Lady Fortune (2 page)

But Victor was dead. And she was useless as a wife, with no lands and no possibility of children. With any luck she would never have to endure a man’s touch again.

Agnes was weeping softly as she fixed Julianna’s long, wheat-colored hair into thick, hip-length plaits for the last time. “I’ll come with you, milady,” she sobbed. “We’ll find a way to bring Angus and the children along later…”

“No, Agnes. You belong at Moncrieff, and you know it. I doubt Reynald’s wife would be able to survive without your help, and I will no longer be responsible for a household. I’m certain Lady Isabeau will find a young girl who will see to my needs.”

Agnes wasn’t so far gone in sorrow that she couldn’t wrinkle her nose in disapproval. “She’s your lady mother, Lady Julianna,” she chided her. “Why do you always call her by her formal name?”

Julianna wasn’t about to waste her last moments arguing with the woman who hadn’t been just her servant, but her dearest friend as well. “Don’t worry about Lady Isabeau. We’ll be reunited in a few days’ time, and things will work themselves out.”

Agnes sniffed. “And how long has she been no more than a few days’ ride from you, and you’ve made no effort to see her?”

“She’s made no effort to see me.”

“You don’t answer her letters, lass! You return her gifts.”

“Don’t let us spend our last few minutes quarreling,” Julianna begged. “You’ve been a better mother to me than she ever was. I’ll be polite to her. I’ll show her the deference due her. I can promise no more than that.”

Agnes shook her head. “You’re a hard lass for one with such a sweet soul,” she said. “But I’m counting on the goodness of your heart to strip away the anger. Your lady mother had no choice in this world. Few women do.”

Julianna ignored her words, embracing her stout, pregnant body in her arms. “I don’t know who I’ll miss more, you or the children.”

“The children will miss you terribly,” Agnes said, thankfully distracted from her lecture on daughterly duty. "They love you dearly, as much as you love them. You need children of your own, lass…”

It had gone from bad to worse. “Enough!” Julianna cried. “I’m close enough to tears as it is. It’s God’s will that I’ll have no children, and all the prayers and hopes have made no difference. At least I can love other women’s children.”

Agnes shook her head. “You’re young yet, lass. Still a child yourself. You’ll learn that life is far from certain.”

“I know one thing,” Julianna said calmly. “I will never bear a child. I will never willingly lie with a man again, and I will never forgive my mother for abandoning me.” The harshness of her own voice surprised her, and she pulled out of Agnes’s comforting embrace, expecting reproaches.

But Agnes’s broad face was wreathed in a wry smile, despite the tears in her eyes. “Life is full of surprises, my lady,” she said. “And I will pray every day that all your surprises are blessed ones.”

Julianna didn’t bother to argue. The first surprise of her new life was the presence of a mad fool, threatening to drive her crazy.

Things were not looking up.

Nicholas Strangefellow had come a long way since his childhood in the north of
England. Nicholas of Derwent was born an only child, beloved of his frail mother and gruff, argumentative father, raised within the comfortable confines of his father’s great house, schooled and trained by the best that money could buy.

Until his father, Baron Derwent, made the dire mistake of annoying King Henry’s father. It was a dangerous thing to get mixed up with the obstreperous sons of Henry the Second, as more than one noble had discovered to his cost. By the time Nicholas was fifteen, everything was gone—his parents, the house, the vast wealth. All that remained was an empty title and his father’s old squire, Bogo, to try to look after him.

The first few years were both the hardest and the best. Nicholas discovered he had a talent for both cutting a man’s purse and charming food from vulnerable ladies. Within a year he was charming much more than food; he was a man wise in the ways of the world, a scamp and a thief, a liar and a rogue.

By the next year, he was a fool.

It was a role entirely suited to his nature. He could say or do anything he pleased without fear of retribution, he straddled all the levels of society, from peasants and criminals to lords and ladies, from traveling players to the King of England himself.

He had taken the worst that life had to offer and survived. He had little doubt he would continue to do so.

Sooner or later he would please Henry enough to claim his reward, though not the long-lost riches of the north that had once belonged to his father. King Henry, like most of his kind, seldom parted with anything of true value unless absolutely forced to do so.

But a small, tumbledown estate, anywhere, would be enough. A house in disrepair, land and people and peace. He wasn’t ready for it yet, but the time was coming closer, and providing King Henry with the sought-after chalice might do the trick. Then, and only then, would Nicholas become Lord Nicholas, Baron Derwent, again.

For now he was content to be a fool. Content to drive sober, stuffy men mad with his prattle, content to drive the ladies to distraction with far more pleasurable ways. He would find the same at
Fortham
Castle
. Men to annoy, women to love.

And the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon.

He was looking forward to it.

