Castles in the Air by Christina Dodd
“Not if he realized he was doing harm. But Sir Joseph is, I think, very intelligent, and Hugh—”
“Is not,” Raymond finished. “Nay, Hugh’s a blunt man. He could be manipulated.”
“Felix—”
Raymond acknowledged Keir’s unfinished sentence with a bark of a laugh. “Never an original thought, never a sign of wit or wisdom. But why would Sir Joseph tangle these men in such a wicked net? What does it profit him?”
“That I do not understand, but as you know, I’m often in the position to hear things.”
“You’re insufferably nosy,” Raymond corrected. Keir said nothing else, and Raymond added, “A trait to which I’ve been indebted many times.”
Keir dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’ve been listening to the gossip of the stable boys. They’ve suffered since Sir Joseph moved in, and they’ve found a pleasant place to congregate in the smithy. It seems Sir Joseph spoke to both Hugh and Felix when they came to inspect their horses early yesterday morning.” A stolid satisfaction spread over Keir’s face. “He believes the stable boys are deaf, you ken.”
“Ah,” Raymond said. “Hugh tried to convince me not to wed Juliana, and Felix tried to convince Juliana not to wed me.”
“More than that. Felix tried to convince Juliana to wed him rather than you.”
“What?” Raymond’s shout captured Hugh’s attention. “I’ll kill him.”
Raymond started toward the stable, and Keir kept pace. “Kill him if you like, but I think you should know this is not the first time he’s tried to convince her to wed.”
Swinging at his friend, Raymond gathered a handful of Keir’s shirt. “Tell me what you know.”
“It will tear, Raymond, and Lady Juliana will be most distressed.”
Raymond loosened his grip.
“I know but little. The stable boys—indeed, the whole castle—labors under a conspiracy of silence out of respect for their lady. I only know her father tried to betroth her to Felix. She valiantly refused.”
Remembering the hair that frothed around her shoulders, Raymond wondered, as he always had, why it was so short. Most women of Juliana’s age had never cut their hair, and it curled around their thighs when released from their wimples. Hair was cut in case of life-threatening fever, or…as a Biblical revenge for wanton behavior. Slowly, he admitted, “I had begun to suspect something of the sort.”
“That would account for her revulsion for the wedded state.”
Raymond grinned. “As I would account for her renewed enthusiasm.”
Keir swept Raymond from head to toe with his gaze. “Women are mysterious creatures. See your quarry peek around the door.”
Raymond’s smile turned savage and he shouted, “Stay!”
His long strides ate up the ground, but Hugh confronted him before he could reach the stables. “I must take my leave.” Staring at the toe of his boot, Hugh added, “You may have surmised I have an affection for Juliana that transcends the affection for Juliana that transcends the affection of youthful companions.”
“I had suspected,” Raymond answered.
Hugh glanced toward the stable. “Juliana’s marriage will be difficult for me to accept.”
Seeing the head that bobbed outside the stable door, then bobbed within, then bobbed out again, Raymond took a few cautious steps while keeping his attention fixed on Hugh. “’Twill be a difficult matter for Juliana to accept, that her dear friend leaves even as Christmastide begins. Does Felix accompany you?”
“He has other plans,” Hugh replied.
Raymond pitched his voice to be heard in the stable. “Felix couldn’t plan his way out of a whore’s arms. He’s so stupid.” He took another few steps, still watching the dismayed Hugh. “That blow Lady Juliana landed to his nose could only improve his visage, so ugly is he. He’s not a knight, he’s a worm, the lowest thing I’ve seen since I shovelled shit from under a Saracen infidel’s horse.”
Felix popped out of the stable, ruffled up in indignation, and Raymond snatched him before reason could reassert itself. Grunting, Raymond lifted the round little man and glared into his eyes. “See? Here he comes out from under a good Christian horse.”
“I’m not ugly,” Felix shrieked.
Raymond threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. “Oh, aren’t you? Wait until that pretty bandage comes off your face.” He shook him until Felix grabbed at his nose. “It’ll be warped as badly as your morals. In fact, I find myself desirous of shovelling your ugly self right down the garderobe shaft with the rest of the shit.”
