Jerval shook his head. “Nay, I wish to see what Sir John is about, then return to Camberley.”
Mark smiled. “Ah, back to the eye of the storm.”
“She’s held herself remarkably silent.”
“Do you know, Jerval, I believe she was truly frightened. The tales I have heard about Alan Durwald make my blood run cold. He held her captive for several hours.”
“If she was frightened, I was too angry to notice.”
They reached Oldham early that evening. It was a small keep that sat on a flat stretch of ground on the northeast perimeter of the de Vernon lands, its thick stone outer walls its only noteworthy defense. Jerval searched the walls for signs of resistance, almost disappointed when he saw none. He was itching for a good fight, as much as were his men. He called a halt and rode forward to the edge of the moat. Men lined the walls, but none said anything.
The drawbridge was lowered slowly, its winches groaning, and Jerval wondered if they had ever been oiled. He gave Malton orders to scout all the outbuildings for signs of the Scots once they were within, and their troop filed into the bailey. Sir John stood awaiting them, surrounded by his ill-kempt men and even filthier servants.
Jerval had not seen Sir John in over a year, and time, he saw, hadn’t improved him. Heavy-jowled, his face ravaged by too much ale, his belly fat from too much food and too little exercise, he was dressed richly in a long robe of red velvet. His fingers were beringed. He looked like royalty amongst beggars. Beside him stood a thin scrap of a woman, as ill kempt as the servants. It took Jerval a moment to recognize that she was Lady Faye, Sir John’s wife.
“Welcome, welcome, Sir Jerval,” Sir John said, rubbing his hands together as Jerval dismounted and strode toward him. “Come into the hall. Your esteemed father does well? Your mother?”
Jerval only nodded before turning to Lady Faye and saying, “I give you fair greeting, my lady.”
Sir John grunted, his eyes narrowing on his wife’s face as she whispered greetings to Jerval. “Are you stupid, Faye? Have wine brought for our guests.”
Lady Faye skittered away. Jerval said nothing, merely nodded to Malton, then turned to follow Sir John into the keep, Mark at his side.
He was used to Camberley, used to smells of food and wax and rosemary, and now Hawk, his father’s boarhound. A healthy smell. But here he both saw and smelled filth. The reeds strewn over the stone floor of the hall hadn’t been changed in a very long time. When his boots crunched over some bones, the remains of a long-ago supper, a rat scurried out, darting between his feet.
Sir John spread his hands in front of him, seeing the look of disgust on Jerval’s face. “Last winter was hard, my lord, and many of the sheep died. As for the serfs, they are lazy louts, and the crops not what I expected. My wife has not the wit or will to keep the hall as clean as I would wish.”
Jerval nodded toward Sir John, thinking that he did not appear to have suffered at all. “And the Scots? Have you lost stock to them?”
Sir John answered quickly, “Aye, my lord, the dirty mongrels. My men can never catch them, but they try, they always try.”
Sir John’s wife leaned over Jerval’s shoulder to pour wine into a tarnished silver goblet. She slipped on some refuse in the rushes and some of the wine splashed onto his surcoat.
“Clumsy bitch!” Before Jerval could assure the poor woman that no harm was done, Sir John had struck her and sent her sprawling.
CHAPTER 19
Sir John was breathing hard, his fist raised to strike again. “Women. They are such useless, whining creatures. And this skinny sheep cannot even give me a son.”
“Leave her be,” Jerval said. He rose slowly and towered over Sir John. Sir John, no fool, backed up. Jerval leaned down to help Lady Faye to her feet. She was all right, just pale. At least she was all right this time. He imagined that Sir John hit her fairly often. “It was a simple accident, no cause to strike her.”
Sir John looked at his cringing wife, then calmed himself. He would see to her later. He cleared his throat. “I hear you have taken a wife, my lord. I wager she is not a silly sheep like this one.”
“Actually, Sir John, my wife would cut your throat for what you just did to your wife, were she here with me.”
Sir John looked appalled, then stuttered a laugh. “Ah, that is a jest, isn’t it, my lord?”