He stretched out in the litter, admiring his tattered, mismatched hose. Bogo, his manservant, keeper, and friend, had outdone himself this morning in providing just the right apparel. The lady of
Moncrieff
Castle
would be appalled when she saw her traveling companion.

He wondered whether she’d be any more of a challenge than the stuffy Sir Richard. She could hardly be less of one. He could charm her, of course—he’d yet to meet a woman he couldn’t charm, no matter her age, appearance, or social background. If suitably inspired he could always while away the interminable journey beneath Lady Julianna’s skirts. She was young, he knew that much. A child bride, a girl widow, a woman without dowry or value. She couldn’t be more than passably pretty—he would have heard if she was a beauty or a troll.

He could hear her approach—Sir Richard was droning on and on in his gruff voice, a grating sound that was his only defense against Nicholas’s determined assault. He shifted in the seat, resisting the impulse to peer out at her.

“What was that?” Her voice, at least, was pleasant, unlike Sir Richard’s. More than pleasant, actually, it was low and rich, with a tinge of voluptuousness that suddenly stirred his senses. He shifted on the bench.

“What?” Sir Richard replied in a fretful voice.

“That clanging noise? Is he kept in chains?” She sounded wary. Obviously Sir Richard had managed to exaggerate Nicholas’s reputation until the poor girl was terrified.

“Bells, my lady. I warned you he was a noisy creature.” He pushed aside the curtains, ignoring Nicholas. “In you go, my lady.”

He sat very still in his corner of the litter, watching her as she was assisted inside, sinking back on the seat with a faint sigh and settling her plain wool skirts around her. She lifted her head and looked at him, directly, with only faint wariness in her brown eyes.

She was exactly what he’d expected, imagined, and yet far different. She had an ordinary-enough face, pleasing in an unremarkable manner. Her nose was small, her mouth wide, her eyes deceptively serene. She wore her dark yellow hair in long plaits that reached to her hips, and the thin veil covering her head was made of gray silk.

The dress was unadorned, of decent quality as befit her status but totally without charm, and it covered her body without flattering it. He suspected she was tall and generously formed, but there was no way to tell—she huddled in the corner, seeming entirely uncomfortable with herself and her body. Or maybe she was just uncomfortable with her companion.

“I beg your pardon?” she said in a frosty voice. At least she tried to make it sound frosty. But it had that voluptuous undertone, entirely at odds with her nervous demeanor.

He leaned back and put his legs up on the seat beside her, the tiny silver bells jingling. There were times when the sound of them drove him mad, but they were always certain to make everyone around him even madder, and it was a small price to pay. “My condolences on the loss of your husband, my lady,” he said in a dulcet voice.

She was not appeased. The lady of Moncrieff was no fool, a fact that interested him even more than her uneasy body. He’d seldom found wit and beauty in the same package. Lady Julianna was not a beauty, but there was something strangely compelling about her nonetheless. And he was in a rare mood to be compelled.

She nodded her head in brief acknowledgment. She leaned back against the side of the litter, closing her eyes as if to shut him out, and he stared at her in fascination. Her large brown eyes were probably her greatest beauty, and yet when they were closed her face took on a serene expression that was enchanting.

However, he was in no mood to be shut out. “Have you no handmaiden to accompany you, my lady? Surely you’ll need help during the trip? I can offer my poor services— I have a great deal of experience helping ladies out of their gowns, though I must admit I haven’t bothered with helping them back into them.”

Her eyes flew open in instant outrage. He smiled at her sweetly, all seeming innocence.

“I’m certain I shall have no difficulties…” She floundered for a moment. “I don’t know what to call you,” she said eventually.

Another surprise, that frankness. He wondered if she were as serene, as honest, in bed. “You may call me anything that takes your fancy,” he murmured. “You may call me fool, or lover, or enemy if you must. If you wish to be proper you may call me Strangefellow.”

“Strange fellow?” she echoed.

“Nicholas Strangefellow. Most men call me Master Nicholas.”

“Master Nicholas,” she murmured.

“Yes, Lady Julianna? Shall I entertain you with tales of the court, with poems and songs and stories?”

She sighed. “You can let me rest. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I am weary.”

“Shall I provide a pillow with my lap, my lady? I’m afraid it might prove a hard one.”

The lewd comment seemed to sail right past her. “Just leave me alone,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

He waited until she was almost asleep, her breathing slow and steady, and then he moved his arm, just enough to fill the small enclosure with the tinkling of bells.

Her eyes flew open in sleepy confusion. “Master Nicholas,” she said in a calm voice, “I have a small, sharp knife with me. If you do not hold still I will remove those blasted bells from your sleeve, and I will then proceed to other, more sensitive parts of your body. I could unman you in the blink of an eye. Do not provoke me.” She closed her eyes again, dismissing him.

He stared at her in astonishment. No woman had ever spoken thusly to him. No other woman had ever been so adept at ignoring him.

