Rebellious Love (18 page)

A scream of denial rose in Verony's throat as the king went on to describe in graphic detail the manner of Curran's death. Inflamed by her nearness, he indulged in an item-by-item recitation of the tortures his victim suffered before death at last claimed him.

"Poor soul," John concluded with mock sympathy, "he had the misfortune to be uncommonly strong. He endured so much that in the end I was driven to pity and hastened the procedure." Smiling down at Verony benignly, he explained: "After his arms and legs and private parts were hacked away and yet he still lived, one of my men most skilled in the torments practiced by the Arabs inserted a rod into his anus and up through his body until it emerged from his mouth. Then we roasted him, as on a spit. He lasted only moments more, but it was worth it to see him suffer so."

The scream Verony had fought against through long, horror-filled minutes could no longer be denied. A dark film of madness closed over her mind. Driven beyond reason, beyond even the most elemental thought of her own or the baby's safety, all the hatred and repulsion she felt burst free.

The tortured sound that tore from her throat so stunned John that he did not at first realize the full impact of his words. Before he could move, Verony struck. With strength she had not known she possessed, she tore free of his grasp.

Seizing the only weapon that came to hand, a sturdy wooden stool, she lifted it over her head and whirled on the startled John. If some part of her shattered reason screamed that regicide was a crime far beyond the killing of a single man, she did not listen. Nothing mattered but that she wipe the satisfied smirk from the loathsome face confronting her . . . pound the dreadful, bestial voice into silence . . . hurt and punish and destroy the monster whose every breath was an offense to God and man.

For all his life of unbridled self-indulgence, John was a strong man. Given an instant to react, he would have had no difficulty stopping Verony. But she moved as one possessed by devils, driven by the image of Curran dying to overcome even the king's battle-trained reflexes.

The stool, smashing against his head, splintered. After the first blow, only a fragment remained clutched in Verony's hand. The diminishing of her weapon did not stop her. She struck again and again, using the heavy oak leg of the stool to beat John's head and shoulders into bloody pulp. Only when her maddened strength at last gave out did she stop.

Staring down at her work, Verony moaned. She knew no regret for her action, only revulsion at the spectacle before her. Coming on top of the hideous picture of Curran, it was too much. The bloodied weapon slid from her nerveless fingers as she turned to the door.

Through the waves of rage and panic and terror engulfing her, Verony fled. Behind her she could hear the shouts of men who, alerted by the strange noises from the tower room, discovered what remained of John. Stunned though they were, they were too well trained in every manner of violence not to respond instantly. Before Verony could reach the angled stairs leading to the Main Hall, they were after her.

Heedless of the danger of falling, she raced down the narrow steps, emerging breathless into the hall. Running smack into a startled servant and upsetting the tray he carried, she dashed past before the man could lift a hand against her. Avoiding the knots of lords and ladies in busy conversation, she darted into the shadows cast by wide stone pillars. Skills honed during her year in the forest served her well. No one among those who chased her could expect their quarry to be so elusive. Weapons drawn, they were just beginning to spread out through the hall as Verony sped from it, losing herself quickly among the crowds gathered in the bailey.

Fleeing more from John's fiendish words than from any threat to herself, she jumped the last steps from the tower wall to the street below. A faint cracking sound from her ankle was followed swiftly by searing pain which under different circumstances would have rendered her lame. But pain had no meaning in a world where Curran no longer lived. Without pause, Verony raced on.

The shouts from the royal keep faded behind her. In streets almost emptied by the winter cold and the gathering darkness there was no one to stop her. With sunset, Londoners retreated within their homes. The shops she sped past were shuttered, the lanes and winding passageways deserted. Only taverns and brothels remained open, and might have posed a danger to her. But since she was instinctively heading away from the city's center, she saw no one. Not until she came up hard against a stone wall did Verony pause. Out of breath, her lungs on fire and her ankle throbbing, she looked round blankly. A rising moon showed that the barrier was not the ancient battlements surrounding the capital, but beyond that she could not see.

Closing her eyes, Verony leaned against the wall. Low sobs broke from her. She clutched her aching sides. Swept by despair more profound than any she could ever have imagined, she wept quietly.

The mere continuance of her life, the rush of blood within her body and the drawing of air into her lungs bewildered her. Why did she still live when Curran was gone? What vicious fate decreed that she should be left alone to endure the torment of his death?

Deep within her mind, Verony now understood why she had fought against loving him so totally. Bred by her father's cruelties and strengthened by her months of survival in the forest, the conviction that she could rely only on herself was not easily overcome.

But the vast, all-encompassing passion Curran set off in her drowned even the most bitter lessons. Her struggle to hold some part of herself separate from him was in vain. If Curran had died believing she never completely merged her will with his, always withholding that final degree of trust, he would have been wrong. Helplessly she acknowledged that he was so totally part of her that without him life itself would become the worst, possible torture.

Through a gap in the wall, she made out the glittering ribbon of the river bathed in moonlight. Burdened by ice, it flowed slowly, the lazy motion seeming to beckon her. She took a step closer, only lo be stopped by the sudden movement of the child wilhin her.

Verony stopped, hands pressed to her hardening belly. Through the soul fire of grief, a glimmer of reason intervened. Curran was dead, but a tiny part of him remained nestled inside her. Torn between the desperate need to end her torment and the deeply rooted desire to protect the child, Verony stood frozen in place.

A chill wind whipped her slender body. The cloak she had tossed on hastily before leaving the d'Arcy compound offered little protection. Her hands and feet were already numb. A gust blew the hood back, revealing the glorious tumult of her red-gold hair. It glistened, silvered in the moonlight, matched by the sheen of tears against her alabaster cheeks.

