My Lady Faye (6 page)

Lavender, the scent of Faye, twined through the calm night air. Many times, alone in his monastic cell, he’d sworn a hint of lavender lingered there. He’d had a dog as a boy, a scraggly beast that would find a scent it liked and roll in it. Legs waving in the air, the dog would press the smell deep into its coat. Dogs were clever beasts and not constrained by the tangles of mere men.

The danger on this journey increased tenfold with Faye’s presence. It prickled beneath his skin like an army of ants. Calder wouldn’t get her. He swore it before God and before her father. Let him try. Blood thrummed beneath his skin, warming him. In the bed of the cart rested his blade and it thirsted for vengeance. His score with Calder was too many years in the settling.
Oculum pro oculo, dentem pro dente, manum pro manu, pedem pro pede.
An eye for an eye and no mercy given. How would the Abbot judge his actions, a just cause or pure folly?

A lone dog announced their presence to the collection of sleepy cottages that made up Anglesea village.

Sir Arthur had set up sentries throughout his demesne following Simon’s abduction. Too late. The sentry slid out of the dark to see who passed. He waved to Gregory before returning to his post.

Sir Arthur blamed himself, and the man did carry a portion of blame. The larger portion rested with him. He should have expected Calder would strike out in anger. He had been too intent on gaining entrance to the Abbey and allowed himself to believe he left Faye safe at Anglesea. He wanted to believe that, because then he could leave with a clear conscience. What a damned fool. Now she paid the price.

* * * *

Faye rubbed her bruised elbow. Bullock carts were not made for comfort. With nothing to cushion her, she tossed around like a loose apple.

An odd identifiable shape slid past in the shrouded landscape—a house, a low stone wall and even the occasional cottage, but for the most part there was nothing to see.

She could walk faster than this. For a while, she had trod beside the cart. Until one too many bruising encounters with hidden obstacles on the road had sent her back to her perch. With the way the cart rattled about, sleep proved impossible.

Gregory sat stiff beside her. His long legs dangled over the edge, almost touching the ground. Rocks slid perilously close to the soles of his boots. She laid wagers on which ones would hit.

The boots were an oddity with the habit. She tried to picture his large feet in a pair of monk’s sandals, and failed. Her Gregory wore boots and armor, and kept his hair cropped close to his head to allow for a helmet. Thankfully, he had not yet shaved his head in tonsure.

A monk? Gregory wanted to be a monk. The man beside her looked, moved, spoke and even smelled like her Gregory, but he belonged to the church now. What would the church do with a man like Gregory? Put a rosary in those huge warrior hands and bend his strong back tilling rows of cabbages. He could have stayed with her and the boys at Anglesea as a household knight. Instead, he had taken Sir Arthur’s offer of assistance and presented himself at the Abbey of St. Margaret as a postulant.

Unkind satisfaction they had not yet admitted him to novice nestled inside her. An unworthy thought and cruel to take joy in his failure to achieve his dearest wish. If he hadn’t taken his vows, some part of him was still hers.

Dim moonlight glinted off the crucifix suspended from his rope belt.

Now she was being foolish. Aye, in the sense that he protected her and the boys while at Calder as her silent, faithful shadow he had been hers, but never in the have and hold sense. Even now, he came back, not for her, but to aid her in freeing Simon. There must be remnants of that foolish girl still in her heart, because she still harbored this secret dream of Gregory riding through Anglesea’s gates, laying his heart before her—

The cart wheel hit a rock, ramming her bruised elbow into the barrels at her back. Ha! Just punishment for pointless dreams laying fresh wounds on her sore heart. “What is in the barrels?”

“I do not know.”

“Are they empty?

“Nay.”

Verily, the Abbey had not improved his conversational skills any. When they traveled together in the past, the boys accompanied them, filling the long silences with their chatter and their needs. Blast! She had forgotten to tell Beatrice that Arthur liked honey and fruit in his morning pottage. Her youngest son woke grumpy and needed cajoling into the new day. Would he ask for her in the morn? Above them, the sky remained inky black. “Will it be light soon?”

“In a while.”

