Chapter 13
M
aria’s lovely, tear-glistened eyes blinked. “Your sister?”
“Yes.” He steadied her as they drew apart, not wishing to be without her in his arms but recognizing that if he was ever to get through the telling of this tale, they would need to be separated.
And wine. They would need wine. Perhaps a lot.
Valentine led her to the table and she sat down in a chair heavily, as if their argument had nearly been all she could physically endure. He had never intended to reveal to Maria the details of his exile from Aragon, and now he wanted to even less. It was best that she actually think the worst of him, but Maria was correct—he did owe her an explanation, and it never occurred to him to lie to her. If there was anyone on earth who deserved to know the truth about his life, it was Maria.
He retrieved the cup from the floor in a corner of the room and brought it back to the table, filling it and another from the taller decanter on the tray and setting one of them before Maria. She whispered her thanks before drinking, and then simply sat there, waiting.
“My mother bore my father seven children,” he began, deciding to walk about the room as he did the telling, the memories too haunting and terrible to sit with for very long. “Two of those never drew breath; two more lived only a few days. Six boys, in all. Enrique is my older brother, by six years. When I was ten and two, Teresa was born. Her miracle, Mama called Teresa—the only girl. But Mother’s body was tired, and this time it was she who nearly died instead of her babe. She was no the same after Teresa, although she would live to see her girl reach seven.
“My father was a wealthy man—a baron, I think he would be in your England. He was ruled by no man, although he renewed his fealty to Aragon’s Crown every year. Enrique was always a greedy boy, pressing my father to war, to absorb some of the smaller holdings around us, but my father refused. He had his honor. When Mama died, he did no know what to do with himself. He died only a year later.”
Valentine had almost forgotten Maria was present until she spoke. “And that left your brother, Enrique, the estate.”
“Yes.” Valentine nodded, coming back to refill his cup. “As I said, Enrique was greedy. He refused to swear allegiance to the king. And he went to war with everyone—everyone!” He gave a harsh laugh. “We lost so much—so many men, so much of our wealth. He never held anything he gained for long. He began to charge his own family a sum for coming to our villa—a tax for having the misfortune of being related to him, I suppose. Our people were beginning to refuse him service. They would no fight for such an honorless man. I, of course, would no support his lunacy.”
“There was nowhere for you to go?” Maria asked. “No other family you and Teresa could turn to?”
Valentine shook his head. “Perhaps at the beginning, but even then Enrique held the purse strings tight, and there was still some hope that he would be a benefactor as my father had. Once it could no be denied that he was nothing but evil, Teresa and I were also anathema.
“But even though Enrique was evil, he was no completely stupid, and he at last found a people who would join with him—the Muslims to the south. The head of a large and powerful family, a terrible warlord, visited our villa. He became infatuated with Teresa, and so Enrique bartered our sister and a large dowry for the dog’s loyalty.”
Maria gasped. “But wasn’t she still only a child?”
“She was ten years old,” he answered quietly, recalling vividly that terrible night when Enrique had announced that Teresa was to be married. “And the man she was to marry was more than two score, with many other wives.”
“What did you do?” Maria asked, a worried frown creasing her lovely forehead.
“I fought him, of course. I would have killed him, had my cousin, Francisco, not stopped me. Francisco had been right—killing Enrique would have done nothing to revoke the marriage agreement, and I would have been of no protection to Teresa if I was charged with murder. And so I waited. I made Enrique think that I was defeated. It was spring. Some of our family had traveled to our villa for Teresa’s wedding and so there were many people in our home. When everyone was asleep, I killed a pig and collected the blood. Teresa gathered her things while I found the box containing the last of our family’s wealth—the gold meant to be Teresa’s dowry. I poured the pig’s blood over Teresa’s bed, the floor of her chamber.
“And then Teresa and I fled Aragon,” he finished simply.
“I see,” Maria said. “You wanted it to appear that Enrique had killed Teresa, invoking the warlord’s wrath.”
