responded, somewhat mollified.
The woman looked confused. "Maybe I'm too lean for him."
Alys's temporary goodwill vanished. "Well, I'll provide him a tasty morsel if he's in need of a snack," she snapped. "Away with you, woman. Or I'll tell Simon of Navarre you're spreading foul rumors."
The woman blanched, but stood firm. "They are no rumors," she muttered. "You'll see."
Alys had already turned her back on the foolish creature. She wasn't in the mood to climb the narrow, winding stairs of the north tower, particularly since she was already dizzy, but she didn't see that she had much choice in the matter, particularly since the demon who resided there had probably already sniffed her out. Though considering that she'd just bathed in scented lavender water he'd probably have a hard time identifying her as ripe human flesh.
The torches were placed haphazardly along the walls, as if the inhabitant had little need for outside light. She moved slowly upward, keeping one hand on the inside wall for balance. There's nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Grendel is a legend, a tale to terrify children.
But why did she feel like such a child?
She climbed to the third floor, breathless, telling herself that the upward climb was the cause of her constricted heart, her damp palms, the fluttering in her chest. She halted there, beneath the battlements. The heavy wooden door was closed tight, and there was no sign of life in the dimly lit hallway. Yet she knew what lay beyond.
Was he a shapeshifter? A demon who changed bodies when no one was looking? Surely there was a reason they called him Grendel, after the despised monster of ancient myth. Did he turn into the bone-cracking beast and stalk the hallways of Summersedge Keep, looking for sustenance?
Or did he wait in his chamber, for those fool enough to come to him, to offer themselves up as his dinner?
She was being ridiculous! It was her idea to face him.
And she'd taken a long, considering look at him before Richard had commanded her attention. The dread wizard Simon of Navarre was a man, no more, no less, and she was a sister to his lord. He would never dare hurt her.
She lifted her hand to knock loudly on the thick wooden door, certain she would never be heard. The door wasn't latched; it swung open silently at the blow from her hand, and the tower room lay before her.
At first all she could see was the blazing fire. It was a chill autumn night, and the stones of the castle seemed to embrace the cold like a lonely spinster. The tapestries that hung on the walls were dark, the furniture sparse.
"You wished to see me, Lady Alys?"
The voice of Grendel came from nowhere, deep and seductive, and Alys had to force herself to remain still, not to run from this place in complete panic. It was no monster's voice. It had an almost eerie charm, rich and beguiling, inviting her to come closer.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the shadows. He was sitting in a curved wooden chair by the fire, watching her, and the shifting flames made a curious pattern on his enigmatic face. Like the flames of hell, she thought.
She'd come this far, she had to see it through. "I wished to talk with you, my lord Gren… Simon." She cursed her slippery tongue. There was always the chance he hadn't noticed. She wasn't going to count on it.
"I am honored, my lady," he said, still from the darkness. "Are you going to stand in the doorway while we discuss things, or are you going to enter? I promise I won't tear your body apart and drink your blood."
He hadn't missed it. He must know what they called him. He might even have been instrumental in coming up with the notion. Fear was a powerful advantage, and Simon of Navarre was a powerful man. She sensed he would use any weapon he could devise.
She stepped into the shadowy room, noticing with temporary relief that there was a branch of candles on the plain wooden table. That relief vanished when the door swung shut behind her, apparently unaided by human hands.
She didn't shriek, though she wanted to. She merely stood before him, trying to hold herself very tall and straight, wishing she had Claire's impressive height, wishing she wasn't such a hopeless little creature.
He looked up at her from his chair, and she was just as glad he didn't rise. She was already feeling small and helpless. If he towered over her she might just…
She didn't know what she'd do. But he just sat there, looking at her out of his strange, golden eyes. "Pray be seated, my lady," he said, and she looked nervously behind her, half expecting a seat to walk up and present itself.
She knew she was being silly. There was a padded stool nearby, the only choice of seat other than the floor, and she sat down on it, a bit too abruptly. She was too close to him, but in the darkness she wouldn't have been able to see him if she'd moved away, and his rich, disembodied voice was unnerving enough. She preferred to face her enemy.
And that was what he was, she reminded herself. Her sworn enemy, out to destroy her sister.
Silence fell between them, a strangely peaceful silence, considering the oddness of the night. The room smelled of woodsmoke and spices, of leather and rich herbs. It was intoxicating, dangerously so. More lethal than the wine she had drunk. She sat there, dreamily staring into the fire, temporarily at peace. Until he spoke.
"Is there some boon I can grant you, Lady Alys?" he murmured. "Or are you simply here for the pleasure of my company?" He leaned forward, his useless right hand resting in his lap, and poured two goblets of wine with his left hand. He held one out to her, and she could think of no way to refuse. She took it, allowing herself a tentative sip. This was different from the stuff at her brother's table. This was honey sweet, warming her bones, dancing on her flesh. Danger.
