Stuart, Elizabeth (27 page)

And
for a moment, for just a moment when he'd heard that low, husky laughter coming
from behind the drawn curtain he hadn't been sure just what he would find.

"Robert,
listen!" Jocelyn reached for his arm, but he shook her off.

"I'll
have something to say to you later, madam," he ground out. "Don't
tempt me now. Not now, or you'll regret it."

"Robert,
it's a present. Your New Year's gift," she blurted out. "Robert, it's
my fault.
Mine!
I asked Sir Aymer to bring me, to help judge the work. I
wanted it to be a secret, didn't want anyone else to know. We were so close to
the keep, I didn't think it unsafe."

Robert
drew in a long steadying breath. For the first time, he noticed the beautifully
wrought scabbard and sword belt lying on the table, the obviously terrified
stranger a few steps away.

It
was innocent, all entirely innocent. And he had just relived some of the worst
moments of his life.

"Robert,
it's my fault," Jocelyn said again. "I did ask Sir Aymer to bring me.
I didn't think you would ever even know."

His
eyes narrowed sharply. "And that makes it all right, I suppose."

"No!
No, of course not." Jocelyn was staring at him in bewilderment. "I
just wanted it to be a surprise."

He
was beginning to feel a little sick with the rush and churn of emotions: fear,
rage, jealousy, and overwhelming relief. He frowned at his wife, tried to speak
in a calmer voice. "Do you know that the weather is growing worse by the
minute? The road is already icy, and it'll be dark before you can get
back."

"I've
ridden in worse weather than this, and it isn't far. Truly Robert, I'd never
have had you worry."

Robert
glanced toward Aymer. The man was grim-faced and silent, staring back with
dark, disbelieving eyes. A surge of blood heated Robert's face. Aymer knew.
Aymer knew what he'd suspected!

And
suddenly it was all too much. He felt overwhelmed and bewildered by the very
intensity of his emotions, by all his rage and shame and relief. And for one of
the few times he could ever remember, he had absolutely no idea what to do.

He
spun on his heel, began walking toward the door. "I'll leave the rest of
my escort. Get her home in one piece, Briavel."

"Robert,
wait!"

Jocelyn
started to follow, but Aymer caught her arm. "Wait, madam. Give him
time."

"But
I still don't think he understands!"

"He
understands, madam, but his temper is a hot one. Just give it time to
cool."

Jocelyn
was still stunned by the swift and unexpected turn of events. "But why?
Why was he so angry?"

"It
was concern for you, lady. In truth, I shouldn't have brought you here alone. I
didn't think."

"That's
ridiculous! We're scarcely a stone's throw away from Harclay." Jocelyn's
eyes narrowed, she hesitated, caught her breath. "He didn't think... he
couldn't possibly think we... we—"

She
broke off as Aymer flushed again and glanced away. She started to say something
and stopped, realizing just in time that Edwin the leather worker was watching
in fascination. She turned to the man, managed to smile and apologize for the
misunderstanding and make arrangements for the delivery of the scabbard.

But
as she made the cold, miserable ride back to Belavoir, Jocelyn's hurt and
disbelief were beginning to give way to anger. How could Robert be so foolish
as to think she could lie with him half the night then ride off on a secret
tryst with one of his men, if that was, indeed, what he had suspected. And how
dare he think so little of her!

She
reached Belavoir and went swiftly into the hall, shaking the snow from her hair
and cloak, searching the room for her husband. The servants were moving about
the trestle tables, serving a hasty, belated supper to all who had assembled.

An
unnatural hush lay over the room. Robert wasn't there, but it was obvious he
had been, that he still must be in a tearing rage. Jocelyn frowned and headed
directly toward the stairs. She knew she was a magnet for all eyes, knew and
didn't care.

Sir
Geoffrey rose, intercepting her as she walked by. "He's gone upstairs. I
would wait a bit were I you."

"He's
being ridiculous!" she snapped. "I'm going to tell him so."

"Lady,
it's Obvious you've quarreled about something. I know it's not my place to
speak... still, I've known him many a year. I would tell you to let him cool
for a bit."

"He's
been 'cooling' as you say, all the way back from Harclay in the snow,"
Jocelyn retorted sharply. "I'm going to tell him some things he needs to
hear."

Geoffrey
said no more and Jocelyn made her way between the tables, unaware of the grins
among her husband's men as she swept through the hall.