Off balance and incensed, Felix reached out, closed his pudgy fingers around Raymond’s scarred throat, and squeezed. With the roar of a wounded bear, Raymond threw Felix through the open stable door. Blind, mad with a combination of fear and fury, he rushed at Felix, but mighty arms caught him and held him fast. He fought against the restraint, ranting in the foreign words he’d thought forgotten.
Keir and Hugh shouted. Felix squealed and crawled backward into the dark interior. Stable boys scattered. And one pair of eyes inside the stable gleamed and observed with relish.
“Lady Juliana? Lady Juliana?”
The call rang through the kitchen, echoing through the high beams and thinning in the great expanse of undercroft that lay beyond. Juliana turned in a slow circle to face the cook. “Did you call me?”
Valeska and Dagna exchanged concerned looks. “Nay, Lady Juliana, it was me,” Dagna said, her contralto voice as soothing as if Juliana were a child. “Cook wants to know what to serve for the feast today.”
“Ah. Spiced cheese with walnuts to start. Goose with prune sauce. That’s a fine meat for Christmastide. Wassail, of course, and for the sweet…” Juliana stared into the fire that flamed in the fire pit. The coals, with delicate greed, ate the split oak logs. The spit stood ready to impale the meat. It reminded her of Raymond.
Raymond, warming her, tempting her. Every night she decided she would keep her wits about her. Every night he pressed those devastating kisses on her, touched her in places men never cared about, and charmed her out of her cotte. Once he’d even charmed her out of her chainse, much to her later embarrassment. “She needs a long spoon who sups with the devil,” she murmured.
“Pardon, my lady, I didn’t hear you.”
Wondering why Dagna looked concerned, Juliana said, “I didn’t speak.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Valeska asked, “What about the feast?”
Juliana lifted her abstracted gaze to the withered woman. “What? Goose with prune sauce, I think. That’s a good meat. And goose-neck pudding.”
They waited while Juliana thought.
She wished she knew what he wanted. She had thought he was a simple man. She had thought he wanted his pleasure of her, but he reminded her of a river that flowed to the sea. Slow, steady, relentless: moving stones, rocks, boulders by the constant exertion of his will. If he couldn’t push the boulder of her fear aside, he’d undermine it, slip around it, twirl about until she was so confused she didn’t remember why she was afraid.
He’d accused her of tempting him; how dare he turn the tables so cruelly? How dare he wait for her to beg him, as if he were in no hurry? Oh, nay, he wanted more than just his pleasure of her.
The noises originating behind the screen convinced her servitors and his parents that marital activity occurred nightly, yet Raymond’s increasingly short temper confused them. For while between the furs, he held himself under tight rein, never allowing himself a shred of satisfaction. He seemed delighted with her new knowledge, but watched her during the day in the manner of a starving man before the feast.
“The feast, my lady.” Valeska shook Juliana’s arm. “What do you wish for the sweet?”
Juliana snapped back to the present. “I told you. Plum-and-currant tart. And I want goose with prune sauce as the meat.”
Mouth puckered, Valeska nodded. “As you wish, my lady. Many thanks for coming below to consult with us. We never expected s
“Nonsense. I’ll be a bride in eight days—”
“Six,” Dagna said.
Juliana glared. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not capable of handling all my duties. That’s why I’m down here. To—” To avoid Raymond. The servants had complained—politely, and, of course, erroneously—that Juliana was distracted.
And if she was distracted, the fault rested with Raymond. With the eagerness of a new scholar, she’d learned the lessons he taught. How to kiss, how to touch. Where to touch, and more important, where not to touch.
The depths of him frightened her, yet lured her, and as long as she followed his rules, he brought her close to satisfaction, stopping her just short of some exotic release. Like a ripe plum’s, her skin felt close to bursting. Her fingers failed to shut properly, and she frequently dropped things. “And I talk to myself,” she said aloud.
“My lady?” As Juliana wafted away, Dagna dug a malicious elbow into her cohort’s side. “I always thought the kitchen was the warmest room in this castle. It would seem that half-finished solar is warmer.”
