The Velvet Promise

  He was not surprised when he saw Chatworth at the foot of the ladder, flanked by two armored guards. “What have you done with her?” Jocelin demanded as he jumped from the second rung of the ladder, his hands going for Edmund’s throat.

  Edmund’s face was beginning to turn blue before his men could disengage Jocelin. They held him securely by the arms.

  Edmund pulled himself from the dust and looked with disgust at his ruined clothing. The velvet would never be the same again. He rubbed his bruised throat. “You will pay for this with your life.”

  “What have you done with her, you piece of pig’s offal?” Jocelin sneered.

  Edmund gasped. No one had ever dared talk to him like that before. He drew back his hand and slapped Jocelin across the face, cutting the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, you will pay for this.”

  He stepped out of range of Jocelin’s feet, more wary of the jongleur than he had been. Behind that face lurked a man he had not guessed existed, thinking Jocelin only to be another pretty boy. “I will enjoy this,” he sneered. “Tonight you will spend in the oubliette, and tomorrow you will see your last sunrise. All day you will suffer. But tonight perhaps you will suffer more. While you sweat in that jar, I will take the woman.”

  “No!” Jocelin yelled. “She has done nothing. Let her go. I will pay for taking her.”

  “Yes, you will. As for your noble gesture, it is hollow. You have nothing to bargain with. I have you both. Her for my bed, and you for any other pleasures I choose. Take him and let him think on what it means to defy an earl.”

  Constance sat at the window of Edmund’s room. Spirit was gone from her. No more would she see Jocelin again, no more would he hold her in his arms and tell her he loved her more than the moon loved the stars. The only hope was that he had managed to escape. She had seen the way that Blanche ran from the room. Constance prayed that the woman had gone to warn Jocelin. She knew that Blanche cared for him, had heard her call for him. Surely, Blanche had warned Jocelin, and together they were safe.

  Constance felt no jealousy. In truth, she wanted only Jocelin’s happiness. If he’d asked her to die for him, she would gladly have done so. What did her poor life matter?

  A commotion and the sunlight on a familiar head drew her attention. Two burly guards half-dragged a struggling Jocelin across the yard. As she watched, one of the men cuffed Jocelin hard on the collarbone, causing Joss to slump to one side. With difficulty, he kept on his feet. Constance held her breath, wanting to call to him, but she knew it would endanger him more. As if he sensed her, he twisted and looked up at the window. Constance lifted her hand. Through her tears, she could see the blood on his chin.

  As the guards jerked Jocelin around, Constance suddenly realized where they were taking him, and her heart stopped. The oubliette was a horrible device; a jug-shaped chamber cut into the bowels of solid rock. A prisoner must be lowered through its narrow neck by a pulley. Once inside, he could neither sit nor stand, but must half-squat, his back and neck continually bent. There was little air and quite often no food or water. Nobody could last more than a few days, and only the strongest that long.

  Constance watched the guards strap Jocelin to the pulley and lower him into that hellhole. She stared for a few moments longer as the cover was fastened, then looked away. There was no hope now. Tomorrow Jocelin would be dead, if he lived through the night, for Edmund would surely devise some additional torture.

  On a table a large wine beaker and three glasses were set. These glasses were for Edmund’s private use, as he saved all the most beautiful objects for himself. She did not think of what she did, for her life was over and only one last act was needed to complete the deed. Smashing a glass against the table, she took the jagged base in her hand and went to the cushioned window.

  It was a lovely day, summer in full bloom. Constance hardly felt the sharp edge as she slashed it across one wrist. She looked at the blood flowing from her body with a sense of relief. “Soon,” she whispered. “Soon I will be with you, my Jocelin.”

  Constance cut her other wrist and leaned back against the wall, one wrist in her lap, the other on the windowsill, her blood seeping into the mortar of the stones. A soft summer breeze blew at her hair and she smiled. One evening she and Jocelin had gone to the river, spending the night alone in the soft grasses. They had returned very early the next morning before the castle was fully awake. It had been a night of rapture and whispered love words. She remembered every word Jocelin had ever spoken to her.