“No, it isn’t.” Then Jerval said abruptly, “I will see your accounts now, Sir John. Your payment to the de Vernons this year was not according to your pledge.”
“As I said, Sir Jerval, the crops did not yield much.” Jerval saw the lie in Sir John’s eyes, but kept his expression bland. “As to the accounts, I did not expect you, my lord, and I fear that my steward, a rascally fellow I dismissed from Oldham just last week, was cheating me.”
“I see,” said Jerval. “I will see the accounts anyway.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Sir John said. He looked toward the unshuttered windows, smiled to himself, and said, as jovial as a man could be, “It grows dark. Perhaps you would like to wait until tomorrow? Tonight, after you have eaten, I will send you a lovely morsel to while away the long night.”
To Mark’s surprise, Jerval said in the voice of an eager young man, “An excellent suggestion, Sir John.”
Sir John very nearly rubbed his hands together.
Mark waited until he and Jerval had been shown to the one private chamber above the hall by a furtive serving maid before he opened his mouth to protest. Jerval shook his head and placed his fingertip to his lips until the girl had slipped from the room. He remained silent as he gazed about at the oddly bare chamber. There was but one stool and an old chest against the end of the bed, and the bed itself, though large and comfortable, was covered with worn, tattered blankets.
Jerval said thoughtfully, “It is too bare and poor, as if someone had stripped the chamber of its trappings. Did you notice the rings on Sir John’s fingers, Mark?”
Mark nodded slowly, and a smile spread over his face.
“I wonder,” Jerval continued, thoughtful still, “where his lady wife sleeps.”
Rough tables were pressed together to accommodate Jerval, Mark, Malton and three of their men at supper. Lady Faye was nowhere to be seen. The girl, Dora, was seated next to Jerval. She had been hastily bathed, but there was still dirt under her fingernails. She wasn’t uncomely, and she was very young. There was a smug, assessing look in her dark eyes, and he grinned to himself. The meal was surprisingly well prepared, and Jerval, Mark and Malton were careful to eat and drink only what Sir John did, as were all their men.
Jerval smiled at Dora and deliberately cupped his hand over her full breast. “More wine, my lord?” she whispered against his ear, pressing her breasts against his arm.
“Aye,” he said, though he had no intention of drinking it.
“I have another girl for you, Sir Mark,” Sir John said as the meal progressed. “You need have no fear that you will spend the night alone.”
Jerval sent his host a lustful grin and said in a slurred voice, “Send her to the chamber, Sir John. We will enjoy the both of them together.”
Sir John could scarce keep his satisfaction to himself. Young men had mighty appetites, and it would serve him well tonight.
The other girl was neither as clean nor as comely as Dora, yet she appeared eager enough. She too, Jerval saw, had been hastily bathed. He bade Sir John a drunken good night and allowed Dora to take his hand and pull him with her up the stairs.
Jerval’s expression did not change when they entered the bedchamber. “Take off your clothes, girls,” he said, leaning his back against the closed door. “Mark, shall we draw lots to see who takes them first?”
“And you, my lord?” Dora said. “Will you not allow me to help you remove your tunic?”
“In a moment, Dora.”
Jerval watched dispassionately as the girls quickly stripped off their clothes. When they both stood naked, their young bodies white in the light of the on
e torch, Jerval walked forward and stroked his chin, as if assessing them. Dora grabbed his hand and guided it to her breast.
“I will make you forget everything, my lord,” Dora whispered, her hand stroking down his belly. Jerval lightly shoved her away before she could discover that he was as flaccid as a man who’d just jumped into a cold river.
“Hand me your shift, Dora.” The girl cocked her head in question but did as she was told. Jerval ripped it into strips, paying no heed to Dora’s squawk of anger.
“I suggest,” Jerval said, “that both of you keep your mouths shut.”
When both girls were bound and gagged, Jerval and Mark carried them to the bed and covered them with blankets.
“Did you tell Malton to alert the men?”
“Oh, aye,” Mark said.
“Good. Now we wait.”
Chandra jabbed a needle into Jerval’s burgundy-velvet tunic.