Vaguely, Juliana wondered what they were cackling about, but the question didn’t occupy her long as she ascended the spiral stairway leading to the great hall. Since the night she’d met the real castle-builder, her life had been knocked askew. She’d grown tired of seeing smirks on the faces of every servant. She’d grown tired of the endless wedding preparations and the endless Christmas celebrations. She’d grown tired of the constant inner turmoil and the breathless physical desire.
Perhaps she was just tired from lack of sleep.
Her inattention earned her a collision with somebody who stepped out of the deep shadows onto the landing. “Pardon”—she stared and her mouth dried—“me.”
“Lady Juliana.” Sir Joseph purred. “Such a surprise. I haven’t seen you alone since your betrothed revealed himself.”
Caught in the crossroads between up and down, between the bustle of the kitchen and the business of the great hall, between the light of the torches and the light of the sun, Juliana didn’t understand how the shadows smoothed the wrinkles and the liver spots from Sir Joseph’s face and returned his youth. But she did understand her wariness. If Sir Joseph had come to wish her well, he’d have done it before an audience.
Pitching her voice low to avoid eavesdroppers, she said, “You no longer sit at your place by the fire.”
He smiled and created a pocket of tantalizing evil in the darkness. He, too, spoke almost in a whisper, but the stealth seemed a part of him and not an aberration. “When Lord Felix and Lord Hugh fled, even before the first celebration of this joyous season, I was without acquaintances in the keep. Even your noble Lord Raymond seemed abashed at their rapid leave-taking.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. “He wished, no doubt, for the chance to bid them farewell, but I believe Felix felt constrained to leave before”—she straightened her shoulders, narrowed her eyes, and tried to looked menacing—“before I broke more than his nose.”
As always, as usual, he sneered at her pretensions. “You give yourself too much credit for your puny blow. ’Twas not your insanity that warned Felix away, but the insanity of the man who some would call your husband.”
A frisson of unease shivered up her spine, and something about Sir Joseph and his glistening eyes reminded her about the long, winding stone stairway behind her, unprotected by any handrail. “Did my Raymond strike Felix? He threatened to, for he believes a man shouldn’t intimidate a woman.” She watched Sir Joseph closely. “He believes it’s a sign of degeneracy.”
“Degeneracy.” Sir Joseph was seized by a fit of silent laughter, made all the more menacing by his true amusement. “Degeneracy. Lord Raymond complains of degeneracy in another. He who embodies all that the demons of hell would celebrate.”
Shock kept her still. Such an accusation rang of witch hunts and warlock burnings. The fear of such devilish manifestations was bred into her, and into everyone who lived at one with the Catholic Church. No one was too mighty to be brought down by such a rumor. She whispered, “I do think your scurrilous soul welcomes wrongs.”
“Nay, my lady”—her title sounded like ridicule on his lips—“I come to you to right a wrong. You accuse Lord Felix of degeneracy with righteous vehemence, when you fornicate with a madman, one who uses human form to disguise the vicious wolf who preys on his victims.”
“You jest.”
“Lord Felix doesn’t think so, nor does Lord Hugh. Your lord tried to kill Lord Felix.”
“Why?”
“Why? For merely touching his neck.” She was jolted, and he saw it. With delicious relish, he described the scene in the bailey, telling her, “It took two men and the stables boys to tear him away.”
“That scarcely makes him a demon.”
“You didn’t see him. Teeth bared, hands curled into claws, eyes red, an unrecognizable voice shrieking inhuman curses.” Sir Joseph’s smooth voice brought a chilling terror to the tale. “’Twas a transformation, my lady, all the more frightening for the sunlight that shone as he completed it.”
Sickened, she demanded, “Are you calling Lord Raymond a werewolf?”
“I would be a fool to say such a thing about the man who holds my life in his hands. Nay, my lady, I simply seek to warn you of the horror awaiting you.” His long, thin, white hands gleamed as he drew his dark robes around him. “Who knows when the dementia will take him again? When he fights? When he drinks? Or in the excitement of the marriage bed?”