  Gradually, her thoughts became lazier. It was almost as if she went to sleep. Constance closed her eyes and smiled slightly, the sun on her face, the breeze in her hair, and thought no more.

  “Boy! Are you all right?” a voice called down to Jocelin in a hoarse whisper.

  He was dazed and had trouble understanding the words. “Oubliette” meant chamber of forgetfulness, and it earned its name.

  “Boy!” the voice demanded again. “Answer me!”

  “Yes,” Jocelin managed.

  A heavy sigh answered him. “He is well,” a woman’s voice said. “Put this around you and I will pull you up.”

  Jocelin was too dazed to fully realize what was happening to him. The woman’s hands guided his body through the neck and up to the cool night air. The air—the first real breath he’d had in many hours—began to clear his mind. His body was cramped and stiff. When his feet touched the ground, he unbuckled the pulley strap.

  The stableman and his fat wife stared at him. “Love,” she said. “you must leave at once.” She led the way through the darkness to the stable.

  With each step, Jocelin’s head cleared more. As he had never before in his life experienced love until recently, neither had he known hate. Now, walking across the courtyard, he looked up at Edmund’s dark window. He hated Edmund Chatworth, who now lay with Constance.

  When they were in the stables, the woman spoke again. “You must go quickly. My husband can get you over the wall. Here—I have packed a bundle of food for you. It will last you a few days if you are careful.”

  Jocelin frowned. “No, I cannot go. I cannot leave Constance with him.”

  “I know you won’t go until you know,” the old woman said. She turned and motioned for Jocelin to follow her. She lit a candle from another one on the wall and led Jocelin to an empty stall. A cloth was draped over several bundles of hay. Slowly she pulled the cloth away.

  At first Jocelin did not believe what he saw. He had seen Constance once before when he thought her to be dead. He knelt beside her and took the frigid body in his arms. “She is cold,” he said with authority. “Fetch blankets so I can warm her.”

  The old woman put a hand on Jocelin’s shoulder. “All the blankets in the world won’t help. She is dead.”

  “No, she is not! She was like this before and—”

  “Don’t torture yourself. The girl’s blood is gone. She has none left.”

  “Blood?”

  The woman moved the cloth back and held up Constance’s lifeless wrist, the vein exposed, severed.

  Jocelin stared at it silently. “Who?” he finally whispered.

  “She took her own life. No one else did it.”

  Jocelin looked back at Constance’s face, finally realizing that she was gone. He bent and kissed her forehead. “She is at peace now.”

  “Yes,” the woman said, relieved. “And you must go.”

  Joss pulled away from the woman’s clutching hand and walked purposefully toward the manor house. The great hall was covered with sleeping men on straw pallets. Jocelin was silent as he slipped a sword from the wall where it hung amid a mixture of many weapons. His soft shoes made no noise as he went up the stairs to the fourth floor.

  A guard slept in front of Edmund’s door. Jocelin knew he would have no chance if the guard was to waken, for Jocelin’s wiry strength was no match for a seasoned knight’s. The man never uttered a sound as Jocelin rammed the sword through his belly.

  Jocelin had never kille
d a man before and this one gave him no pleasure.

  Edmund’s door was not locked. He felt safe in his own castle in his own room. Jocelin pushed the door open. He didn’t enjoy what he did, nor did he wish to linger over it as some would have done. He grabbed Edmund’s hair in his hands. Chatworth’s eyes flew open—and then widened as he saw Jocelin.

  “No!”

  It was the last word Edmund Chatworth spoke. Jocelin pulled the sword across the man’s throat. In death, the earl disgusted Joss as much as when alive. Jocelin tossed the sword to the side of the bed and walked to the door.

  Alice could not sleep. She had not been able to sleep properly for weeks—not since the jongleur had stopped coming to her bed. She had threatened him repeatedly, but to no avail. He had just looked at her through those long lashes of his and said nothing. Truthfully, she was a bit intrigued by a man who treated her so badly.