She
shoved open the door to the solar and stalked inside. Robert was standing
across the room by the fire. His surcoat was wet and rumpled, he hadn't even
dried his wet hair. "You're angry still," she announced without
preamble. "Well, so am I!"

He
turned, lifting one tawny eyebrow.
"You
are angry, madam?"

"Yes!
Did you really think I might be off on a tryst with Sir Aymer?"

He
wasn't prepared for a frontal attack. "Is that what Briavel told
you?"

"No.
He wouldn't speak of it. But it is the only thing I could think of that might
account for the unbelievable way you behaved."

"You
behaved in a rather singular fashion yourself, madam. Leaving your escort at
Harclay, slipping off alone with a man without telling a soul you were going.
What was I supposed to think?"

"Obviously
the very worst thing possible!" she snapped. "Did it never occur to
you that I might be off about some legitimate business? That I might have
sought Sir Aymer's help? Did it never occur to you that I might actually honor
my husband and the vows I did swear before God?"

Robert
turned silently back to the fire and Jocelyn frowned at his back, adding
acidly, "I suppose I should have chosen the destrier for you after all.
But then there would have been the horse dealers, the grooms, any number of men
I might have spoken to, men you would have imagined me lying with!"

"It's
possible. You do seem to like it well enough, madam."

Jocelyn
sucked in her breath. The thrust was bitter, unexpected. It cut to her soul as
he had obviously meant it to.

She
reached out and steadied herself against the table. This couldn't be the man
she knew, the man she had lain with and laughed with and loved so very much
only this morning. "With you, yes, Robert. But only with you. Though never
again quite so much as before, I suspect."

She
turned and took two steps, reaching blindly for the door. Geoffrey was right.
She should have waited. Her father had only beaten her; he had never mastered
this lethal way to strike where she was most vulnerable.

"Jocelyn...
wait!"

The
doorlatch was a blur. She found it, lifted it. But Robert was already pinning
the door with his shoulder. "Jocelyn, wait. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve
that." She drew in her breath, blinking rapidly to bring the door into
focus. "They told me not to come up here, but I was so foolish I wasn't
even afraid. I doubted you could hit any harder than my father. I was
wrong."

"Jocelyn,
I'm sorry. Sweet Christ, I am sorry!" Robert caught her rigid shoulders,
pulling her into his arms. Whatever had possessed him to say such a thing? He
hadn't meant it, not any of it. But he'd been so angry. He'd had no idea how
much he cared for this woman until today, until he'd thought he might lose her.

"Jocelyn,
forgive me. I wasn't thinking, sought only to hurt. It's the way I'm used to
striking, sweetheart. Fast and hard, seeking only to win. Marguerite and I used
to go many a vicious round."

"I
am
not
Marguerite!" she bit out.

"I
know." Robert swallowed hard, holding her stiff body against his, pressing
her head into his shoulder. It was easy to strike out in his anger and fear, to
wound his wife because he was angry with himself. And he was suddenly,
overwhelmingly ashamed. "By the Mass, I do know that, Jocelyn. And I thank
God every day."

"How
could you... even think such a thing?"

"I
didn't. Honestly I didn't."

She
lifted her chin, eyes flashing furiously from beneath thick wet lashes.
"Then before God, Robert de Langley, why on earth did you say it?"

He
hesitated, stared down at her.

Because
I do care for you too much.

"Because
I was so terribly worried when I learned you'd gone out with only a handful of
men," he admitted instead. "Because I was imagining you dead at every
turn in the road. Because I was recalling every appalling atrocity committed
against every woman I've seen in my twenty-odd years of fighting. Because I was
thinking of enemies like Chester who would give a great deal to have my wife in
their hands." He hesitated, held her tightly. "Because I was so very
angry with you for making me so afraid."

Jocelyn
was staring at him thoughtfully, her eyes still swimming with unshed tears.
"You were that worried about me?"

"Yes.
Don't ever go out with less than a score of my men as an escort. And from now
on when I'm away, let no one inside Belavoir save the king or one of my own
castellans. You can pretend to be away. Let Sir Edmund deny the gate. You could
hold out indefinitely here with only a handful of men, but if anyone ever got
inside the keep..."

Robert
tightened his arms around her, burying his face against her hair. The thought
of all that could happen to her made him physically sick to his stomach.
"In truth, madam, I was worried, and that is verily the only excuse I have
for my unpardonable behavior both this afternoon and tonight."

