Rebellious Love (24 page)

His father nodded, turning to leave. He paused a moment to smile down at his newest grandchildren, still fast asleep despite all the turmoil. "I'll send your nurse to look after them," he told Verony, "so you can come along to see the king." A wicked gleam entered his gray-green eyes. "I think it's a sight you'll enjoy."

Verony wasn't sure exactly what he meant, but she hastened to ready herself. Great events were at least coming to their culmination, and she was determined to be part of whatever now happened. With Curran's help, she got herself into a soft blue tunic and navy surcoat trimmed with gold thread. Her hair was left free to fall down her back in glinting waves covered only by a transparent veil and jeweled circlet.

Waiting only long enough for Hilda to arrive, she hurried off to join Curran at the earl's tent. A large group was already there. Arianna and Mark, reunited after months apart, stood close together. They hurried up to Verony as soon as they saw her, exclaiming over what had happened.

"How brave of you," Arianna said. "Curran must be so proud."

"Proud, nothing," Mark teased. "He'll know to go carefully from now on and not do anything to make you mad!"

Verony managed to smile, though her heart wasn't in it. She told herself Curran had been kindness itself in the few moments they had alone in their tent. But her feelings and his were all mixed up with passion and fear and the tension of the long-drawn-out confrontation with the king.

She couldn't begin to guess how he would feel once he had a chance to consider what had happened. Her action against Fairleigh would surely make him realize, as it did her, that she was no closer to being the docile, malleable wife he seemed to want. It was not enough that Curran still desired her. If he could not accept that her pride and strength were as much a part of her as her love for him, she had no idea how she would endure.

Her fretful thoughts broke off as a trumpet blast announced the king's approach. Standing on tiptoe, Verony strained to catch sight of the man who had so abused and terrified her.

He looked rather the worse for wear. Beneath gloriously embroidered velvet robes, his body seemed to have shrunk. Though he sat erect in the saddle of his caparisoned palfrey, he appeared weary and tense. Deep lines were etched into his face, particularly around his still sensual mouth and beneath his small, dark eyes.

Staring at him, Verony's lips parted in a soft exclamation of surprise. A long, white scar ran across John's forehead, mute evidence of her tormented response to his claim of having killed Curran. Grimly, she wondered what the king would say when he heard of Fairleigh's end. At least he couldn't pretend to be shocked.

For a ruler so given to ostentatious display, his escort was remarkably small. White-bearded Stephen Langton rode beside him, the archbishop's presence being solely to guarantee the king's. Verony had no doubt John would have been far happier without the prelate's company.

Behind John came the papal legate and beside him, the Grand Master of the Order of Templars. William Marshal, one of the most respected men in England, was also there. His rigid concept of loyalty demanded his attendance. But his expression made it clear he would rather be elsewhere.

Rounded out by a few lesser knights and bishops, the train was a poor show indeed for the arrogant John. But Verony found it heartening. There could be no more eloquent testament to the effectiveness of the d'Arcys' efforts over the last months. Though the barons' coalition was shaky, they had succeeded in isolating the sovereign and forcing him to this showdown.

The Earl Garrett went forward to greet him. Only years of discipline enabled him to keep his expression blank. No sign of the intense personal victory he felt showed in the careful regard of gray-green eyes sweeping over the man before him.

Most of the other nobles were not so circumspect. They pressed forward eagerly. Mocking sallies and daring insults, unthinkable just a few months before, filled the air.

John's face darkened ominously. He had accepted the necessity of negotiation, but that did not mean he was willing to see his overwheening pride ground into the dust.

Before the encounter could get out of hand, the earl intervened. "If you will join us inside, Highness," he said quietly, "we may begin."

John agreed stiffly. Flanked by the earl and Garrett, with Mark lingering to have a word with the archbishop, he disappeared into the blue-and-gold tent.

Only a very few of the more intelligent, rational nobles would actually take part in the discussions. The rest, easily bored by anything that did not hold the immediate promise of a good brawl, wandered away.

Lady Emelie, Arianna and Verony stood for a moment staring at the closed tent flap. Taut with anticipation, they wished desperately to be part of the talks. But that was impossible. Though Lady Emelie in particular had made her feelings clear in private conversation with her husband, no woman would be allowed any part in the final effort to keep England from civil war.

"We may as well make ourselves comfortable," the countess said at length. "I suspect this will take some time."

She proved more correct than she could have guessed. The talks dragged on for three days. Separate accommodations were raised for John some little distance from the main camp, but he spent almost all the time inside the earl's tent. What began as a general discussion of goals quickly gave way to precise listings of grievances and detailed demands for reform.

On the second day, snatches of written proposals began to emerge, to be avidly seized by the women. One such brought a snort of rage from Verony.

"It says here," she exclaimed waving the piece of parchment on which a scribe had hastily jotted down the latest provision, "that a woman's testimony can only be accepted in court in cases having to do with the murder of her husband. For all else, she remains unable to have any part in bringing justice be it for theft, the murder of someone not her spouse, or even an assault on her own person."

Emelie sighed. She rocked the cradle holding her youngest grandchildren as she said: "There would be no mention at all of women if I hadn't persuaded Garrett it was necessary. He knows neither the king nor the barons will ever agree to laws that make us anything but chattels of our fathers and husbands, but at least this provision opens the way for future gains."

"What about this one," Arianna commented, studying the parchment. Carefully, she read, " 'No widow shall be compelled to marry if she be desirous to live single.' That's a big concession for John, who's always been one for selling noble widows into new marriages or demanding money from them to refrain from doing so."