"I want you to choose me," she said abruptly.
The darkness must have been deceiving. That couldn't be amusement in his clear golden eyes. "Choose you for what?" he said, leaning back in his chair, his own goblet held negligently in his one good hand.
Horrific doubt assailed Alys. "Richard said he'd offered either of us as… I mean to say, he wanted you to…" It was the wine, she thought, that was making her stupid. Not those eyes trained so steadily on her. She took a deep drink of the golden wine. "He said you would choose one of us to marry," she said in a rush. "I want you to choose me."
"Why?"
A simple enough question. "Because it would kill Claire."
"You've been listening to too many fairy stories, Lady Alys. I don't eat children or maidens. Your sister would survive marriage with me quite handily."
It shouldn't have come as any surprise that he'd made his choice. She'd known there would be no question of who he'd want. She would simply have to change his
mind.
"She's high-strung," Alys said. "Willful."
"And you aren't?"
"No!" she protested. "I'm really very meek and quietly behaved."
"I'm not certain your brother would see it that way."
"I would cause you no trouble," she said rather desperately. "I would keep out of your way, I would ask no questions, I would be the perfect wife."
"Was this your sister's idea?" he said, sounding no more than casually interested.
"Oh, no!" Alys couldn't keep the shock from her voice. "She would never ask me to sacrifice myself in such a way. It was entirely my own idea."
The faint choking sound he made was almost like a laugh. "Your years in the convent have taught you well the joys of martyrdom," he murmured. "You must have grieved leaving."
A sudden, glorious thought came to her. "You could choose neither of us," she said suddenly. "Why should you want to be saddled with a wife? The two of us are fairly useless. Granted, Claire's extremely decorative, but she can be very tiresome and stubborn. And while I would promise to keep out of your way and be very, very quiet, I still might be likely to grate on your nerves."
"You won't escape," he said with curious gentleness. "If your brother doesn't marry you to me, he'll barter the two of you to the highest bidder. You won't be getting back to your convent, little nun."
"I don't like to be called 'little,' " Alys said with some dignity, draining the honey-flavored wine. Which was, in itself, a mistake.
"Shall I call you 'large' instead?"
"I don't like you," she said.
"Really? So mild? I assumed you hated me."
"Hatred is a sin."
"Except when its object is evil. Love the good, hate the wicked, isn't that what they taught you?"
"Are you wicked? Evil?"
"So they say."
"What do you say?" she demanded.
"So many questions," he murmured. "Answer one for me. Will you share my bed and lie beneath me? Will you do as I bid and pleasure me?"
He couldn't see that she turned pale in the darkness. The wine had only increased her dizziness, and his low, insinuating words were stifling her.
"If it has to be one of us," she said. "Yes. Let it be me."
He leaned back, his crippled hand curled in his lap. "You're quite brave, aren't you?"
"No," she said. "I'm scared to death."
"I should tell you," he said, leaning toward her. "You wasted your time in coming here tonight. I'd already made up my mind."
Despair washed over her. "You won't change it?"
"Not for all the gold in the holy land," he said.
"My poor sister," Alys cried.
"A pox on your poor sister," he said mildly. "I'd already chosen you."
It was triumph; it was disaster. It was a surfeit of powerful wine. Alys slid off the padded stool and into a longed-for oblivion, right in front of her future husband.
Simon of Navarre looked down at her, sprawled gracelessly on the floor. Her coif had slipped, her braids were coming loose, with tendrils of soft hair framing her sleeping face. Her heavy brown gown had slid part way up her legs, exposing shapely ankles and strong calves. He wondered what her breasts would be like. He wanted to find out.
Instead he sat back in his chair, lifted his cramped right hand and stretched it from its claw-like position. The pain of the original injury had been enormous, the pain of healing had been even worse. He reached for the heavy bottle of wine with his strong, scarred hand and poured himself another goblet full, his eyes resting on his sleeping bride. She would know, soon enough, that he was no more crippled than Richard's strongest knight. She would know, when she was so enslaved by him that she would never tell.
He knew how to enslave women. He knew tricks from the far corners of the world, tricks to make a woman quiver and scream and faint from pleasure.
He was going to enjoy using them on the little brown wren who would be his wife.
* * *
Chapter Three
It wasn't exactly the life he would have chosen for himself, if he'd been given a choice. Sir Thomas du Rhaymer considered himself a simple man, with simple needs. A plain man, a soldier, who feared God, served his lord, championed the weak, and sought justice for all. Who would have thought his life would end up such a tangled mess?
He'd been born of decent stock in the north, soon sent down to Somerset as squire to Richard the Fair. It was a golden opportunity, his father had told him. Richard the Fair was cousin to the king himself, a glorious young lord who would go far in this world and take those who served him along with him.