“Nay, Chandra,” Mary said. “You must be more careful, else you’ll make a greater rent in the fabric.”
“By all the saints’ woes, I don’t care, Mary. One of those silly girls could do this.”
Mary was relieved that Lady Avicia had left Chandra with her and had not chosen to oversee the mending herself.
“Perhaps, but that is not the point. It is your responsibility to care for your lord’s clothing. Don’t you see? When another sees Jerval, sees that he is richly clothed, that his tunics are finely made, then he knows he is well stationed, that his wife cares well for him.”
To Mary’s consternation, a tear slid down Chandra’s cheek and dripped off her chin.
“Oh, dear, don’t cry. I’ve only seen you cry once before and I hated it, mayhap even more than you did. Listen to me. To be a wife is no shame, Chandra. Just think, once you have learned all the housewifely skills, then you can easily supervise whilst the servants do it. And do you know what will be true then?”
“No, dammit.”
“You’ll know what both men and women alike know. You will be unique.”
“I don’t want to be unique. I want to go home.”
Mary, for the first time in her life, wanted to slap her friend. “I do not understand you. Here you are, given all you could desire. You are safely wed and your husband is a very fine man. I begin to believe that you do not deserve him. The good Lord knows that he wants to please you, if only you will let go of your ridiculous pride and allow it. Aye, I am nearly ready to hit you and that must mean that you have pushed me very hard.”
Chandra dropped the needle and swiped her palm over her cheek. “Please do not hit me,” she said, and there was a smile through that deadening pain on her face. “And the other—I haven’t forgotten, Mary. You will not live in dishonor, I swear. It is just that I must wait for Jerval to return.”
“Jerval? Oh, please, I don’t wish for him to know.”
“There is no way for him not to know. You said yourself that he is a fine man. Does that mean you believe him fair? Honorable?”
“Well, yes.”
“Fine, then stop worrying.”
“So you believe your husband to be fair and honorable as well?”
“Yes, I suppose that I do.”
“Then mend his tunic well, and count your blessings. Oh, I’m sorry, Chandra. I know that you will do your best, and mayhap even Jerval will think about it as well, but time is growing short. Just this morning I very nearly vomited on Lady Avicia’s slippers.”
“Trust me, Mary. Everything will be all right.”
Mary watched her poke the needle through the fine fabric and shook her head. “Let me show you again how to take a stitch just there. Come, you can learn. It is not that difficult.”
“I hate that old hag. She yelled at me this morning, actually yelled.”
“You had overcooked the eggs. They weren’t edible. But I was proud of you. You did not threaten to wring her neck, nor did you yell back. Pray accept what you must do. I am so tired of all the fighting.”
“I haven’t fought anyone in a full day now. I even ignore Julianna, and that, I will tell you, is more difficult than you can imagine.”
“All right, then more often than not, you are now fighting with your damnable pride. You must know that Jerval will ease his hold once you prove to him that you can be reasonable. He has told you he will.”
“If only he had taken me with him to fight the Scots. I would have done well, you know that I would have. But he put me in a terrible position. It isn’t my pride here, Mary.”
“It isn’t? Listen to me. There was no way Jerval could have taken you. All would have believed him beyond foolish to take such a chance with your life.”
“He was beyond foolish to leave me behind.”
Mary sighed. “Yes, you smashed that beautiful glass window.”
“I hated to do that but there was no choice.”
“It is too late to be sorry. Now, Chandra, I wish you would forget Lord Richard. He is your father, Chandra. He could never be your husband.”
“Speaking of husbands, I hope Jerval doesn’t need me right now. I’ve heard talk that Sir John of Oldham is a mangy, paltry man. I hope the man doesn’t try anything foolish. Jerval would gullet him.”
Mary rolled her eyes.
Chandra pricked her finger on the needle.
Alan Durwald stroked the thick hank of hair that was braided about his wrist, and was satisfied. Jerval de Vernon, the man who had killed too many of his men, taken back the cattle he’d stolen, would die by his hand tonight, and his lady would be left without a husband to protect her. Sir John’s man had told him that there were a dozen men. Alan would trust Sir John’s men to take the Camberley men who were sleeping in the hall and in the barracks.