Verony was glad to hear of that, as well as the other provisions which guaranteed widows immediate access to their inheritances and kept their property from defilement. But remembering her own experiences, she wished there was more said about the protection of minors who might be orphaned before marriage.

As it was, the king retained the right to sell guardianships, but he was forced to approve provisions against the misuse of estates, which had sometimes left young wards impoverished when they finally came of age.

These and the other clauses dealing with the rights of debtors and those accused of other crimes reassured her that the d'Arcys' overall objectives were being realized. Slowly but surely, they were whittling away at royal power and in the process establishing a system of law that would protect all freemen.

Throughout the three days of talks the weather grew increasingly warm. On the first day, the prideful barons insisted on strutting about in full armor. By the second, some of the more sensible were removing their helmets. On the third, Verony noted with amusement that they had stripped down to tunics and little more, and were spending the better portion of their time either by the river or sloshing water from the horse troughs over each other.

Food and, more critically, drink grew short. The earl and Stephen Langton had originally estimated the talks would not take more than two days. But John proved unexpectedly obdurate, picking at even the smallest points. As the hours plodded by, runners were sent out to buy beef, mutton, vegetables and large quantities of wine and beer to keep the barons content. Under strict orders to pay a fair price for all the provisions, they quickly became favorites of the surrounding merchants, who valued a windfall far more than any liberties that might come out of the talks.

By the end of the third day, rumors and predictions were racing through the camp: The king absolutely refused to accept the final, most important demands limiting his power to tax or seize property; Earl Garrett and the other negotiators had threatened to hold him captive and confiscate the royal treasury being held a short distance away in Windsor if he did not give in; John dared them to do anything that would provoke civil war, warning that their old nemesis, King Louis of France, would waste no time taking advantage of the situation and invading; England would be drenched in blood before the year was out.

Verony tried hard not to listen to the wilder claims circulating among the waiting nobles. She could credit John with any obduracy or deceit, but she did not for a moment believe the earl or his sons would rashly threaten any action that could lead to war. If only she could speak with Curran and learn the truth. But during the days of talks he never left the negotiating tent. Her worries about how the great clash of wills going on around her would end had to be satisfied by what little could be gleaned from the scribners' notes and cautious comments.

On a more personal side, she struggled with the still unsettled question of whether Curran had changed his mind about her unsuitability as his wife. The note of pride she thought she had heard in his voice when he spoke to the earl of her attack on Fairleigh gave her hope. But until she could hear from his own mouth that he truly loved and wanted her, she would remain doubtful of their future.

Not until the night of the third day did Curran emerge with most of the other men to seek a few hours of exhausted sleep. Verony, having retired early to tend the twins, was in their tent.

Gawain lay at her breast, suckling peacefully as Catherine slept beside them. Candlelight gleamed against the ivory perfection of Verony's skin. Her hair was loose and unveiled, falling in a silken cloud around her slender shoulders and long, tapering back. In deference to the warm weather and her task, she wore only a loose shift that did little to hide the ripe loveliness of her form.

Curran stood for a moment at the entrance of the tent drinking in his wife's beauty and the tender scene before him. He was wearier than he could ever remember being in his life. Not even weeks of forced marches and constant battle had so sapped his strength.

The long hours of talk, the haggling over each tiny point, the ever-present danger that John would suddenly back out and plunge the country into war, combined to bring all the negotiators to the very brink of their endurance.

Petty arguments broke out even among the allies who knew and respected each other well. John made no secret of the perverse satisfaction he derived from such bickering. Understanding that he would try to press it to the utmost, the earl quickly called a recess. After which, Curran prayed, the latest impasse threatening all they had so far gained would be overcome.

He entered the tent quietly, but Verony was nonetheless instantly aware of his presence. She looked up eagerly, her smile fading as she took in his exhaustion.

Setting Gawain in his cradle, she went to her husband and took his arm, guiding him to the bed. Curran sat down heavily, rubbing his face wearily.

Moving around to sit beside him, Verony touched a gentle hand to his shoulder. "It goes badly?"

He nodded mutely. Every bone and muscle in his body cried out for rest, but he knew that at most he could count on only a few hours' sleep. And tense as he was, he doubted they would do him much good.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Verony asked softly as she began to rub the bunched sinews of his back.

Curran hesitated. He was glad simply of her presence and didn't want to overburden her. But it would be good to speak of the problems plaguing him.

"There's not much to tell," he said slowly. "John is being fairly reasonable about most points, only because he knows he has no choice. But now we've hit a wall where he refuses to give an inch and we can't afford to back down."

Verony knew that the d'Arcys' basic strategy lay in getting the more minor points out of the way first, hoping that whatever concessions they agreed to there would lay the ground for John to be forced to accept their major goals without change. But she was not clear on the exact details of what they intended to demand.

"Why is he objecting so strenuously? He's already relinquished major rights to seize property and render judgment."

"This is different. I've said all along that whatever agreement we work out here would be meaningless unless there was some way of enforcing it. This informal coalition of the barons that my father managed to put together was enough to get us this far. But now we need something more."

Careful not to break the rhythm of her gentle massage, Verony asked: "What more can there be?"

Curran stretched languorously, the soothing motion of her hands already beginning to have effect. "We need an established body of men whose authority is recognized by both the nobles and the king. Much like the old Saxon Witan that served as a kind of intermediary between the throne and everyone else. Beyond that, we must have a clear procedure for pinpointing any future abuses of royal power and at least trying to get them rectified peacefully."