Lady Fortune (5 page)

“I rejoice to see you, Sir Richard. It’s been too many years.”

They’d known each other long and well, and there was a trace of mischief in Sir Richard’s eyes as he clasped Hugh’s arm. “I doubt you’ll be rejoicing long, friend, once you see what I’ve brought you,” he muttered in an undertone. He bowed to Isabeau. “My lady,” he murmured, kissing her hand in the Norman fashion.

But Isabeau could barely summon the properly polite response. “You’ve brought my daughter?” she asked eagerly. “She’s well?”

“She is that,” Richard replied, but Isabeau had already moved past her to the litter, her small body rigid with tension as the curtains parted and a young woman dismounted.

She stood taller than her mother, her long hair pulled back from her face in two thick plaits, her plain clothes fitting loosely on her angular body. She was far from the beauty her mother was, Hugh thought absently, but pretty enough for all that.

She was looking at her mother, making no move to greet her, and Isabeau was similarly paralyzed, staring at the child she’d borne and lost. Hugh was a simple man, and impatient. He moved to Isabeau’s side, took her frozen hand in his, and smiled at Julianna. “Welcome to Castle Fortham, daughter,” he said.

He’d managed to startle her. She withdrew her gaze from her mother’s pale face to stare up at him.

“Daughter?” she echoed dazedly.

“Your mother will be my wife. Which makes you my daughter,” Hugh said in a booming voice, wishing he didn’t feel so huge and noisy next to the delicate little creature he’d chosen so foolishly.

But for once Isabeau looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Welcome, Julianna,” she said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

A brief, almost imperceptible look swept over Julianna’s face, and then it was gone. She curtseyed to her mother, the very picture of polite, daughterly duty. And she said absolutely nothing.

All right, Hugh thought, hiding his grimace. So he’d be dealing with two emotional females in his household. He’d dealt with worse.

“Woe betide the ungrateful child!” a new voice intoned, and Hugh’s mood sank even lower as he turned to face the approaching priest. The abbot of Saint Hugelina’s had come to oversee his nuptials and to lend guidance to the spiritual well-being of his huge household, another unwelcome appointment of the king. One look at the man’s pale, burning eyes and thin, disapproving mouth, and all Hugh could think of was the Inquisition.

“A thousand pardons for not greeting you properly, Father Paulus,” Hugh said quickly. “We welcome you to
Fortham
Castle
.”

“Your household is in sore need of spiritual guidance,” the abbot intoned in a chilling voice. “I only pray that I’m not too late.”

Things were going from bad to worse, Hugh thought grimly. Isabeau and her daughter were still looking at each other warily, the new priest was threatening to turn his peaceful life on end, and Sir Richard was surveying the entire proceedings with unholy amusement. Only Gilbert seemed dutifully somber.

Hugh sighed. “Let us go in and prepare for the feast,” he said in a spuriously cheerful voice. “We have a wedding to celebrate, as well as a family reunited.”

There was no missing the grimace on Julianna’s face. If anything, the abbot’s pale face seemed even more threatening, and Isabeau looked as miserable as he’d ever seen her. Sir Richard sidled up to him, a mischievous expression on his face. “One more surprise, Hugh,” he said under his breath. “Your wedding present from the king.”

Hugh stared at him. “Something tells me I’m not going to be very happy about this one.”

“It will amuse your wife and new daughter,” Sir Richard said with a chuckle.

Hugh glanced back at the stiff-backed women. “They don’t appear to be easily amused,” he muttered.

And then he heard it. The annoying clatter of bells, their light, tinkling sound a profound irritant on the brisk afternoon air. He saw the foot protrude from the curtained litter, the brightly colored hose, the mismatched shoes, and a frisson of pure horror sped down his backbone.

“Don’t tell me…” he begged.

“You’ve guessed it,” Sir Richard said gleefully. “You’ve got possession of the king’s fool until Christmastide, when King Henry will come to fetch him and bless your marriage.”

“Holy Christ,” Hugh muttered in despair. The gimlet-eyed priest whirled around at his soft curse, as if he could even read his mind, and Hugh stirred himself. “Holy Christ,” he said more loudly, “welcome these sojourners to our humble household.”