He withdrew with swift and silent assurance, leaving her staring at the stone walls with her arms coiled around her waist and her hands gripping the cloth of her cotte. The trust Raymond had worked so hard to earn now seemed cheap. The courage she had struggled to obtain now seemed impetuous. With diabolical skill, Sir Joseph had probed her vulnerabilities, validated the rumors Felix had called to her attention, and twisted the knife of distrust deep into her mind. She knew what he’d done; she knew her own folly in listening, but although she ignored the wound, it throbbed and bled.
Creeping out of the stairwell, she assured herself Sir Joseph had disappeared from the great hall. Nor was Raymond within, and she squelched the bubble of relief that rose in her. She was foolish to allow the words of an old and bitter man to influence her, but, like a wicked spider, he had woven a web about her, skillfully using her own doubts to poison her dreams.
“Fayette,” she called, heading toward a bench by the sunny arrow slit. “Bring me the embroidery.”
Fayette hurried forward, unwrapping the fine cream-colored cloth. Juliana herself had cut the finished cloth into a surcoat for Raymond, then supervised the sewing by her maid. The tunic, already finished, would cover his arms and fall to his calves in a sweep of dark green wool. The sleeveless surcoat was cut to reach the knee, and would contrast with the green tunic at neck, arm, and hem. It was elegant in its simplicity, but with needle and matching green thread Juliana added the finishing touches. Whenever Raymond was absent, she worked surreptitiously on a vine of ivy leaves twined about the wide neck. On the morning of Twelfth Night, she thought, she would give it to him. He’d be amazed, he’d gather her to his bosom, press one of those kisses on her, they’d tumble onto the bed, and—what would happen? Would they find joy in each other? Or would Raymond turn into a beast, satisfied with nothing less than her torment and death? Was that the reason he had been so restrained in their bed? Because when he let himself go, he turned into a monster of the netherworld?
“My lady? My lady!” Fayette shook Juliana’s shoulder urgently. “Lord Raymond is entering the hall.”
“What?” Juliana stared as Raymond swept into the room, but he looked nothing like the werewolf of Sir Joseph’s warning. Big and broad and so alive he sparkled, he dragged a lad of perhaps fifteen years behind him and headed straight toward her.
Shoving the surcoat at Fayette, she demanded, “Take this. Why didn’t you warn
“Ah, Juliana.” Raymond’s answering smile pleasured her, and some of her caution slipped away. “Allow me to present the newest addition to our household. This is Denys.”
Juliana’s mood swung from relief to dismay. “An addition to our household?”
“William of Miraval sent him as a present, for he knew of my dire need for fighting men. Denys has impressed me so with his abilities, I have made him my new squire.” With a friendly hand on his shoulder, Raymond pushed the gangly youth forward.
Denys tugged at his drooping hose and, in a voice that changed octaves, said, “My lady, I offer you my undying service.”
Dumbfounded, Juliana observed the boy. His hair, not blond, not brown, looked as if some maddened sparrow had made its nest therein. His long, thin nose dripped, a fine fuzz decorated his chin, and his watery blue eyes gazed worshipfully at her. He reminded her of someone, although she didn’t know whom, and her mood swung again—to anger.
“He looks forward to your welcome,” Raymond said, hinting.
Her welcome? What welcome? For almost three years, she had supervised the comings and goings of servants and men-at-arms in Lofts Castle. She’d stayed informed of the movements of every villein, every serf. It had been important, for it had meant security. Now an important member had been introduced into her household without her consent. She’d have to feed this youth, teach him manners, tend the inevitable wounds he would receive as he completed his training. And she was being treated like some trifling woman with no reason to care about the matters on her own lands.
She managed a small smile. “Denys, are you hungry?”
Raymond looked startled at this unconventional welcome, but she had read Denys correctly. “Aye, my lady. I’m always hungry.”
“Fayette will fetch you bread and cheese. ’Twill keep you until today’s feast.” His clumsy bow looked more like a curtsey, his sleeves were too short for his arms. “If I might have the pleasure of your company, my lord? In here,” she commanded, leading him to the passage above the kitchen stairs.