He was tempted to start singing, something indecent and annoying, but thought better of it. She was a woman who would make good on her threats.

Not that she’d get very far. If she came near his bells— or his balls—he’d be forced to stop her. And as delicious as that notion was, this was neither the time nor the place.

She was asleep again. He shifted, carefully, so as not to set the tiny silver bells ringing. Lady Julianna of Moncrieff was going to make the time spent at
Fortham
Castle
particularly entertaining, and he was looking forward to it.

He wondered how she’d look when she woke up lying naked in his bed, after a night of vigorous exercise. Whether she’d still be uneasy with her tall, beautiful body.

And whether she’d put up a defense, or simply fall in love with him.

It was going to be entertaining to find out.

He woke her up with his singing. Curse his wretched, misbegotten soul, Julianna thought, keeping her eyes tightly shut as she tried to block him out of her mind. He had a strong, lusty voice, full of character and innuendo, and the song he was singing was so indecent she could only thank heaven she didn’t have to look him in the eyes. Despite the annoying jingle of his delicate silver bells, despite his rich, ribald voice, she could pretend to be asleep and not have to react to his bawdy song.

The song died away just before she was about to discover exactly what the miller’s daughter and the tinker were planning to do. “You’re blushing, my lady,” Nicholas said softly. “Surely a woman of your age and experience knows just what a man and a maid would do beneath a bridge on a hot summer’s day. Surely you’ve done the same.”

She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, no longer caring whether he believed her to be asleep or not. The litter was no longer moving, her body was a mass of aches, and she needed to relieve herself. But she wasn’t about to look the fool in the eyes if she could help it.

His hand on her face was such a shock that her eyes flew open and she struck out at him in sudden panic, hitting him. She hadn’t realized how close he had gotten, but the touch of his skin against hers felt like a bolt of lightning.

“How dare you put your hands on me?” she demanded in an icy voice. Except that it didn’t sound icy, it sounded small and panicked.

She immediately straightened her back, tucking her hands in her lap. She wasn’t going to let him frighten her; she wasn’t going to let any man frighten her again. After her father and Victor of Moncrieff, there was no man who could terrify her.

Particularly not the strange man sitting in the litter opposite her, watching her out of his peculiar eyes.

It was said that men become fools because of some peculiarity of form or wit. They were madmen, hunchbacks, simpletons, dwarfs. The man in the carriage didn’t look nearly as strange as some of his fellow jesters. He was presumably quite tall, with long arms and legs taking more than his share of the cramped litter. His clothes were mismatched, colorful, full of holes. His hair was like cornsilk, pale and long and fine, and his face was perhaps too pretty for a grown man, though it was undeniably pleasing.

But his eyes were disturbing. The eyes of a fool, the eyes of a madman. The eyes of a trickster. They were an odd shade, a golden shade like sunlit honey, like a cat’s eyes, and they stared at her, had stared at her with an odd, knowing expression, since she first, unwillingly, entered the litter. It was almost as if he could see beneath the heavy layers of clothing she wore. Almost as if he could see beneath her perpetually calm, soothing smile.

“I crave pardon, my lady,” he murmured, looking not the slightest bit chastened as he leaned back in the litter. “There are some that say the touch of a fool is a special blessing.”

“How many ladies of the court have you managed to convince of that dubious fact?” she asked tartly, still feeling the unexpected warmth of his hand as it had brushed her face.

His smile was unrepentant. “More than my fair share, my lady.”

“Well, you can forget about me, Master Nicholas. I’m certain you’ll find more than enough willing ladies at
Fortham
Castle
, but I won’t be one of them. Save your blessed touches for those who ask for them.”

“Ah, but those who ask are not necessarily those in need. And doesn’t a new-made widow need succor? You’ve been admirably valiant in hiding your grief, but I must assume that beneath your calm exterior your heart is torn in pieces.”

Guilt flamed through her, and she lifted her chin to stare at him in her most quelling fashion. He looked far from quelled. “You mock me, sir. It is not in my nature to weep and wail.” A lie, of course. She’d wept noisily and lengthily when she’d first come to Moncrieff, until the tears slowly dried up.

“You are most dignified in your sorrow, my lady,” he said with only the trace of irony.

“And you are the most annoying—” She caught her breath, and her temper, shocked at her sudden loss of composure. After a moment she spoke. “Master Nicholas, you do bring out the very worst in me,” she said in a deceptively calm voice.

“It’s a gift,” he murmured sweetly.

“My husband was forty years my elder, and he’d already buried two wives when he married me. He had little interest in a young girl, and I was too young to care much about being married. I hadn’t seen him for more than three years when he died, and while I mourn the loss of any good Christian soul, I cannot say that I feel a particularly personal grief at his passing.”

“Though you don’t seem best pleased at being dragged from your home,” Nicholas pointed out. “So how old were you when Victor of Moncrieff took you to his bed?”