And indeed, throughout the rigorous years of training, when Richard was young and seemingly fair in nature as well as form, young Thomas had worshipped him, honored to serve so noble a lord. He was knighted, and he gladly took the bride Richard chose for him. Gwyneth had been beautiful, high-born, and delicate.
She had also been Richard's leman, but Thomas had overlooked that small drawback. What he hadn't counted on was her utter faithlessness, her hunger for any man who came within her sight.
That hunger included her husband, and for a while he'd been blinded, entranced, lost in the thrall of her sweet-scented body and rich laughter, her pouts and her tears and her captivating beauty. Until he'd come home from a grueling two-week hunt to find her rollicking in his bed with two of his best friends.
He hadn't gone near her since. All her tears, her pleading had left him stonily unmoved, and gradually she centered her attentions on other, more fertile ground. She'd been gone more than a year now, living like a queen with one of Richard's wealthy barons, and Thomas lived like a soldier-monk. He had made vows before God, and a faithless wife wasn't going to cause him to break those vows.
He had lost his faith in Richard as well. Richard the unjust, the trickster, the sly, amoral fox who owned his loyalty, owned his good right arm and anything else he happened to need. The years had passed, and the other knights mocked Thomas as a man old before his time, a sour plague of a man, but he ignored them. Sooner or later he'd meet an enemy who was faster, more clever, more desperate, and it would be over. He would welcome the end if that was the way it was to come to him. He would never return north to the estates his father had left him, not without a wife and the future of children. That was no longer a possibility, not with Gwyneth cavorting with her wealthy baron.
There was one more possibility left in a bleak life, one chance that he could take. Richard was not noted for his kindness or decency, but every now and then he behaved with becoming generosity. Thomas could only pray that generosity would extend to him.
It was early, just past the first light, but Richard was awake. He slept little, smart enough not to trust in his men-at-arms to keep him safe. It was in the early morning that he conducted most of his business, and he'd agreed to grant Thomas an audience. He was seated at a table, his crimson robe wrapped loosely around his corpulent body, his thinning hair sticking out like straw. His eyes narrowed as he spied Thomas, but his mouth creased in a deceptively affable grin.
He wasn't alone. The wizard stood in the background, watching. The man was the spawn of the devil, Thomas knew that, and it took all his strength of will not to cross himself superstitiously when the man they called Grendel looked at him. But he'd been trained well. He stood straight and tall, facing his master, ready to ask for one last chance to find peace in this life.
"Thomas!" Richard greeted him. "You look grim this morning. But then, you always look grim, do you not? You should partake of more wine and less prayer. How goes your lady wife?"
"I have no idea, my lord. She lives with Baron Hawkesley."
"Ah, yes, I'd forgotten," said Richard, who forgot nothing. "A merry soul, our Gwyneth. Too much of a trial for you, I gather? Learn to hold your women, Thomas. That's the best advice I can give you. You should have beaten her more often. They learn to like it."
Thomas merely bowed, not about to involve himself in a moral or philosophical discussio
n with Lord Richard. "I request a boon of you, my lord," he said instead.
"So I gathered. And what is this boon? I'm not the man to grant you an annulment—you'll have to go to the pope for that. There are no new crusades for you to shed your blood over, no holy martyrs to follow."
It would be useless to hesitate. Instead he said boldly, "I would be released from my duties to join the brothers of Wildern Abbey."
Richard's expression didn't change. Thomas allowed himself a brief glance at the magician who served him, but those cat's eyes were guarded. There would be neither help nor hindrance from that quarter.
"Why?" Richard said finally, toying with the goblet in front of him. "If you wish to leave my service you have lands and family to see to."
"I feel called to serve God. This world is too shallow and difficult a place for me. I can best fulfill my duties through prayer and meditation, and serving others…"
"You serve me very well in your present capacity," Richard said. He looked over his shoulder at his magician. "Did I ever tell you, Simon of Navarre, about sober young Sir Thomas? He's quite the most prodigious fighting man I've ever had. He can outfight three men to one, and in a tournament he's unbeaten. I count him as one of my most treasured possessions."
Thomas didn't allow any expression to cross his face, knowing his cause was lost.
"I believe you mentioned it, my lord," the man said in his low voice that echoed of magic and madness.
"You know, it's a shame I wasted a fancy creature like Gwyneth on a sober creature like you, Thomas," Richard said idly. "You're much better suited to one like my sister. She wanted to be a nun, but of course I couldn't waste a valuable treasure like her on a convent. Sisters have some value, you know."
"Indeed," Thomas muttered.
"But then, I wouldn't waste her on a lowly knight of indifferent lineage, no matter how renowned his fighting skills. You'll follow me, you'll do as I order, and I don't need to throw away a sister on you. Isn't that the truth of it?"