“Amen,” Gilbert said piously.

“Amen,” Richard said, his voice still rich with amusement.

“Amen.” The fool emerged from the litter, bounding onto the hard ground of the courtyard with effortless grace, and Hugh’s blood ran cold. He was tall for a fool, loose-limbed, with shaggy, golden hair and a mobile face. His clothes were absurd, torn and stained and mismatched, and the tiny silver bells attached to his sleeve would soon drive Hugh to madness.

He picked Hugh out with unerring instinct. “Your majesty!” he said grandly. “Lord of all you survey, king of the west country, master of magnificence—”

“Earl of Fortham,” Hugh corrected him grimly.

“I am your humble servant,” said the fool, and before the astonished eyes of the assembled household, he quickly curled into a ball and did a series of somersaults till he landed, upright, at Hugh’s feet.

Lady Julianna let out a faint cry of protest, one the fool was well aware of. The priest looked disturbed as well, but the fool simply looked at Hugh, equal to equal, and grinned. “Master Nicholas Strangefellow, at your service, my lord. Come to amuse and to charm, to lighten your dark days and darken your sunny ones.”

“I hate clowns,” Hugh muttered.

Nicholas’s grin widened still further. “A challenge. And I’m never one to shy away from a challenge.”

There was no missing the abbot’s hiss of shocked disapproval, nor Richard’s snort of amusement. “I hate rhymes as well,” Hugh said grimly. “Even bawdy ones.”

“And I’d best behave myself in a household of women,” Nicholas said.

“It’s not a household of women,” Hugh corrected him. “We are mainly men, and soldiers.”

“Ah, but what you lack in quantity you make up for in quality. I’d be hard put to choose between the mother and the daughter.”

“You don’t need to choose either, fool!” Richard snapped. “You can chain him in his room if you want, Hugh. The king may have sent him, but there’s no reason you have to put up with his presence.”

“I doubt Henry would be pleased if I locked up his favorite toy,” Hugh said slowly, staring at the fool. He was like and yet unlike his kind. He was tall and wiry, and his mobile face might be called handsome by the women. He could ask his wife, if he ever summoned the nerve to talk to her. There was clear, shining intelligence in the creature’s strange golden eyes, just as there was trickery and a faint glimpse of wildness. This fool of King Henry’s was no ordinary jester, and Hugh didn’t know whether to be relieved or disturbed.

“We have a wedding to celebrate,” he continued in a firm voice. “And a household in need of entertainment. See to your guest, my lady, and by tonight we’ll be properly bedded.” He hadn’t meant to sound so crude. Isabeau blushed, turning her face away, and he could see a faint trembling in the hand that she placed on her daughter’s stiff arm. So the thought of bedding him frightened her, did it? He was a big, blustering fool, damn it.

“I will hear your confession, my son,” Father Paulus announced. “And that of your repentant household. There’ll be no wedding celebrated until you are cleansed of your sins, both great and small.”

“Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone,” Nicholas said sweetly. “On the other hand, I will eschew confession. After all, I have no sin—I’m only an innocent fool.”

The abbot snarled. Sir Richard shook his head in disbelief. And Lady Julianna of Moncrieff, his wife’s long-lost daughter, looked at the fool for a long, thoughtful moment, and laughed.

The room allotted for the king’s fool was unexpectedly spacious, Nicholas thought, moving gingerly once the door was closed and locked behind him. It was far removed from the family’s quarters, near the base of one of the five towers that marked the garrison, and as far as he could tell, only dry stores were kept beneath him and nothing at all above him. Clearly Lady Isabeau kept her new home in good order—they’d had no warning that he was coming and would require at least decent accommodations.

He didn’t bother to question his good fortune in having a spacious room and bed to himself—he had his own ways of securing such luxuries, mainly by making his presence so annoying that people would do anything to get rid of him, but this time he didn’t have to exert himself.

Which was a good thing, considering the pain he was in. He headed straight for the bed, collapsing facedown on the sagging mattress, stifling a groan.