She stiffened. “Why do you ask?”

“He must have been a particularly clumsy man to make you so afraid of another man’s touch.”

“I’m not afraid of any man’s touch!” she shot back, knowing it was an outright lie and proud of it. “I simply don’t like being pawed by… by underlings.” She was appalled the moment the harsh words were out of her mouth. Seldom did she allow her emotions to betray her in such a manner.

But he merely smiled at her. “I shall do my best not to paw, my lady,” he said gently. “How old were you?”

“Old enough,” she said shortly. “I did my wifely duty without complaint.”

“And did you enjoy it?”

It took her a moment to realize that the litter hadn’t begun to move after its full stop, and she almost wept with relief. Pushing open the curtains, she scrambled to the rough ground below, her cramped legs almost buckling beneath her. Nicholas was still lounging negligently on the cushions, watching her.

“Did you, my lady?” he persisted in his warm, musical voice.

“Did she what?” Sir Richard leaned forward on his horse, a disgruntled expression on his face. “Has that creature been disturbing you, Lady Julianna? I’ll have him horsewhipped if he’s offered you insult, and face the king’s displeasure gladly.”

It was a tempting offer, and she knew perfectly well that Sir Richard would have been happy to wield the whip himself. She glanced back at her unwelcome traveling companion, but his face was blank, expressionless, unworried at his possible punishment.

“He’s offered me no insult,” Julianna said, half wondering at her instinctive lie. She glanced around her, recognizing the cloistered walls of an abbey. “Do we rest here for the night?”

“We do. We’ll make
Fortham
Castle
by nightfall tomorrow if God grants us decent weather. In the meantime the good brothers will provide shelter. We’ve been given the honor of providing escort to the abbot, Father Paulus. He will be blessing
Fortham
Castle
with his wise council till Christmas tide.”

She turned her back on the litter, on Master Nicholas, quite resolutely. “Perhaps the abbot will prefer to ride in the litter. I find I’ve been longing for horseback.”

Sir Richard emitted a short, heartless laugh. “I don’t doubt it, my lady. But even a holy father could be driven mad by that creature. If I can secure another mount, you will ride the rest of the way, but I can make no promises.”

The jangle of bells signaled the descent of Nicholas from the wretched litter, and Julianna’s back stiffened instinctively. “You could always bind and gag me,” he suggested affably.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” Sir Richard said coolly. “Lady Julianna has only to say the word…”

She couldn’t do it, tempted though she might be. She glanced back at the fool from beneath half-closed lids. “I was taught to be charitable toward the afflicted, Sir Richard,” she murmured. “Master Nicholas is, despite his mental infirmities, only a poor Christian like the rest of us.”

The sound of bells accompanied something that might have been a cough, might have been a snort of laughter from the wretched creature. Julianna wasn’t about to find out. She moved away from him with as much haste as she could muster. “If I might have some privacy to refresh myself ?”

One of the plump, berobed friars came forward with swift grace. “You do our house honor, my lady.”

“I’ll eat with the abbot tonight, Brother Barth,” Sir Richard announced. “I’m certain Lady Julianna would prefer rest and solitude.”

Anything was preferable to more time spent with Nicholas, so she simply nodded.

“And Master Nicholas can be kept anywhere safe and clean,” Sir Richard continued.

“Master Nicholas will spend the evening in repentance,” Nicholas announced in suitably humble tones. “I can sleep in the straw near the altar, happy to be near my Redeemer.”

Brother Barth beamed at him. Sir Richard narrowed his eyes in doubt, but Nicholas simply ducked his head meekly.

“Very nice,” Brother Barth murmured. But Julianna had the sudden strange notion that Nicholas and Brother Barth might have been talking about entirely different lords—one of this earth, one of heaven.

It was no longer her concern. The room she was given was small and spare and clean, and she soon dropped down on the narrow bed, weary in every part of her body. She was past sleep, past hunger, capable of doing nothing but lying still, staring into the gathering dusk.

The only sound was the rich tolling of the abbey bells, calling the monks to prayer, a far cry from the delicate tinkling of the fool’s silver bells. Common sense told her she’d be welcome to join, but exhaustion kept her still on the pallet. Besides, Nicholas had said he would spend the night in prayer. The very thought of trying to concentrate on her prayers while Nicholas stared at her out of those strange eyes was unsettling indeed.

And she had no doubt he would stare, simply because he would know it bothered her. He was, in fact, a strange blessing. His presence was so annoying, he’d given her no chance to dwell on her current misfortunes. Her peaceful life had been shattered, and yet she’d had no chance to mourn it. Which was just as well. She’d learned as a child that weeping and bewailing one’s fate brought nothing more than a headache and a swollen face.

It was Brother Barth who brought her dinner tray to her. The food was simple—cheese and brown bread and honey ale. Julianna realized she was famished.