How would Simon greet the new morn? Her boy woke full of energy and his lively chatter could drive a body out of their head. Dear God, Calder had no patience with the children. She prayed their old nurse was still at the castle. When they left, Faye had wanted her to come with them, but Ruth wanted to stay near her family.
Please let Ruth be with her boy now.
Ruth knew how to keep Simon occupied.

“Do you think Simon knows we are coming for him?”

“Aye.”

“Calder has no patience.”

“Simon is a sharp lad. He will know to keep his head down.” Gregory knew her boy as well as any. Simon was a smart boy, and he steered clear of his father.

The cart jolted over a rut and drove her elbow into the sideboard. Faye clenched her teeth and inched into the center of the cart. The distinctive melancholy yip of a fox made her shudder and she moved closer to Gregory’s solid bulk. The safety of the castle walls lay behind them.

Only Gregory stood between her and the relentless, mysterious night. The dark nestled in loving shadows on his grave, handsome profile. People mistook his silence for lack of intelligence at their own peril. Many a time she had witnessed him shred the assumption with a few deliberate, considered words. Thank the Lord she had never been on the wrong end of one of Gregory’s verbal tilts. Nay, but she had suffered enough under his unflagging silences.

Another lurch rattled her bones and she bit the inside of her mouth. Women taking charge of their lives did not complain of a few bruises. However, even take charge women needed to relieve themselves and each jolt of the cart reminded her of that necessity. Surely Gregory would stop soon. Despite his near inhuman stoicism, he must be experiencing similar discomforts.

Faye scrunched her toes into her boots against the press of her bladder. She had sat for hours at Court beside Calder and controlled her need, because Calder did not like her to draw attention to herself. She could suffer this in silence for a little while longer.

The cart pitched and she bit her lip to stop the whimper. “Gregory, I must, I need to—” A lady never said such a thing aloud. Her face heated and she pointed toward the bushes.

He stared at her, flushed with realization and nodded.

Thank you, Father.
He stopped the cart.

Faye slid from the cart and stood with its solid bulk at her back. A lot of night lay between her and the shadowy outline of the nearest bush. Dear Lord, she would pee her braies if she didn’t move, but there could be anything behind that bush. “Um…Gregory?”

“Aye.”

“I find it rather dark.”

Gregory sighed and dropped beside her. He stalked over to the bush, disappeared behind it, and a moment later, emerged. “It is clear.”

Faye crept behind the bush. She kept Gregory in sight, tall and broad-shouldered, standing by the cart. She cursed her braies as she wrestled them down to her knees. Skirts were so much easier in these situations. The relief made her eyes water. She finished, retied her belt around the top of her chausses, tugged her tunic down and ran smartly back to the cart.

Gregory handed her a water skin. “For your hands.”

Her heart gave a small flutter. Gregory knew things about her like this. He knew she liked the white of the chicken and no fat on her meat. That she would eat apples but preferred peaches and grapes. He was aware she liked her hands kept clean. She washed her hands and dried them on her tunic.

She knew his quirks too. He kept his emotions even closer than his thoughts. You had to know the telltale signs, the clenched jaw and the muscle that jumped in his cheek. The one that worked near constantly since they’d left Anglesea.

He rummaged through a bag and tossed her a dark piece of clothing. “Wear this. It will be light soon.”

Faye spread it open. It was another habit like the one he wore. She slid it over her head. It swathed her in heavy dark wool and swallowed her feet. “Is this necessary?”

“You do not look like a boy.” The muscle in his jaw worked like a mouse in a silk purse.

So, what did he see when he looked at her? She would give anything to have the courage to ask. As always, the air between them sat heavy with all they did not say.

She fumbled with her belt as she loosened it from her chausses. Belt fastened about her waist, she tugged robe fabric over the top of it to clear her feet. That was better. At least she could walk. Assisting her to her seat atop the cart, his hand warmed hers.

As he climbed aboard, the cart dipped under his weight. He shook the reins and the bullocks lumbered into motion.

Faye twined her fingers together and settled into the silence between them.

Patience, Gregory spoke when he needed to and not before. He could go days without uttering a sound, a useful trick for a monk, but not much good in a traveling companion.