The triple somersault had finished the work that the abbot’s choice hand had started. He expected his back was bleeding, and if he didn’t manage to peel his torn shirt off, it would end up sticking to the wounds, making the entire healing process even more painful. He didn’t care. Sooner or later Bogo would find his way to his master’s room, bringing salve and clean linen and food. In the meantime he would wait.

He could ignore pain—it was something he’d learned quite young, and he considered it only one of his considerable talents. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fresh linen.

He had until tomorrow to recover, and he’d be damned before he’d give Father Paulus the pleasure of seeing his pain. He had been summarily dismissed, and his presence wouldn’t be required until the wedding festivities the next day, leaving him more than enough time to recoup his strength. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see him flinch. He couldn’t afford to be vulnerable—not in his precarious situation.

He closed his eyes. The ride in the litter had been endless, and even the presence of Lady Julianna had been little distraction. It was all he could do to ignore the pain— he’d had no reserves left to tease the deliriously shy widow.

It was already growing dark, he was hungry, but he was in too much pain to move. Where the hell was Bogo when he needed him?

He lost track of time—it may have been hours, it may have been less—when he heard someone at the door. They’d locked him in, he realized, not moving. He supposed he could thank Sir Richard and kindly Father Paulus for that signal honor. The opportunities for revenge were plentiful to a man with imagination, and Nicholas had far more than his share. He listened to the sound at the door without moving, dreaming of ways to torment his enemies.

“Master Nicholas?” It was Bogo, of course, sounding frustrated. “They’ve locked you in.”

“I know that,” he said in a resigned tone. “Find Lady Isabeau and see if she’ll give you a key.”

“Are you hurting?”

Nicholas’s reply was succinct and blasphemous. Bogo’s heartless laugh didn’t improve his temper. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and scuttled off.

Nicholas settled in to wait, once more cursing the abbot and his heavy hand. He had complete faith in Bogo—his servant could manage anything with subtlety and speed. He’d know better than to let anyone know Nicholas had been injured, though exercising caution might make the whole procedure take longer. He was willing to endure. He’d had experience at it.

In the end, the room was almost pitch dark when he heard the clanging of keys. He didn’t bother to move from his prone position—his back was a fiery mass of pain and he had no reason to pretend with Bogo, a man who knew all, or at least most, of his secrets.

“It’s about time,” he muttered into the bed linen as a pool of candlelight filled the room. “Couldn’t come up with a reasonable lie in a timelier manner? I’m about to puke from pain. I trust you’ve brought me some ale as well?”

“I never lie.” The soft female voice shouldn’t have come as such a shock, but he’d been too miserable to realize that the tread was lighter, or to recognize the faint, lovely smell of cinnamon in the air.

He tried to sit up, but the effort was shockingly painful, and he sank back down with a choked gasp. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rough voice.

“Your servant came looking for my mother, but she’s off cavorting with her new husband,” Julianna said coolly. “He insisted there was no need for me to bother, but considering that you decided to tumble across the courtyard to my… Lord Hugh’s feet, I presume your back must be paining you. This time you can’t object if I physick you.”

He turned his face to look at her. The branch of candles left a pool of light around them, and the room was cold, though he could feel a faint film of sweat against his skin. Even with the pain he was in, he was in no mood to have those soft, pale hands touch him. “Send me Bogo,” he said.

“I can’t. The abbot is hearing his confession. There was no way he could get away from him.”

Nicholas choked back a laugh. “I don’t know who I pity more, Bogo or the good abbot.”

“I don’t think Father Paulus is deserving of much compassion after what he did to you,” Julianna said.

“Go away, my lady. I’ll wait for Bogo.” He turned his face away from her, dismissing her.

“The shirt is ruined,” she said in a calm voice, ignoring him. “I don’t dare try to pull it off yet—it will make the wounds bleed again. Lie very still and I’ll put damp cloths on your back to loosen it.”

“Go away…”

“Be quiet,” she said, and for once he was too weary to argue. The first touch of damp cloth to his back was agony, and he arched up, cursing beneath his breath. And then he sank back into the mattress, closing his mind to the pain, to the soft hands on his back, the scent of cinnamon, the soft sound of her breathing.