  She threw the curtains of her bed back and pulled on a bedrobe. Her feet were soundless on the rush-covered floor. Once in the hall, Alice sensed something was wrong. Edmund’s door was open, the guard before it sat in an odd position. Curious, she walked toward him. Her eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the hall was lit only patchily by the torches along the wall.

  A man left Edmund’s room, looking neither right nor left but walked straight toward her. She saw the blood on his doublet before she saw his face. Alice gasped and put her hand to her throat. When he stopped before her, she hardly recognized him. Here was no laughing boy, but a man who looked at her with boldness. A small chill of fear went up her spine. “Jocelin.”

  He walked past her as if he had not seen her or did not care that he had. Alice stared after him, then slowly walked to Edmund’s room. She stepped over the dead guard, her heart pounding. When she saw Edmund’s body, the blood still running from the slashed throat, she smiled.

  Alice went to the window, her hand on the sill, covering a stain made by another’s innocent blood on the day before. “A widow,” she whispered. A widow! Now she had it all—wealth, beauty and freedom.

  For a month she had been writing letters, begging for an invitation to King Henry’s court. When it had come, Edmund had laughed at her, saying he refused to spend the money on such frivolities. In truth, he would not be free at court to toss serving girls from windows as he was in his own castle. Now, Alice thought, she could go unencumbered to the king’s court.

  And there would be Gavin! Ah yes, she had arranged that also. That red-headed whore had had him too long. Gavin was hers and he would remain so. If she could get rid of that wife of his, then he would be hers entirely. He would not deny her gowns of gold cloth. No, Gavin would deny her nothing. Had she not always gotten what she wanted? Now she wanted Gavin Montgomery again, and she would get him.

  Someone walking across the courtyard caught her attention. Jocelin made his way to the stairs leading to the top of the wall, a leather sachel over his shoulder.

  “You have done me a great favor,” she whispered. “And now I will repay you.” She did not call the guards. Instead, she stood silently, planning what she would do now that she was free of Edmund. Jocelin had given her much—access to great wealth—but most of all, he had given her Gavin.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IT WAS HOT IN THE TENT. GAVIN COULDN’T SLEEP. HE stood and looked down at Judith, sleeping peacefully, one bare shoulder exposed above the linen sheet. Quietly, he drew on his clothes, smiling at his wife’s still form. They’d spent a good part of the evening making love, and now she was exhausted. But he was not. No, far from it. Loving Judith seemed to set a spark to him and light a fire that was unquenchable.

  He took a velvet mantle from a chest, then pulled the sheet from her and wrapped her in the cloak. She snuggled against him like a child—never waking, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. He carried her out of the tent, nodded to the guards on duty and walked toward the forest. He bent his head and kissed her sleep-softened mouth.

  “Gavin,” she murmured.

  “Yes, it’s Gavin.”

  She smiled against his shoulder, her eyes never opening. “Where are you taking me?”

  He chuckled and held her closer. “Do you care?”

  She smiled broader, her eyes still closed. “No, I do not,” she whispered.

  He laughed, deep in his chest. At the side of the river he sat her down and she gradually began to wake. The coolness of the air, the sound of the water and the sweetness of the grasses added to the dreamlike quality of the situation.

  Gavin sat beside her, not touching her. “You once said you broke a vow to God. What vow was it?” He tensed for her answer. They had not spoken again of the time at Demari’s, yet Gavin wanted to know what befell her there. He wanted her to deny what he knew to be true. If she loved Demari, why had she killed him? And if she did go to another man, wasn’t it Gavin’s own fault? He knew the vow she broke was the one she made before a priest and hundreds of witnesses.

  The darkness covered Judith’s blushes. She was unaware of Gavin’s train of thought. She remembered only that she had gone to him before he left for battle.

  “Am I such an ogre that you cannot tell me?” he asked quietly. “Tell me this one thing, and I’ll ask nothing more of you.”

  It was a private thing to her, but it was true; he had asked her little. There was a full moon and the night was bright. She kept her eyes turned away from his. “I made a vow to you at our wedding and…I broke it.”

  He nodded; it was as he feared.

