His smile faded. A wild falcon could be tamed, but could Meriel be? Perhaps a creature could not be gentled unless it was wild. Therefore, since she was already gentle, perhaps she could not be further tamed, perhaps she would always be the way she was now, rejecting him with soft implacability.
Fiercely he dismissed the bizarre thought. She was merely shy of him because he had behaved so clumsily at the beginning. Falconers began training a wild hawk by "manning" it, which meant accustoming it to the presence of men. Like a falconer, he was now doing exactly that with his little Welshwoman. Today's ride had not gone badly, except for her ill-judged attempt to escape. She had relaxed in his company, had laughed, and even bantered with him. Her mind was quick and lively; once she realized that he meant her no harm, she would come to him willingly.
Absently Adrian rubbed his aching wrist and tried not to think of how arousing her soft curves had been when she had lain beneath him, and how lovely was the body revealed when her shabby gown had been torn away. She deserved finer than rags, and he made a mental note to have more suitable garments made.
Even wholly at his mercy, Meriel had shown no fear, but had teased him out of his fury when he was perilously near dishonoring them both. Though the memory was a torment of both guilt and desire, he forced himself to think objectively about what had happened. There had been genuine pleasure in her reaction to his caresses, he was sure of it, but pleasure had been coupled with equally genuine distress.
The combination made it likely that she was virgin in spite of her years, which meant he must be even more careful in his dealings with her. But Jesu! it was difficult to maintain his control. It had been almost impossible when she was in his arms, and was little easier now, when he was all too aware that she was only a few steps away.
There was a large chapel in the outer bailey and a parish church in the village, but except for Mass, Adrian preferred the privacy of his own chapel. Hoping to cool his fevered mind and body, he walked to the far end of the room and through the narrow door into his personal sanctuary. The chapel faced southwest, and late-afternoon sunshine poured through the small stained-glass window to cast brilliant swaths of color across the floor and altar.
In the years since Adrian had inherited Warfield, he had never faltered in his Christian faith or practice. He obeyed the laws of the Church, gave alms to the poor, generously endowed Fontevaile Abbey and several other religious houses. Once or twice a year he left the world and withdrew to Fontevaile for several days to remind himself of what was truly important.
Yet despite his best efforts, he knew that he was falling away from God. Though he prayed and meditated regularly, and with increasing desperation, it had been long—too long—since he had felt the profound sense of peace that had once been the center of his existence. He missed that ultimate oneness with a sorrow so acute that sometimes it almost disabled him.
Ever since he was a child, Adrian had had a mental image of his soul as a silver chalice. In the days when his cup had been filled with the Holy Spirit, it had been as bright as newly polished silver, with only a few flecks of darkness to mar its shining surface.
But as the years passed, tarnish and grime had accumulated until the silver was dull and lifeless. Was his soul blackening because of the worldly life he had been forced to live, a life of cunning, compromise, and violence? Or was the fault more basic, a flaw in his own spirit that was becoming more visible with time?
He knelt at the rail and tried to pray, asking for the strength and wisdom to woo Meriel with patience and wisdom, but he was too torn by desire to achieve calm. After a weary interval, he opened his eyes and contemplated the small statue of the Blessed Mother. Her serene image had never failed to soothe him.
He began to whisper the Hail Mary, but today the words were empty, without meaning. The harder he tried to concentrate on the statue, the more Meriel's face came between them. Meriel: first with her sweetness and transparent honesty, then with desperate unhappiness when he had begun to make love to her.
Her reproachful face was before him even when he closed his eyes again. His breathing harsh, he tried to eliminate her image but failed. He had known stern old monks who claimed that all women were of the devil, and such men would have said that Meriel had been sent by Satan to try to steal his soul. But Adrian knew better. The fault was not in her, but in him.
Though his prayers had lost much of their clarity with the years, this was the first time that he had been unable to pray at all. Despairing, he raised his eyes, past the statue of Mary, past the golden crucifix which hung on the wall. Higher than both was a jewel-bright stained glass window which had been formed into the image of the dove of the Holy Spirit.