Time passed without meaning. A rat scurried out from under the wall, paused to gaze at Verony, then scampered on. A scrawny cat darted by, intent on its prey. Off in the distance, a pack of the wild dogs that roamed the city set up a howl.

Verony stiffened, the sound recalling her abruptly to the peril she faced. It was madness to be out alone in London's streets at night. All manner of horrors awaited anyone so foolish as to be caught there, not to mention the threat of royal guards who might still be tracking her. Much as she might wish to court death, she would not condemn the babe she sheltered.

Yet with no idea of where she was, she could not begin to make her way back to the d'Arcy compound. Wearily, she huddled against the wall, seeking some protection from the cold. Long moments passed. Verony slipped into an exhausted doze, only to be shocked back to alertness by the sound of running steps.

Slipping into shadows offered by a stone niche, she prayed she would not be seen. Whoever was approaching did so stealthily. The steps were light and paused several times, as though fearing pursuers. Some thief or worse, Verony thought and flattened herself even further against the wall. By the time the steps came round the corner closest to her, she was barely breathing.

But the small, skinny form hurrying past was too alert not to notice her. It paused, whirled to flee, then slowly turned back as though doubting the evidence of its own eyes. Slowly, warily, they faced each other.

Verony's breath left her in a relieved, if surprised sigh. The mysterious intruder was a child. A little boy, perhaps eight years old, stood before her. He had dark curling hair, eyes bright as onyx and olive skin, most of which was well wrapped in a heavy cloak.

Intelligence and alertness radiated from him, but so did curiosity. His bewilderment at finding a noblewoman in such unlikely circumstances overcame even the greatest caution.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed softly.

Verony hesitated. She needed help desperately but she was reluctant to involve one so young in her troubles. Not until the boy took a step forward, seemingly determined on a response, did she murmur: "I'm . . . lost. . . ."

He paused, thinking that over, then asked: "Where were you going?"

Again Verony pondered before answering. If the royal guards did follow her this far and discovered the child had spoken with her, he would suffer

greatly. But even if she told him nothing, it could still go hard on him.

Slowly she said: "I was trying to get home ... to my family. I am . . . Lady Verony d'Arcy."

The boy's head jerked back. Deep black eyes widened in a searing gaze that left her no doubt he recognized the name. "Lord Curran's wife."

"How did you know?" Verony blurted, stepping away from the wall in an effort to get a closer look at the child who seemed fully aware now of her identity.

The boy shrugged. "What difference does it make how I know? If you are who you say, it's enough that I've found you." Sternly, he added: "Don't you realize how dangerous it is to be out here at this hour?"

An almost hysterical laugh broke from Verony. She smothered it with her hand. "I . . . was running away ..."

"Who from?"

She was about to answer, having decided that the child already knew too much to try to keep anything back, when pounding hoofbeats shattered the stillness. Certain that no one but the king's men would be about on such a night, Verony froze in terror. Having only just accepted the need to go on living for the sake of the child, she could not bear the thought that life was about to be ripped from her.

The boy reacted more practically. Gripping her hand, he lunged forward. "Come on!"

Verony's breath caught in her throat, making it impossible for her to ask where they were going. Though the child was far smaller than she, coming

barely to her breast, she had to run to keep up with him. Her legs were leaden, the last of her strength almost gone, when he dragged her under a large piece of wood propped against the wall and through I chink in the stonework.

Once inside, they did not pause but continued hurrying through twisting lanes dwarfed by tightly packed, ramshackle houses. Verony barely had a Chance to glance around before the boy pulled her Into an entryway and pounded on an iron-studded door.

He opened almost immediately. Light from the inside, flooding into the darkness, temporarily blinding her. Verony raised a hand to her eyes, shielding them, as she stared at the man who stood glowering at her rescuer.

"Samuel! Where in the name of the Lord have you been? Your mother's been worried sick!"

Panting from their frenzied race through the narrow streets, the boy did not answer. Tugging Verony Into the house, he stood for a moment getting his breath before grinning excitedly. "She's Lady Verony d'Arcy, Lord Curran's wife. I think it's the Mug's men after her, leastway sounded like them, figured I'd better bring her here."

The adults in the room stared at her in stunned silence. Verony counted five of them in her own hurried glance at her new surroundings. Besides the tall, bearded man who had opened the door, there was a younger man sitting near the fireplace next to a girl cradling a baby. Another woman, older and with wisps of gray hair escaping from beneath her veil, tended a pot of what smelled like stew.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, but meticulously clean. Fresh rushes lay on the flagstone floor. A vibrant wall-hanging opposite the fire depicted a Biblical scene. Elaborately carved wooden chests were pushed neatly against the walls, leaving room for a trestle table, benches and several low-slung beds half hidden by curtains.

Her quick surveillance was enough to tell Verony that the family was relatively well off. Merchants most likely, for that would account for the boxes of spices she noted, the unusual embroidered shawl the older man wore, and the beautiful gold candelabrum set on one of the chests.

Their apparent occupation might also explain their surprising familiarity with the d'Arcys, since they could well have provided goods to the Earl Garrett and Lady Emelie. But it did not reveal why they were willing to help her, or why the boy Samuel seemed so certain she would be safe among them.

Honor demanded that she warn them of the danger following her. "The king's men," Verony said softly, "will be determined to catch me. If they come here ..."

"They won't," the older man interrupted. Stepping out of the shadows cast by the fire, he looked her over carefully. What he saw seemed to reassure him. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. "The soldiers will not go past the wall, my lady. At least not before daybreak."

"But why? They can go anywhere they please, and if they thought I came this way . . ."