Jocelyn
drew in a long, shuddering breath, relaxing a little against him. "I
suppose we've just had our first fight. I don't like it. Let's not do it again,
Robert."

He
kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids. "No."

"I'll
go down now and get you something to eat." She opened her eyes, gave him a
wry smile. "And let them all know I've survived the ordeal."

He
kissed his way to the corner of her mouth, feeling a wave of desire sweep
through him that was so urgent, so unexpected, it washed away all his anger and
fear. He wanted,
needed,
the reassuring feel of his wife in his arms,
against him, beneath him. "I'm not hungry just now. Later perhaps,"
he murmured, covering her mouth with his own.

Jocelyn's
lips parted beneath the pressure of his, but she stiffened, as if she were
afraid to let herself go. Robert broke off, cursing himself for ever showing
his wife that this beautiful thing between them might be used as a weapon. He
was no better than Marguerite after all.

"I'm
sorry, Jocelyn. Before God, I am. What I said was unforgivable, meant only to
hurt. There is nothing that pleases me more than being with you, the pleasure
we find in each other. It's a gift. An exceedingly rare gift. But I will
understand if you don't wish to... to be with me now."

She
stared at him, then smiled and reached up, slid her fingers gently through his
damp hair. "The amazing thing is that I do, Robert. I want very much to be
with you."

He
kissed her again, slowly, with all the tenderness he knew how to put into a
kiss. It was amazing she could still want him, that she could forgive him so easily
as this.

But
that night as Jocelyn slept in his arms, Robert lay staring, wide-eyed, at the
dying fire. Since he'd been forced to take a wife, he had wanted a woman who
stirred him, an eager bedmate, a woman of strength and courage, one he could
trust and respect. He'd found that and more in Jocelyn Montagne. He had found a
woman who was beginning to touch his heart.

Now
he lay awake wondering if he hadn't been a fool, if he wouldn't have been a
great deal better off had he settled for her sister instead.

"Are
you really going to Leaworth tomorrow?"

"I
am."

Jocelyn
frowned as she watched her husband undressing before the fire. He removed his
beautiful new swordbelt, laying it carefully aside. "But Epiphany is in
two days. Can you not wait until after that?"

Robert
smiled, a little distantly. "I'll hear mass with my castellan and his
household. You need not fear for my soul, madam."

Jocelyn
turned away. It was her marriage she feared for, not his soul. "How long
will you be gone?"

"I
don't know. It will depend on the weather, on how the work on the wall
progresses. One week... two." He shrugged. "I'll send word."

He
drew off the new crimson tunic she had given him, folding it carefully, laying
it away in his coffer. He had been lavish in his praise of her gifts, chuckling
over her idea of the lions while quite obviously touched by the tribute.

His
gift to her had been carefully chosen as well: an exquisitely beautiful ring of
looped and beaten gold. The unusual Celtic design framed a large oval stone of
a clear fiery amber. She had laughed when she saw it, had told him the stone
reminded her of his eyes.

They
had shared a peaceful and happy Yuletide, had attended mass together twice a
day, yet ever since that night of their fight, she had experienced the
uncomfortable, nagging sensation that something was wrong, that her husband was
drawing away.

There
was nothing Jocelyn could put her finger on, no grievance of which she could
complain. Robert was as thoughtful a husband as ever, as tender and ardent a
lover. Yet their relationship was definitely changing, and she was beginning to
be afraid. And never more so than today, when he had announced in an offhand
way that he might be away several weeks.

She
drew in a deep breath, daring to venture where she most feared to tread.
"I wish you wouldn't leave without first telling me what I've done
wrong."

Robert
glanced up. "What?"

"Things
are different between us. They have been since that night we fought. Surely you
don't still think I went out with Sir Aymer to betray you."

His
eyes narrowed darkly. "He would be dead by now if I did."

"Then
why do you treat me as if I've sinned some great sin against you?"

"I
wasn't aware that I did."

"It's
in your eyes when you look at me, in your hands when you touch me."
Jocelyn hesitated, tried to put the indescribable into words. "It's as if
you aren't really there. As if you do purposely hold me at arm's length."

Robert
forced a smile. "Now I know you're only having an attack of low spirits.
It would be exceedingly difficult to do many of the things we do at arm's
length, sweetheart."

