"I've been attacked, brother!" she announced.
Richard appeared unimpressed. He took another bite. "Anyone interesting?"
"That… that creature you set to guard me!" she cried. "He's insulted me most grievously."
"Thomas? I doubt it. He's hardly a man at all, he's simply a weapon. I doubt he even realizes what you've got beneath your skirts." He tossed the bone down onto the floor and two huge dogs immediately leapt for it.
Claire flushed at his deliberate crudity. "He put his hands on me. He hurt me."
"Beat you, did he? I told him he had my leave."
She was speechless with shock. "I simply wanted to see my horse…"
"You have no horse."
A chill fear settled over Claire's heart. "I mistook your words, brother. I mean Arabia, the mare I…"
"She's not yours, wench. Everything you own belongs to me, including that huge horse. She's too much for a lady to ride; she's far better suited to one of my weight. We'll find you a lady's mount, something gentle and well-bred. When I've decided you've settled down enough."
She stared at him in disbelief. "She's mine," she said helplessly.
"You grow tiresome, Claire." Richard pushed away from the table. "Listen to your elder sister. She'll explain things to you, since you seem curiously lack-witted this morning. The horse is mine, and you are mine, to do with as I please. Body and soul." He was standing too close to her, this brother of hers, and he no longer looked bored. His eyes were suddenly hot and possessive. "Do you understand me?"
Claire couldn't move. She had to be imagining the threat in her brother's eyes. Sheltered she'd been, but she knew which laws were God's laws, and the abomination he was hinting at was horrifying. She backed away, slowly. "I understand, my lord."
"And you won't give poor Thomas any more trouble, now will you?" he continued in a more jovial voice, as if the sudden, twisted threat had been imaginary. "He has enough to distress him, what with his wanton wife."
"Wife?" There was no reason why those words should sound so deadly. She hated the brute.
"Quite a beauty, our Gwyneth. Almost as pretty as you, I dare say. Thomas considered himself quite lucky when he married her. I doubt he still thinks so." He caught Claire's chin with his rough hand, and his thick fingers stroked her jaw, a slow, lascivious stroke. "He's the perfect watchdog for you, Claire. He hates women, particularly pretty ones. So don't push him too far, eh? Have pity on us poor men."
She looked at her brother with undisguised hatred. Alys had never been able to teach her how to hide her emotions, and they lay in her face for all to see.
"Ah, you hate me, don't you? Don't worry, my pet. If you please me, I may grant you that splendid horse as a wedding gift to your husband. Then you may battle with him over which of you will do the riding." He laughed coarsely, releasing her. He looked behind her. "Take this tiresome wench away, will you, Grendel? I've had enough aggravation for the day. You made a wise choice, you know. This one is pretty enough, but tedious in the extreme."
She hadn't realized that Lord Simon of Navarre had arrived. She wondered how long he'd been watching. "It would be my honor to escort Lady Claire back to her sister," he said in his rich, deep voice.
"I can find my way myself," she said furiously, running from the room in a flurry of skirts before they could stop her.
But as she ran, she thought she heard the devil's laughter following her.
* * *
Chapter Five
Alys was not made for idleness. She spent the morning in the room she shared with Claire and their serving women, stitching at a piece of fancy work, worrying about her absent sister. A quiet nap enshrouded in darkness had taken care of her aching head, and apart from a lingering queasiness she felt quite well. Too well, in fact. In her brother's castle she had no duties, no tasks to perform, no patients to see. She had always been fascinated by the study of herbs, and Sister Agnes had passed on her limited knowledge. Half the time Alys was afraid she did more harm than good, but at least she'd managed to bring relief to some sufferers.
One of the serving women at the keep had burned herself quite badly, and Alys had seen that the skin was scorched and reddened. Sister Agnes had always sworn on the efficacy of spiders' webs applied to the wound, and certainly Summersedge Keep was more than adequately supplied with the like. With lady Hedwiga on religious retreat, there was no one to oversee the running of the place, and only the servants' justified fear of Lord Richard kept the meals halfway decent.