  “I knew I broke it when I came to you that night,” she continued. “But that man had no right to say we didn’t sleep together. What was between us was ours to deal with.”

  “Judith, I don’t understand you.”

  She looked at him, startled. “I speak of the vow. Didn’t you ask me of it?” She saw he still didn’t understand. “In the garden, when I saw you and—” She broke off and looked away. The memory of Alice in his arms was still vivid to her, and much more painful now than it was then.

  Gavin stared at her, trying to remember. When it finally came to him, he began to chuckle.

  Judith turned on him, her eyes blazing. “You laugh at me?”

  “Yes, I do. Such a vow of ignorance! You were a virgin when you made it. How were you to know what pleasures were to be had in my bed, and that you couldn’t keep yourself away from me?”

  She glared at him, then stood. “You are a vain and insufferable man. I give you my confidence, and you laugh at me!” She threw her shoulders back, the mantle wrapped tightly about her, and arrogantly started to walk away from him.

  Gavin, with a lecherous grin on his face, gave one powerful tug to the cloak and pulled it off her. Judith gasped and tried to cover herself. “Will you go back to camp now?” he taunted, rolling the velvet mantle and placing it behind his head.

  Judith looked at him, stretched out on the grass, not even looking at her. So! he thought he had won, did he?

  Gavin lay quietly, expecting any moment that she would return and beg him for her clothes. He heard a great deal of rustling in the bushes and smiled confidently. She was too modest to return to camp without her clothes. There was silence for a moment, then he heard a rhythmic movement of leaves, as if…

  He was on his feet in an instant, following the sound. “Why you little minx!” he laughed as he stood before his wife. She wore a very concealing gown of tree leaves and the branches of several shrubs. She smiled up at him in triumph.

  Gavin put his hands on his hips. “Will I ever win an argument with you?”

  “Probably not,” Judith said smugly.

  Gavin chuckled devilishly. Then his hand swept out and tore away the fragile garment. “You don’t think so?” he asked as he grabbed her by the waist and picked her up. The nude curves of her body were made silver by the moonlight. He swung her high in his arms, laughing at her gasp of fright. “Don’t you know a good wife does not argue with her husband?” he teased.

  He sat her on the branch of a tree, h
er knees at eye level. “I find you particularly interesting this way.” He looked at her face, his own smiling, then he froze when he saw the sheer terror in her eyes.

  “Judith,” he whispered. “I forgot your fear. Forgive me.” He had to pry her hands loose from the tree limb, the knuckles white. Even when she was loose, he still had to drag her across the limb, scraping her bare bottom on the rough bark. “Judith, forgive me,” he whispered as she clung to him.

  He carried her back to the edge of the river and wrapped the mantle about her, holding her in his lap and cuddling her close. His stupidity infuriated him. How could he have forgotten something so important as her terrifying fear of heights? He lifted her chin and kissed her sweetly on the mouth.

  Suddenly her kiss turned to passion. “Hold me,” she whispered desperately. “Don’t leave me.”

  He was struck by the urgency in her voice. “No, sweet, I won’t.”

  Always she had been a woman of passion but now she was in a frenzy. Her mouth clung to his; then her lips ran along his neck. Never had she been so aggressive.

  “Judith,” he murmured. “Sweet, sweet Judith.” The mantle fell away and her bare breasts pushed against him, insolently and demanding. Gavin’s head began to swim.

  “Do you leave these garments on?” she asked in a harsh whisper as her hands ran under the loose tabard. Gavin could hardly bear leaving the nearness of her body for even a few moments to remove his clothing. His doublet was quickly tossed over his head, then his shirt. He hadn’t bothered with underwear when he left the tent.

  Judith pushed him to the ground and leaned over him. He lay very still, scarcely able to breathe. “It is you who looks to be frightened,” she laughed.

  “I am.” His eyes twinkled. “Will you have your way with me?”

  Her hand moved over his body, delighting in his smooth skin, the thick mat of hair on his chest. Then it moved lower and lower.

  He gasped, his eyes turning black. “Do what you wish,” he said hoarsely. “Only do not take your hand away.”