As Adrian gazed at the dove, a pitiless inner voice commanded: Set her free.
A piercing chill accompanied the words, and it spread through his body and lodged in his soul. His icy hands clenched spasmodically as Adrian confronted the devastating truth that he had tried to conceal from himself: no matter what his legal authority, no matter how much he cared for Meriel or claimed to be holding her for her own protection, what he was doing was utterly wrong. It was a sin of the most selfish and despicable kind, committed against an innocent for the basest of reasons.
No wonder he had lately been "too busy" to find time for confession. How could he confess to such wickedness? God help him, not only had he been incapable of admitting his sin, even now he could not feel the true remorse and wish to atone that were necessary for confession.
As clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud, he knew that if he sent Meriel away he would be able to pray again. Releasing her would not cleanse his soul to the bright luster of his youth, but at least he would be able to contemplate the Blessed Virgin without an anguished face interfering. He could be shriven and receive Holy Communion again.
His breath came in anguished gasps and his hands curled so tightly that the nails drew blood. Set her free.
Such a simple act, the right and proper thing to do. But he could not do it. May God forgive him, not even to save his soul could he let Meriel go.
* * *
Sir Vincent de Laon had never been in the home of a Jew before, and he trod warily, unsure of what to expect. But in the event, he found that the house of Benjamin l'Eveske differed little from the home of any other rich merchant, save that it was built of stone, not wood. For protection, perhaps?
Benjamin l'Eveske proved to be a man of advancing years, with a great hooked nose and a flowing dark beard liberally streaked with gray. Though he sometimes lent money, his principal occupation was trade, and he had the shrewd black eyes of a man who knew how to drive a hard bargain.
Even though he wished to curry favor with the Jew, Sir Vincent could not bring himself to bow to the man. Not when he was a Christian and a knight! But he would do his considerable best to be affable and persuasive, for the unbeliever might aid Guy of Burgoigne to greater wealth and power, which would increase both for Vincent.
After the preliminary greetings had been observed and wine poured for both men, Benjamin said, "I understand that you have been making inquiries about me in the Jewry."
Sir Vincent nodded. "Aye. I had heard that you are considering relocating your business and family to a provincial city, and I wished to learn more about you."
Benjamin's expression was noncommittal. "I have thought of moving," he murmured. "But it has been no more than a thought."
"My Lord Adrian, the Earl of Shropshire, looks to benefit his city of Shrewsbury," Sir Vincent said. "Men like yourself, successful merchants and bankers, would be made welcome."
"And what would my advantage be if I should move to Shrewsbury rather than Lincoln or York?"
"Shrewsbury is a growing town, placed to profit from the Welsh wool trade." The Frenchman paused to sip more of his excellent wine. "There is no Jewish community at present, so there would be more opportunities for you. Also, you and your household would be placed under the earl's personal protection. Lord Adrian
will even give you escort between London and Shrewsbury should you choose to come."
The black eyes were ironic. "My people are under the king's protection now. How would we be safer with the earl's?"
Sir Vincent shrugged. "London has the most dangerous mobs in England. When the idlers, drunkards, and apprentices run wild, even the king's soldiers cannot always contain them. And the king has greater worries than protecting his Jews."
Benjamin's eyes grew even more unreadable, and Sir Vincent knew that he had aroused the other man's interest. Best not push now, but leave the merchant to discuss the matter with his family. The knight finished his wine and rose. "I shall be in London for some days longer. May I call on you again? In case you have any questions about Shrewsbury and the Marches?"
The old man stood also. "Perhaps there is merit in your lord's suggestion. It is true that the west of England is not so well served by merchants as the east and the Midlands. But such decisions must not be made in haste."
Sir Vincent left feeling well pleased with himself. From the information he had gleaned earlier, Benjamin l'Eveske was more than mildly interested in relocating, but had not yet made up his mind. The prospect of becoming the chief merchant in the Marches would surely be enough to bring him to Shrewsbury.