Valentine nodded. “But I was no yet as skilled as I am now. Looking back, I can no believe I did no see the flaws in my plan. When Teresa’s bloody chamber was discovered, the missing girl, the missing coin, the missing brother . . .”
“They thought you killed her and absconded with the dowry,” Maria finished.
“
Exactamente.
The Muslim did no care so much what had become of his child bride, but he did want his coin, which Enrique could no give him.”
“Perhaps you can at least gain some satisfaction in the fact that the confrontation was uncomfortable for your brother,” Maria offered.
Valentine shrugged. “It was rumored that Enrique lost part of his tongue for his deception, but I do no know that for certain.”
“Did you take Teresa directly to Prague?”
“I did. The convent did no want a little Spanish orphan girl at first, but then I showed them the coin. It was the same when my friends and I arrived at Melk.” Valentine could at last give Maria a grin. “Gold opens many, many doors.”
She returned his smile with one of her own, albeit a sad one. “But how could you be sure they would continue to care for her?”
“I continued to bring her coin,” he said.
“All these years?” Maria asked with wide eyes.
He nodded. “And that is why I could no marry, Maria—you or anyone else. Enrique, Francisco, they have been searching for me since the night I left Aragon. Although they must know by now that the amount of coin I originally left with could no sustain a man this length of time, they still crave vengeance upon me. And if I am killed, there is no one to support Teresa. That is what I was doing yesterday—bringing her the coin I had managed to save since I last saw her three years ago.”
“You gave up your life for your sister,” Maria said, watching him with a keen, steady gaze.
Valentine shook his head, uncomfortable with the implications her statement left hanging in the room. “I am no hero, Maria. Of course I love my sister, and I could no stand aside while Enrique sold her innocence, her childhood. But I could never have stayed in Aragon any matter. My brother was destined to fail, and it would no have been long before I had no home there. Enrique would have eventually ejected me for constantly challenging him, or the estate would have been lost.”
“What happened to him?” Maria asked.
“I do no know,” Valentine said with a shrug. “He was still on my trail three years ago, nearly caught me once here in Prague. After some time, I worked my way through the Holy Land, knowing that he would never follow me there.”
“That was a narrow escape then, for Teresa.”
“And for Brennie as well.” When Maria’s eyebrows rose, Valentine supplied, “She had been a slave, a gift from the warlord for Teresa. I brought her to Prague with us. Now she has power over men that most never dream of.”
Maria’s expression carried an atypical smirk. “But you are no hero.”
“No,” he said, walking back across the room toward her. “I am no.”
Her gaze tracked him, her face tilted up as he passed, and Valentine had the sudden urge to kiss her again. “I wish you would have told me sooner.”
“I saw no reason to,” Valentine said, coming at last to sit opposite her at the small table. “Neither of us can change the past.”
“No,” she agreed. “But if you had come for me, perhaps you could have spared yourself the trials of Saladin’s prison.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He poured more wine, then raised his cup toward her in salute. “I am saving you to the best of my ability now, though, yes? To your future husband.” He drank, hoping that he could force the wine down his throat.
“I suppose,” Maria said, her gaze still unsettling in its intensity, as if she was studying him anew. “But what if I no longer wish for you to save me for him?”
Mary held her breath as she watched Valentine lower his cup, and she tried to gauge his reaction to her impetuous words. She was likely a fool for declaring such a thing to this man, who would want nothing less than to be saddled with an inexperienced innocent who seemed to do nothing right.
“You are caught up in our journey, Maria,” he said. “Our adventure. It is exciting for you.
Now
,” he added quickly. “But in three months, a year, you would find little novelty with me.”
His overly kind tone stung. “You mean you would find little novelty with
me
after that time, don’t you? You are used to variety, scores of women at your beck and call.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then shrugged, his gaze going to the cup he raised to his mouth. “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps that is what I mean.” He drained the cup and set it down on the table with a sigh and met her eyes again. “Is it no kinder for me to tell you this now than to allow you to throw away a certain future?”