She suspected Richard had no interest in having her take over the day-to-day task of running the castle in the absence of his wife. He would probably just as soon hand her over to his pet monster and have done with it.
She sat back in the chair, letting her needlework drop in her lap. She had a stay of execution—she should be grateful for that much. The wizard would court her, of all the absurd ideas, and the wedding would take place in due time. She couldn't imagine any space of time that would allay her fears. If anything, time would only allow her dread to grow.
She also couldn't begin to imagine that tall, intimidating creature approaching her with sonnets and posies, with declarations and requests for a token of her colors. She couldn't imagine him with a sword—a wizard's staff seemed far more likely. She couldn't imagine him in bed with her…
She rose quickly, shutting off that line of thought before it could lead to murkier places. She knew what went on between men and women, and she accepted the fact that the same thing would happen to her, whether she wished it or not. She simply hasn't expected it to happen with a man possessed of supernatural powers.
She wouldn't think about it, or him. Instead she would gather her soft leather pouch of healing herbs and go in search of the serving woman. Or someone who needed her to do something. Her own company was not the most cheering in the world—she desperately needed distraction.
She passed Claire on the broad stone staircase that led down into the kitchens, and her mood didn't lighten. Her sister looked as furious as only Claire could get, with bright red flags of anger in her cheeks, her golden hair awry, her green eyes blazing. She looked more beautiful than ever, of course, a fact Alys accepted wryly.
"Where were you, dear one?" she asked.
"Being assaulted!" Claire snapped. "I can't bear it here, Alys! He's taken Arabia away from me, and he's put this hideous brute in charge of me. You too, for that matter. I shall fling myself from the battlements, I swear I shall, and then he'll regret his wickedness."
"Calm, my pet. Be calm," Alys said, catching her sister's arm and forcing her to halt her furious dash. "Take a deep breath and explain yourself. What hideous brute? Who's taken Arabia away? And no, you are not going to throw yourself from the battlements, and you know it. It would damn your soul for eternity, and no day's annoyance would be worth the price."
"It goes beyond annoyance!" Claire cried. "It's Richard! He has taken my horse from me, and says she was never mine to begin with."
"In fact, love, he's right. We own nothing that isn't due to his generosity."
"I can't lose Arabia, Alys." Claire's face crumpled, her furious bravado vanishing. "I wouldn't be able to bear it."
"Be patient. Richard is one of those men who like a fight. The more you argue with him, the more determined he'll be to spite you. Be docile and he'll lose interest."
"I thought you hadn't seen him since you were a child?"
"It didn't take me long to realize the kind of man he is. Besides, we've heard rumors all our lives. Richard the Fair is the lord of the castle and all the surrounding demesnes, not to mention his holdings throughout England, and he makes certain all know his power. To defy his will is to court disaster. Now who is the hideous brute? I trust you aren't referring to my future husband?"
Claire looked momentarily abashed. "Certainly not. I'm certain Lord Simon will be an excellent… er…"
"Lying is a sin," said Alys. Claire shut her mouth, unwilling to summon another word, and Alys gave h
er a brisk hug. "Go upstairs and change your clothes. Your gown is sadly soiled. What did you run into?" She reached up and brushed at the rust-colored stains on Claire's tight sleeve.
"A barbarian," Claire replied. "Someone who makes Grendel appear warm and kindly."
"With our kind of luck, he'll be the one Richard chooses to marry you."
Alys watched with fascination as Claire's face paled. "Not likely," she said briskly. "He's already wed to some poor woman. At least I'm safe from that. He's to guard us, both of us, Alys. And a meaner, more brutish creature I've yet to meet. We'll be lucky if he doesn't murder us in our beds."
"You cannot be serious!"
"Can't I?" Claire said tartly. "Wait till he accosts you with his threats and ugly visage. Sir Thomas du Rhaymer is a nightmare come true."