He would kill Jerval de Vernon. It was late enough now, and the young knight was likely snoring after slaking his lust. He would also be drunk, if Alan knew Sir John, which indeed he did. He motioned his three men up the narrow stairs of the keep and paused to listen outside the oak door of the bedchamber. All was quiet, as it should be. He quietly pressed the latch and swung the door open, his fingers tight about the bone handle of his dagger. Through the darkness, he saw the outline of two figures in bed, and motioned for his men to enter. They stepped toward the bed, their swords and knives at ready.
Suddenly, the silence was rent by a bloodcurdling yell, and he saw the glint of a sword slicing toward one of his men.
He couldn’t believe it. “It’s a trap!”
Jerval slashed his sword into the man’s belly, then jerked it out. “Take that one, Mark,” Jerval shouted, “I want this bastard.” He leapt aside as Alan Durwald swung his claymore high above his head and brought it down in a vicious blow.
Jerval blocked the claymore, but he felt the force of it all the way to his shoulder. Now it was his turn. Excitement flowed through him.
He brought his own sword down, and he felt Durwald’s arm weaken under the blow.
Jerval heard a low, gasping sound, felt a cold chill touch him. Even as Mark shouted, “Behind you, Jerval!” he wheeled about and saw another man run through the doorway, his sword raised. Jerval flung his knife. It sliced cleanly through the man’s neck, and arcs of blood spurted toward him.
“You damned English bastard!” Alan Durwald saw Geordie fall, his hands clutching at the knife in his throat, saw him fall backward, driving the knife back out. He whirled on Jerval, nearly beside himself with rage. He fought with all his strength, but de Vernon did not falter or fall back. Durwald heard another man fall, and knew with certainty that he was now alone against two men.
“No, Mark, he is mine.”
But de Vernon did not leap toward him as he’d hoped. He saw a blur of movement, nothing more.
Alan Durwald felt the blade slice deep into his shoulder, and he roared with the pain of it, stumbling back. Another knife, he thought blankly, pain numbing him now—he’d thrown another knife at him. His claymore fell from his fingers, and he sank to his knees. He felt de Vernon’s boot strike his b
elly, and he fell to his back. He felt de Vernon’s heel dig into his chest, and saw his enemy lean over to jerk the dagger from his shoulder. With a scream of pain and fury, Alan managed to clutch the dagger, and with all his strength, he jerked it out of his flesh. He plunged it toward de Vernon’s stomach. Jerval jerked back, twisted away. There was an instant of silence, such cold silence it was. Then Alan Durwald, panting, his palms pressed against his own shoulder, felt a sudden blinding pain in his chest. He realized in that instant that de Vernon had plunged his sword downward this time. Then he felt no more.
“Light the torch, Mark.”
Jerval stared down at Alan Durwald.
“He is dead?”
“Aye.” Jerval rose to his feet. “As for Sir John, he will look quite well hanging from the gibbet at Camberley.”
Jerval rode into the inner bailey at Camberley with Sir John and his wife, Lady Faye, beside him, and three Camberley men-at-arms at his back. He had left Mark, Malton, and the rest of Camberley’s men at Oldham to restore some kind of order to the keep.
Sir John faced his overlord in the Great Hall, and knew by the implacable look on Lord Hugh’s face that he was lost. He listened in silence while Sir Jerval recounted the events at Oldham.
“The Scot leader, Alan Durwald, is dead,” Jerval said. “Our northern border should be peaceful for a time.”
“The Scot threatened me, my lord,” Sir John said, rushing forward to grab Lord Hugh’s arm. “He stole my cattle and sheep and bribed my steward and some of my men. I told your son about my steward. He was in league with Durwald. I had no choice but to obey him. He said he would kill me and my poor wife if I did not hide him when he needed Oldham as a base.”
He waved his beringed hand toward his hapless wife, who stood trembling with fear, her eyes upon her feet. Stupid bitch, he thought with impotent anger, could she not at least plead for him? “Aye, Faye was Durwald’s mistress, the faithless bitch. She is the one who is guilty here, not I.”