Mary felt her cheeks heating with embarrassment, and she wished she would have simply kept her mouth shut rather than force Valentine to try to reason her naive and sudden declaration away. But she was no prideless wretch.
“You’re right, of course,” she said with a sigh, and forced herself to give him a smile. She hoped it was bright enough. “After all, I never considered you as a proper husband. Thank you for sparing me that humiliation.” Mary stood.
Valentine’s mouth thinned for an instant, and then he gave her a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Certainly.”
Of course he was uncomfortable; they still had hundreds of miles left to travel together. He was probably worried she would romanticize over him the entire way.
She turned away toward the bed. “I think I shall lie down for a while. This morning has been a trial.”
“Of course,” Valentine said, and she heard the screech of chair legs behind her. “I shall leave you to your privacy.”
“You needn’t go,” she said, turning around again and holding out her hand. “It’s not as if I fear you will accost me in my sleep.” She gave a little laugh, although she felt a nauseous pit in her stomach. Somehow that declaration sounded more pathetic than her earlier plea.
He shook his head as he slung his satchel over his arm and backed toward the door. “It is no trouble, Maria. There are some things I must do, any matter.”
“Oh. All right, then,” she said lamely as he stood with his hand on the latch. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” He stood there a breath longer, looking at her. Then his full mouth quirked with his now familiar grin. “You will feel happier after a rest.” He opened the door and was gone.
Mary stood staring at the door for a long time after she heard the lock scrape and his footfalls disappearing down the corridor. When she finally turned again toward the bed and crawled upon the mattress, it seemed all the joints of her bones creaked. She laid her head upon the silken pillow and stared across the room at Valentine’s feathered hat, hanging on the arm of the chaise.
Mary wondered if she would ever feel happy again once their adventure was over.
Valentine’s feet seemed to drag beneath him as he made his way to the Owl’s tavern, his mind seeing over and over the look on Maria’s face when he’d rejected her.
His act had convinced her, but the playing of it had cost Valentine a portion of his heart.
He pushed through the door and claimed one of the many empty tables—it was still early in the day, and the bulk of the Owl’s patrons had yet to free themselves from their obligations. The common room was quiet save for the middle-aged woman propped in the corner near the stone hearth, practicing a mournful tune on her small harp. It was one of the women employed there, although no one would have recognized her as such, clothed so modestly, her hair plaited, her eyes clear and sober.
Valentine slung his satchel over the back of the chair and sat down, propping his elbows on the table and scrubbing at his face with his hands for a moment.
Slender arms snaked around his neck and Valentine caught Brennie’s spicy scent before she murmured in his ear, “Good morn,
mi amor
.”
“It is past noon,” he remarked as she slid from his shoulders and into the chair next to his, her long brown arm propping up her closely cropped head, her deep eyes still heavy with sleep. She wore a long belted robe with wide sleeves that slid to her elbow as she held herself up.
Her smile was lazy and indulgent when she came out of her yawn. “Yes. And I said good morn. There was a time when you, too, would only venture out of your room once the sun was already on its way back down. But by the look of you, you have been about for hours. You’ve been to see Teresa, I suppose?”
Valentine nodded. “Something she said has me troubled,” he remarked, realizing Brennie would sense his mood, and not wishing to discuss Maria with her.
“Of course,” Brennie said. “I told her you would not easily accept the news. And then to learn that she wished to marry . . .”
“What?” Valentine said.
Brennie’s eyes widened, and then her lips quirked into a rueful grin. “Oh-oh. It seems as though my mouth is more awake than my wits. She didn’t tell you.”
“No,” Valentine said through gritted teeth. “I am to meet her again on the morrow, when she will reveal some mysterious news to me.”
“And now I have ruined the wonderful surprise,” Brennie said with an unconvincing pout.