He must have dozed, an impossible thing, since he never slept in the presence of a woman. But Julianna of Moncrieff was no ordinary woman, and his back made him less than himself. Her hands had left him, the wet cloths were removed, and he turned his head to look up at her. She stood over him, dressed in her dull clothes, a wicked-looking dagger in her slender hand.

“Are you planning to unman me, my lady?” he murmured in a pain-dulled voice. “Or simply to stab me to the heart?”

“If I were to cut off any part of you, I imagine I’d go for your tongue,” she said tardy.

“Now that would, be a terrible mistake, love. You’ve yet to sample the delights of my tongue, only its annoyances. I could bring you quite astonishing pleasure with my gifted tongue, all without saying a word.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I expect I’d rather not know. Doubtless it’s something bawdy.”

“You bring bawdy thoughts to mind, my lady.”

He was bemused by the expression on her face. Clearly the lady didn’t believe herself deliriously worthy of his lustful designs. He wondered why. “I’m going to cut your shirt off,” she said, ignoring him. “If you don’t have another one, I’ll have Lady Isabeau see that it’s replaced.”

“I have enough clothing that I can spare one,” he said. “You could keep it as a love token.”

“You should watch yourself when I’m holding a knife over your back,” she muttered.

“I trust you, my lady.” Though he wouldn’t have put it past her to be rough in her dispatching of his shirt, she wielded the knife with slow, gentle delicacy, the sharp blade slicing through the damp cloth. She pulled it away from his skin, pushing it off his shoulders, and her shocked intake of breath told him Father Paulus had done a thorough job of meting out punishment.

The cool night air was both painful and soothing on his torn flesh. “Are you going to pray over me?” he murmured, “or did you bring bandages?”

“I think you’re past praying for,” she said in a voice that trembled slightly. “I’m going to put a salve on your back. It will hurt,” she warned him.

“Everything does,” he replied, gritting his teeth as he waited for the touch of her hands.

It was worse than he expected—not the pain, but the pleasure. She touched him lightly, spreading the unguent into his wounded flesh with a touch so delicate that it was a feather-soft caress. She leaned over him, intent on her work, and he could feel her thick braid brush against his arm. Feel her breath warming his back. Feel his cock harden in the dark cushion of the mattress. He closed his eyes and smiled in sinful pleasure, imagining just how he’d return the favor when his time came.

She was humming underneath her breath, a quiet little song that he assumed was some sort of plainsong to keep the dangerous fool at bay. He suspected she wasn’t even aware of her voice, and he wanted to roll over on his abraded back and pull her down against him. He kept still.

“How did the happy reunion with your mother go?” he asked.

The song stopped abruptly, her hands stilled above his back, and he could feel the tension. “I don’t expect that’s any of your business.”

“I’m in mortal pain, my lady,” he said, a lie. In fact, the salve and the feel of her cool hands were wonderfully soothing. “I need something to distract me.”

“Think on your sins.”

“I’d rather think on yours.”

“I don’t have any!” she snapped without thinking.

He turned his head to look at her as she leaned over his back. “A saint in our midst? How did I fail to recognize it? A thousand pardons. And you’re not even troubled by the sin of false pride.”

In any other woman he might have thought that was a reluctant smile curving her stern mouth. “I spoke hastily,” she said. “No one is without sin. Mine are far too ordinary to be interesting, however, and I’m not about to share them with anyone but my father confessor.”

“Somehow the abbot seems the sort to consider even the most menial sin interesting.” He groaned, more for effect than out of real distress. “Of your goodness, my lady, distract me. Tell me your sins and I’ll tell you mine.”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll go first. I’m mad, they say. But then, most fools are. Not that that’s a sin, though Father Paulus might argue that my tragic mental affliction is punishment for my past crimes.”

“I don’t think…” She stopped herself, just as things were about to get interesting.

He wasn’t the sort of man to let it go easily. “You don’t think what, my lady? Don’t think I’m mad? Would a sane man talk in rhymes, dress the way I do, cavort in a most improper manner, and fail to address his lord and master as befits his station? Would a sane man refuse to ride a horse when any other mode of transportation is slow and uncomfortable? Would a sane man roll on his back when he’s been flayed by an over-zealous priest?”