Alys shook her head. "Go lie down, Claire, and stop babbling. If you want I'll brew you an herb posset to…"
"No!" Claire said with a violent shudder. "I need to be left alone. Just a few minutes' peace, please, love."
Alys nodded. "You'll feel better afterwards. And if I run into your hated Sir Thomas I'll give him a swift kick."
"You can try," Claire said morosely, then turned and continued up the stairs without another word.
Alys watched her go, momentarily distracted. Claire's temper was hot and fierce, but quick to blow over. Whoever the brutish Sir Thomas was, he'd best watch his step around her sister. She could make life hell for any man, even a married one who hated women.
She found the injured woman sitting in a corner of the bake house. The smell of fresh bread and rich yeast filled the warm building, and for the first time Alys began to feel at home. The servants regarded her warily at first, but she'd always had a certain gift with people, and their distrust seemed to drop away quite quickly. Soon Morwenna, the injured woman, was chattering away while her fellow servants looked on.
She'd tried beeswax, she said, and spiders' webs, and neither had worked. Her mother had always insisted horse dung was a cure-all, but she hadn't quite decided whether she should eat it or apply it to the wound. What did Lady Alys think she should do?
Lady Alys did her best not to gag at the very notion. She had no strong belief in the efficacy of horse dung, but she tried to keep an open mind, and none of the traditional remedies had seemed to make any difference in poor Morwenna's arm. She wasn't able to work, and Richard wasn't the sort of master to tolerate a nonproductive servant.
"Who does the healing here?" she inquired. "Is Brother Jerome skilled in the arts? Perhaps he might have a suggestion or two."
Morwenna shook her head. "Brother Jerome is useless when it comes to anything but spiritual matters."
"What of the barber… ?"
"Not for a servant, my lady, meaning no disrespect," Morwenna muttered.
"But then who takes care of you all?"
Silence reigned in the warm bakery house. And then one of the men spoke up. " 'Tis Grendel. And most of us would rather die than let him touch us. Better to lose your life than your immortal soul. All that monster has to do is look at you and you're done for. If he put his hands on you your doom is sealed."
"His name is Lord Simon," Alys said calmly enough. Their fears came as no surprise to her. Even at the remote northern convent she had heard rumors of Richard's magician, and none of them had been praiseworthy. He was feared by all who knew of him.
"Grendel's a better name for him, I swear," muttered Morwenna. "I'm not letting him touch me. It'll be horse dung or nothing."
Alys sighed. "Dried or fresh?"
"Fresh, my lady. If you'd be willing?"
"If I'd be willing?" Alys echoed.
"It has to be gathered by the healer or it won't work. That's what my mum told me."
For a moment Alys didn't move. At least horse dung was a great deal more appealing than the horse itself, and the castle yard would be littered with the stuff. As long as she didn't have to go to the stables she'd survive.
"Certainly," she said briskly, hiding her dismay. "Do you have something I could scoop it with?"
And that was how she found herself in the courtyard beyond the stables, a trencher of stale bread in one hand, a kitchen spoon in the other, surveying a fresh, steaming mass of manure with strong misgivings.
Thankfully no one was around to watch her, she'd made very sure of that. She bent low, ready to spoon a hearty portion onto the makeshift carrier, when a low, already familiar voice startled her enough to make her drop the trencher.
"Were you planning on eating that, or feeding it to me?"
In the light of day Simon of Navarre should have appeared less threatening. His deep golden eyes should have been a flat brown, his dark hair with its thick stripe of silver should have seemed lifeless. Instead she could practically feel the power pulsing through him. The energy, crackling between them. No wonder they thought him a bewitched creature. She was staring up at him as if she were under an enchantment.
It took her a second to gather her wits about her and rise to her full, unimpressive height. "Neither, my lord," she said. "It was for a serving woman."
"One of the servants expressed a desire to eat shit?"
She blinked. She'd heard the word before, but it was seldom used in her presence. "No, my lord. Though she did suggest that doing so was a possible cure. I was going to use it as poultice on her burned arm." She bent down to fetch the dung-bedecked trencher, but he moved quickly, knocking it out of her hand.