* * *
For several more days—it was getting hard to keep track of how many—Meriel was left alone in her prison, save for the all-too-brief visits of Margery. Meriel did not make the mistake of believing that the earl had forgotten her. No, this was a ploy to make her so lonely that she would crave his companionship, might even be willing to pay the ultimate price for it.
She refused to think what would happen if his patience expired before his interest did. Instead, Meriel spent long hours meditating and saying cycles of rosaries. She luxuriated in her daily bath. When she could not sit still a moment longer, she paced around her chamber, moving and turning swiftly in the limited space. She visualized different scenes from the places she had lived, Beaulaine, Lambourn, Moreton, Avonleigh, then pretended that she walked among their familiar hills and trees.
To occupy her restless fingers, she unraveled threads from her torn garments and made painstaking repairs so that she was decent, even if disreputable. Then she took the longest floor rushes and wove them into crude mats and baskets. When she ran out of suitable rushes, she disassembled her handiwork and began again, experimenting with new patterns and forms.
She was reweaving a mat when Margery entered carrying a tray and a covered basket. "There is a nice bit of chicken with your dinner," the maid said, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes.
Meriel stood and stretched. "Why don't you eat it? I find these quiet days give me little appetite." Then her attention was caught by strange sounds coming from the maid's basket. A moment later an indignant young cat scrambled out and jumped to the floor. The cat immediately began to explore and soon arrived under the table where Margery had placed the food. As the small creature looked up hopefully, Meriel asked, "Is that your cat?"
The maid turned a bland face. "What cat?"
Perhaps solitude was blunting Meriel's wits; it took a moment for her to understand. Then she gave her first genuine smile in days. "It must have been my imagination. For a moment I thought I saw something hiding in the rushes." Taking the chicken leg from the platter, Meriel pulled off a strip of meat and offered it to the little cat, who accepted eagerly.
"There's a double handful of cats in the kitchen and pantries, but I've never seen one up here," Margery commented as she picked up the empty tankard left from breakfast.
"There must be few mice for them to catch on the upper level," Meriel said gravely. "A pity. I've always liked cats."
"Time I was off," the maid said cheerfully.
Even before Margery had closed the door, Meriel was furthering her acquaintance with the cat. It was a comical-looking beast, a female not quite fully grown, with scrubby whiskers and gray fur irregularly splotched with tan. Meriel christened her new companion Kestrel, in memory of Rouge.
Even a mouse in the rushes would have been welcome company, but Kestrel proved to be a rare delight, the friendliest feline Meriel had ever encountered. She slept on Meriel's lap during prayers and meditations, and Meriel had only to lie down on the bed to have Kestrel jump onto her chest, settle down with her paws under her mistress's chin, and begin to vibrate with purrs.
Kestrel adored playing with the end of a rush when Meriel dangled it in front of her, and in the absence of other games the cat would sometimes chase her tail. Regrettably she woke far too early and thrust her inquisitive nose into Meriel's face, but that was a small price to pay for such wonderful company.
Revitalized by her new friend, Meriel thought of another diversion and wove a long, narrow reed mat, then wedged it into the bottom of one of the slit windows so that part of the mat projected outside. Then she tore up her unwanted bread and placed the crumbs on the little platform. Within a day, small birds were coming to gobble the bread. At first, it was necessary to hold Kestrel back from attacking, but soon the cat learned that hunting birds was not permitted and she did no more than cast an occasional longing eye.
Twice a bird accidentally flew in through the window, then crashed about the chamber as it sought an exit. Meriel found the shrill cries and battering, self-destructive attempts to escape unbearable, for they were an exact mirror of her own barely suppressed emotions. As soon as possible she caught the birds, then released them outside.
During her activity-filled days, Meriel told herself that surely she could keep her mind and body strong enough to defy the earl until he had lost interest in her. Yet in the dark, endless nights, she was haunted by the knowledge that the barrier that kept her fears at bay was very frail. And in the shadow of that knowledge lurked desperation.