She hunted for a subject to break the silence and came up empty handed. Everything that came to mind was fraught with traps. It was no good, the silence was worse than an ill-fitting bliaut. “Are we going to travel the entire way without speaking?”

His smile warmed the cold place inside her. It always surprised her at its sweetness in his carved features. “I am often on my own at the Abbey.”

At Calder Castle he was often on his own as well. She had never seen him with friends or a woman. She had watched particularly hard for a woman. For the most part, he was with her or the boys. Or in the practice yards. His shoulder pressed through the layers of wool, the heat of him comforting. “Why have you not taken your vows?”

His jaw clenched. “The Abbot judges me not ready.”

Surprising. She’d never met a man more committed to the priesthood. Father Piety from the top of his dark head all the way to his huge boots. “Why?”

That infernal cheek muscle would jump right out of his face if he kept this up. “My lady, there are some things best left unsaid.”

Fair point. This was the way between them. Questions not asked and answers not given. Things known, but never spoken. Tonight, in front of her family, she had ripped the scab off an old wound and it still smarted. She lacked Beatrice’s courage to voice every thought or feeling.

The creak of the cart provided a rhythmic pattern underscored by the dull plod of the bullock’s hooves on the road.

Perhaps the silence was not so bad.

* * * *

Gregory’s inner war had raged for many years. It was as an old enemy. Terrifying, but familiar, in its constancy.

His Lord or his lady. At the Abbey it was easy to forget how she tugged at every part of him. She was his test, his temptation in the desert. Christ had not faced a beautiful woman. He nearly snorted aloud. Now he added blasphemy to his sin tally.

He recited the Supplication to Mary over and over again in his head. Throughout her marriage he had resisted her and he would do so now. Once she and Simon were safe, he could return to his life as a monk.

Perhaps this was what the Abbott sensed in him. The secret place, the one he kept hidden from everyone. He tucked his sins and his forbidden thoughts into that hidden part of him, awash with color.
Purpure
for his lust; rich, dark and tempting.
Gules
was the shade of his pulsing anger. His need for vengeance pulsed a deep, bottomless
Sable
. And Faye was there.
Or
, a bright light in the darkness surrounding it.

Or
, the same color as that glorious hair that had hung down her back in a gleaming rope all the way to the curve of her ass and so thick he could wrap it thrice around his fist. He had only seen it unbound once or twice, curtaining her back in a silken fall.

Her shorn crop exposed the vulnerable arch of her nape. Her delicate neck, so easy to break he could wrap his entire hand around her throat. For the life of him, he could not fathom what would make a man take such a precious gift as a woman and wreak damage. A gift like Faye should be cherished and protected with the God-given power of a man’s body. He could be that man if his life took a different course.

Nay, his decision was made. His life belonged to God. A decision unquestioned until eight years ago when he entered the bailey of Anglesea as part of an armed escort to fetch Calder’s bride. He had looked up, spotted her in the casement and received a glancing blow from which he’d never recovered. He’d moved past that when he joined the Abbey.

God strike him for his lies, especially those he told himself. And while God was at it, could He grant a bit of strength. The cart threw her against him constantly. He counted his breaths between contacts. His flesh reacted the way of all weak flesh and stayed with him despite the gnawing tedium of travel. Distance marked by wafts of lavender, brushes of heat and each press of her thigh.

* * * *

Victory. Calder smiled as they shoved the boy into his solar. Satisfaction had never tasted this sweet. It coated the back of his throat. His men had done well and would be rewarded.

By the door beside Sir John, cowered his reward. Simon, a weak name for a pathetic wretch. The boy looked just like him.

How that must gall the haughty cunt every time she looked at the boy. To see his features stamped across her son’s face as clear as a map. To know who had put that boy in her belly and whose seed she had birthed.

Jesu, he would love to see her now. Frightened, crying even. His shaft thickened in anticipation and he motioned the whore sidling in the corner beside his bed. “Come here.”

Fear was better than a mouth on his tool. Tonight the whore would beg and plead. If he did not look too closely, he could pretend she was Faye. Faye on her knees before him, crying and begging. God’s Bones, he would shoot his load if he carried on like this.