"You're as simple-minded as the peasants," he said sharply, sounding oddly disappointed. "If you put that on an open wound you'd probably kill her. I'm surprised you didn't try cobwebs and goose urine."
Alys rose. It was an odd tableau, with the steaming mass of dung at their feet, her future husband towering over her. Monster, they called him. Why would a monster care if a serving woman died?
"I believe she tried the cobwebs, my lord. Apparently she hadn't heard of the goose urine cure."
"Idiots. And you're as bad as the rest of them," he added. "Why wouldn't she come to me?"
Alys just looked at him.
"Oh, that's right," Simon said with a cool laugh. "I'd eat her children if I looked at her. So instead she'd rather bathe in horse dung. What's wrong with her?"
"A bad burn on her arm. The skin is red and raw looking, like an angry tear."
"Is there blackening around the edges?"
"None that I noticed."
"A sickly smell?"
"No decaying flesh, my lord," she said sharply. "I'm not an idiot. I've done my share of healing."
"If you used horse dung I'm surprised anyone survived," he muttered.
"It was Morwenna's idea."
"The serving woman? More fool you to listen to her. Come with me." He turned abruptly and started across the cobbled walkway.
She didn't move. "Come where?" she said, when he stopped to look behind him and discovered she wasn't following.
"You're to be my wife, Lady Alys. You should learn obedience," he said, but there was more amusement than anger in his deep voice.
"You're to be my husband. You're supposed to woo me," she replied. And then wanted to bite her tongue. She wasn't supposed to be pert, or bold, to her husband. Particularly not one such as the wizard, with his secret powers and wicked pacts with the forces of evil. At least, she assumed he made wicked pacts. How else would he know what he knew?
He let his eyes drift over her, slowly, assessingly. Probably regretting his foolish agreement the night before, that he would take her in place of her sister. She held her head high, wishing God had granted her just a few more inches of stature if he were going to grant her such a tall husband.
"I thought you were the docile one," he murmured.
"Yes, my lord," she said meekly, afraid he was going to change his mind. "Compared to my sister, my lord."
"And you're the smart one as well? Even though you were going to put horse dung on an infected wound?"
"Yes, my lord. "She straightened her shou
lders."And the plain one."
His eyes were like a sly weapon, all soft, lingering caresses while he stood just out of reach. "I think you're a fraud, Lady Alys. You've yet to convince me of any of those three things. Now come along and stop arguing with me. The longer our patient suffers the worse it will get."
She moved then, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. "Our patient?"
"She won't accept help from me. Obviously you'll have to deliver it. You may take all the credit for her miraculous cure, and she won't have to worry about whether her children will be eaten. It works out quite neatly, don't you think?"
"Quite neatly," she said breathlessly, racing along behind him.
She was expecting to follow him up to his tower rooms, but instead he veered away from the keep, toward one of the outbuildings that lined the curtain wall. It was far removed from the chapel, well away from the cook houses and the laundry. But far too close to the stables and the mews for her state of mind. She wasn't overly fond of hunting birds either.
The door was heavy, iron over wood, but when he pushed it open it made no complaining noise. It was silent, as enchanted as most of the things that surrounded the magician.
The room was dark, with branches of unlit candles standing like sentinels. There was a hole in the roof above the brazier, and a fireplace at one end, but very little natural light entered the tomb-like place.
He moved to one end of the long, narrow room and pushed a curtain aside, and fitful sunlight filtered in, complete with a view of the stables. Alys managed to control her sudden start of fear.
It smelled of spices. Of herbs and rich, heady scents that teased her nose and caressed her skin. The room was warm; she could see the coals burning in the fireplace, and she wondered when he'd last been there, working. He'd been in his sleeping rooms the night before, she knew that much. But there was one thing she didn't know.
"How did I get back to the room I share with my sister?" she asked abruptly.