* * *
Several more days passed before Margery made an unexpected visit, her arms piled high with garments. "Lord Adrian had clothing made for you," she said, laying her load on the foot of the bed. "He wants you to change into one of the new gowns and discard your old one. He will send for you shortly."
"My own garments are perfectly satisfactory." Meriel eyed the clothing with the same enthusiasm she would have shown a nest of angry wasps. "You may take these back to his lordship."
Margery looked shocked. "Oh, I couldn't possibly. He's quite reasonable, for a Norman, but he doesn't like to be crossed." She stroked the garment on top longingly. "Besides, these are such lovely things."
"Nonetheless, I do not want them." Seeing the maid's dismay, Meriel continued, "Don't worry, you needn't tell him that. I will myself when he sends for me."
Margery opened her mouth as if to remonstrate, then thought better of it and left, shaking her head.
Meriel stared at the pile of clothing with pursed lips. She had guessed that the earl would woo her with conversation and gifts; did he really think she could be bought by a new gown? She was so irritated that she seriously considered tossing everything out the window, and she went so far as to lift the garments in her arms and carry them across the room. But after a lifetime of frugality, she found it quite impossible to throw good clothing away. Such waste would be a sin.
And as Margery had said, the garments were very lovely. There were two white shifts of the finest, softest linen, one with collar and sleeves embroidered in gold thread. There were also three bliauts, two of wool for daily wear, and one of velvet for great occasions. And the colors! Rich blue, lush green, bright scarlet. There was a heavy crimson mantle trimmed with miniver, two gauzy sendal veils and a jeweled circlet to hold them in place, a girdle threaded with gold, even silk ribbons to weave into her hair in colors matching the gowns. The simplest garment here was finer than the best Meriel had ever had.
It was a wardrobe fit for a princess. Or a whore.
At the thought, she very nearly did pitch everything out the window, but once more her thrifty nature defeated her anger. Instead, she carried the clothing back across the room, then
folded the garments one by one and stacked them in a neat pile by the door. Meriel's mood was lightened by Kestrel, who interfered at every opportunity, diving in and out of the clothing and very nearly tearing a delicate veil.
When Meriel was finished with her task, she scratched Kestrel's chin until the cat was purring, then encouraged her friend to sleep under the bed. If the silly beast had the sense to stay there, she would not be noticed by whoever came to collect the prisoner. Then Meriel sat down, eyes closed and hands folded, and attempted to meditate. Calm seemed the best way to prepare for a summons by the disturbing earl.
Only he did not summon her. Instead, a short time later Lord Adrian himself entered. Meriel glanced up, and immediately thought that he was different in some way. Not physically, his silver-fair beauty was unchanged. Yet something about him seemed darker, more strained. Was his struggle with the rival earl going badly, or was something more personal tormenting him?
At sight of his prisoner in her shabby gown, the earl's face hardened. "Why aren't you wearing what I gave you?"
Meriel stood without haste. "I prefer not to accept your generous gifts, my lord. My own garments are quite suitable to my needs and station."
"Your own garments were shabby to begin with, and now they are in rags. Since I was responsible for the damage, it is only fair that I replace them."
A clever argument, though she did not waste time admiring it. "Had I not attempted to escape, no damage would have been done. You are under no obligation to clothe me, my lord." Meriel paused for emphasis before adding, "Nor do I wish to be under obligation to you."
Her words stirred his unpredictable temper, and he stalked across the room to her. Before Meriel even had time to become alarmed, he grasped the neckline of her faded gown and ripped downward. The fabric tore along the line of the earlier repair and beyond, almost to her knees.
The force of the earl's action jerked Meriel forward and he swiftly caught her shoulders so that she would not fall. She stared up at him, holding her breath as she waited for his next move. She was acutely conscious of the fact that she was covered only by her shift, a garment so worn and patched that it was almost transparent.