Jocelyn
shook her head, refusing to be diverted. "It is even between us in bed,
Robert. I've sensed it there most of all. Is that why you wish to go away? Are
you..." She steadied herself, fought the sudden tightness in her throat.
"Are you growing weary of me?"

Robert
stared at his wife, hating the strained, anxious look in her eyes, the look he
had put there. He was hoping she hadn't noticed any change, but Jocelyn seemed
sensitive to his slightest mood. It would make things difficult, for he cared
for his wife, he didn't want to hurt her. But he wasn't about to let himself
repeat the mistake of caring for her too much.

"Jocelyn,
love, no man lies with his wife most every night—sometimes more than once in a
night—if he is weary of her. That's a fact that seems to have escaped your
notice. I do lust after you every bit as much as I did that first night we
met." He grinned. "I'm only thankful we have an outlet sanctioned by
Holy Church. I would be ever in confession otherwise."

She
was still staring at him, those huge green-gold eyes searching, as if she could
read all the secrets of his soul. And for the first time since their marriage,
he felt a momentary flicker of doubt, wondered if she might not have gifts
beyond mere mortals.

"Things
have been different this last week, Robert, you cannot convince me they've
not," she returned. "I would prefer to hear the truth, even if it
causes hurt. You've given me more than I ever dared dream existed. If you're
about to take it away again, I would really rather know."

Robert
hesitated. What could he say? The season had been painful. He ached for his
dead son, had been purposely holding a part of himself back from Jocelyn. And
he did wish to be away from her, to sort out his needs, get himself more in
hand. But he didn't want to leave her wondering, torturing herself with doubts
and fears, blaming herself for things beyond her control.

"You
say I've been different," he began cautiously. "Well, perhaps it's
true. This Yule season has been a difficult one."

"Because
of me?"

"No,
madam. You have been the good part."

Robert
squatted down and poked at the fire, choosing his words cautiously. Perhaps she
would understand, if he told her some part, at least. "I lost my only son
months ago, and it is a wound that still bleeds, Jocelyn. Because of that
unnatural bitch of a mother he had, I had kept the boy with me as much as
possible since he was a babe."

He
glanced up. "You might say, as some did, that I doted on the boy to an
unnatural extent, more than most fathers, certainly. But Adam was my joy and
laughter, my reason for living through a long and difficult period of my life.
I keep remembering his excitement last Christmastide, wondering what he would
be doing if he were here with me now. He would have been five by now, and he
did always wish to see Belavoir." He hesitated, drew in a deep breath.
"It is... difficult," he said, breaking off.

Jocelyn
sat for a moment, watching the play of firelight across her husband's handsome,
high-cheekboned face. He was a man who cared deeply and passionately for many
things; it was one of the traits she had so admired from the first. But she had
never understood that so well as now, had never really realized how much she
loved him.

"It
would be wrong to say I understand your grief," she said softly. "I
pray God I never be called on to face the loss of a child. But when I lost my
mother, I know that I wished to die for a while. I railed so at God, the priest
claimed it was a miracle I wasn't struck dead."

She
frowned at the ring Robert had given her, twisted it on her finger as she sent
her thoughts ranging back through the years. "It was all so very sudden,
you see, and at ten I was so unprepared for the shattering turns life can take
in an instant. For months I would hear a voice or a laugh and look up,
expecting to see her coming toward me. It was so very difficult to accept that
God could have taken her, that He could have left me behind at Warford with...
with nothing, with only my own miserable existence to drag out.

"For
years it was difficult," she continued. "I was forced to accept the
loss, but the hurt didn't fade. There was no one who really cared if I lived or
died, and that is a hard truth for a child to understand."

She
hesitated, looked up and said simply, "But then you came to Belavoir,
Robert, and the waiting, the existence were all well worth it. And I was glad,
so very glad I didn't die when I was ten."

Robert
stared at his wife. That was as close to a declaration of love as Jocelyn had
ever come. He had thought he didn't want to hear such a thing, but he found
himself grateful, comforted in some unexpected way. "Thank you for not
just saying there will be other children. Others have said as much, meaning
well."

"God
willing there will be," she responded. "But there will never be
another Adam de Langley just as there will never be another Gwendyth Montagne.
We're different people because of them, and who's to say that isn't the very
purpose for which they were made? We must go on with our own lives, in any
case, try to find what happiness we can for the time we have. I'll pray for
your son, though, as I do pray for my mother every day."

Robert
moved toward the bed and sat down, pulling his wife into his arms. For a long
time he held her, saying nothing, and they stared together at the shivering
flames across the room. "I'm glad, too, that you didn't die when you were
ten," he said at last, very softly.

There
was no distance between them that night as they lay together. Jocelyn had never
realized before how very deeply one person could love another, and she gave all
of herself, everything she knew how to give, to her husband that night.

Robert
was tender, loving, exquisitely gentle in return. And to Jocelyn, her husband's
words and the tenderness that went with them were enough to allow her to bid
him a satisfied good-bye on the morrow, to spend the next week in contentment,
waiting for him to return to Belavoir.

Robert
might not realize he loved her, but she was certain he was beginning to. No man
could behave with a woman like that for the sake of mere liking and desire. She
had only to be patient. He would realize it himself in good time.

But
her contentment was about to be shattered, the news coming toward her on the
swift feet of a reeling, half-frozen messenger from the south. The man carried
the insignia of a lung's marshal and Jocelyn ordered the gates opened at once.

The
man was spent, his mount stumbling, almost foundered. He slid from the saddle,
almost sinking to his knees as Sir Edmund Hervey caught him. "Lady, I bear
an urgent message for Robert of Belavoir from His Grace, King Stephen," he
called out.

"My
husband is away, but I'll send for him at once," Jocelyn returned.
"Come inside and warm yourself."

The
man shook his head. "I must ride on to reach him. We've no time to waste.
Henry of Anjou landed at Wareham on Epiphany with some thirty or more ships
full of men. He's made it already as far as Devizes. It's of the utmost
importance that your lord march at once!"

Jocelyn
stared at the man in disbelief.
"Henry?
But that's
impossible! He is... he is still fighting a war with France!"

The
man turned, reaching up to drag himself into the
saddle. "Not that son of
the devil. He is here, madam, here in England! They do say demons transported
him across the Channel on the very wings of one of the worst gales in ten
years."

Jocelyn
drew in her breath, forcing herself to think coherently. "Wait, sir, your
mount is spent. You'll not make two leagues. If I leave now I can reach my
husband before dark, and we can return by tomorrow. You must eat, catch your
breath and then my man here will find you a fresh mount. You may ride on with
your news to the other lords here in the west."

The
man glanced at his horse, then nodded, stepping forward to hand Jocelyn the
parchment bearing Stephen's seal. "You're right, lady. I'll never make
Montagne on this animal."

And
in scarcely a quarter-hour, Jocelyn found herself dressed in her warmest gown
and a heavy, fur-lined cloak Robert had given her, riding out at the head of
some two dozen mounted men. Sir Edmund had tried hard to dissuade her from
going, so too had Aymer Briavel. But Jocelyn was adamant. She couldn't sit idly
by, waiting and worrying. She was determined to reach Robert, to spend every
second they had left together before he rode south.

It
was impossible and terrifying that the Angevin devil could have landed in
England. Everyone had thought him safely embroiled in his affairs on the
Continent, that there would be a few more years peace, at least.

As
she rode, Jocelyn tried to focus her mind on familiar thoughts of work—the
clothing, weapons and food that would have to be collected and packed, the
enormous effort required to get her husband and his men off to war. But as the
long cold miles stretched behind her, she found she could think of only two
things.

Henry
of Anjou claimed he would be king of England. And he wanted her husband dead!

They
rode hard for Leaworth Castle, but the thick, clinging mud slowed their pace to
a crawl in places and every rain-swollen stream caused a major delay. Darkness
caught them still a long way from the castle with a gray, wind-torn afternoon
giving way to rain and a bitingly cold January night.

Jocelyn
huddled in her cloak, gritting her teeth against her misery. Her hands were so
numb she could scarcely cling to the reins and she had long since ceased to
feel her feet.

"My
lady!"

Jocelyn
turned. Sir Aymer headed up her escort. He was riding toward her out of the
dark. "My lady, it's still too far to Leaworth, but the manor of
Littlefield is only a few minutes away beyond this hill. It's a small place,
will be but meager shelter, but we'll be able to get both the men and horses
out of this wet."

The
disappointment was bitter, but Jocelyn agreed. If they pushed on, they would
only be courting disaster. Still, it was difficult to curl up alone behind the
blanket screening her corner pallet in Littlefield's hall, to know that she was
wasting one of the last few nights she and Robert might have together.