"'Twas no game," Edmund said stiffly.

  "Not as you played it, no," Ulrich said.

  When Edmund looked up from the polishing of Richard's helm, his eyes dark with anger, Ulrich laughed and punched him in the arm.

  "All men and women play this game, 'tis no sin," Ulrich said. "You must not make it more than what it is."

  "'Twas she who made it something," Edmund grumbled.

  "You are betrothed?" Ulrich asked. "As is she?"

  "Aye."

  "Then what more can it be?" Ulrich grinned. "You are promised. What words and looks are shared within Dornei's walls remain here. No one is harmed."

  "If all know 'tis a game," Edmund said slowly in comprehension.

  "Aye," Ulrich said cheerfully. "'Tis a fine way to spend an afternoon, I can assure you."

  He winked.

  "And how does your lord look upon your activities?"

  "Why, my Lord William," Ulrich said with heavy pride, "was master of this game before he wed, and now he plays the same with his wife. They are most happy."

  "He plays at love with his wife?" Edmund said, forgetting his polishing completely for the moment. "I cannot see the purpose in that. I am certain Lord Richard would frown on such frivolity."

  "Well," Ulrich shrugged, continuing his polishing, "your lord was recently a Benedictine. My Lord William is French."

  "Ah," Edmund said. It answered all.

  * * *

  "'Twas a game to me, that is all," Aelis said.

  "No game has such consequences," Elsbeth said.

  The two stood together in a corner of the hall, arranging flowers in a terracotta urn. The sun shone through the wind hole, bringing with it a fresh breeze full of the smells of damp and fertile earth, rain, and early blossoms. 'Twas a happy smell after the long cold of winter, which smelled only of wood smoke and sweat and melting snow. The two girls made a striking pair, if any cared to look, one so fair and one so dark, one full and lush, the other slim and fragile. Yet Elsbeth was not fragile. There was a hard core to her that few bothered to see. Aelis knew that, of the two of them, she was the more easily bruised, no matter that she was the bold one. She was bruised now, still hurting and confused after the afternoon's unexpected battle. That she had been the cause still shocked her.

  "Nay, but—"

  "But?" Elsbeth said in disapproval.

  "But it was so nice when it was just a game," Aelis said wistfully. "Edmund is young and his looks are so fine. And he rides with such style. And who else is there for me here? Gilles?" she snorted.

  There is your own betrothed," Elsbeth scolded. "Think you Lord Ivo would be cheered knowing you cavort with Edmund while he waits for your maturing before making you his bride?"

  "I am not cavorting."

  "You will call it what you will," Elsbeth said, snapping a blossom off in her irritation, "but it is not seemly. Nor is it wise. Where is your contrition?"

  "I am contrite," Aelis said. "But I am also bored. How wrong can it be to trade looks with Edmund?"

  "You saw how wrong it was this afternoon. Would you have him killed to ease your boredom?"

  "Nay," she said. But she said it with less conviction than she had an hour before.

  "What of your duty?"

  "I will do my duty. I will marry Lord Ivo when the time is upon me," Aelis said stoutly, and then with a tentative smile she remarked, "But it is not upon me yet."

  * * *

  Isabel walked the rooms of Dornei, checking for dust, rodents, mildew, and fresh linen; never again would she assume that all was well and well attended within her domain. The servants needed constant watching, even with Robert in his post as steward. The man could only be in so many places, and his primary concerns lay with the food and its presentation. The general condition of Dornei fell to her; she was Lady of Dornei and it was both her right and her duty.

  Fairly certain that no more questions regarding the details of the marriage bed would be forced upon her, Joan walked at her side, suddenly eager for conversation.

  "You are busy today, Isabel," she said. "Marriage seems to have changed you."

  "I would say that I am fully prepared to meet my duty as Lady of Dornei," Isabel said, bending to check under the bed in Lord William's room. There was no dust, but there was a gauntlet. His, it was to be assumed, and therefore Ulrich's responsibility.

  Joan laughed easily as Isabel left the chamber, closing the door behind her. “There is a duty that I remember most fondly from my own married state."

  "What duty is that?" Isabel asked, walking toward the stair tower where a small pile of dirt had been pushed into a corner. Unacceptable.

  "Very amusing, my dear," Joan chuckled. "Richard is very handsome, as you well know, and your lifelong attraction is no secret, as well as being no mystery. What a waste it was when he joined the Benedictines. I tell you, many a woman sighed in anguish over that decision. 'Twas a loss to us all, such a man clothed in abbey cloth, hidden away from appreciative eyes. I do not have to belabor the point with you, Isabel. You have a fine man as husband. I am certain you must thank God every hour that you are compelled to perform your marital duty with such a man."

  Isabel was scarlet by the conclusion of such a confidence. She had preferred Joan when she had been awkwardly silent; this level of confession was impossible to tolerate. Why did people suddenly seem to think they needed to bare their souls to her?

  "I do not," she said. "I do not find any joy in that duty."

  "Spoken like a bride," Joan said, giving her a quick hug. "I had forgotten. With Richard's diligence, that will change, my dear. And soon, I think."

  Isabel did not think it would, not soon, not ever. She could hear again Richard's strong and determined voice repeating, I do not want to touch you. I do not want to kiss you. Nay, she was not eager to endure that ordeal again.

  Not when she still wanted his touch and ached for the passion of that long-ago kiss, desires which rose despite her resolve not to be caught in the lie of Richard again. How to keep her heart and her pride intact when he preyed upon the desire for him that lived still in her memory?

  Oh, aye, bathing him had been the worst torture he could have devised. He likely did it apurpose. He knew how he looked. He knew she had yearned for him for a lifetime. He knew that he could command her to touch him, to run her hands over his skin, to feel the tight and taut strength of him, and that she must. But she could not command him to touch her in tenderness. She could not command his heart to want her. She could not make him love her.

  Three years.

  She could not. She could not endure three years of his nightly possession and his daily presence when he gave her no part of himself. Worse, he gave his heart and his desire and his dreaming to another.

  Endure it she could not, yet she wanted a child. Only Richard could give her one.

  Rushing down the stair tower, leaving Joan behind her, Isabel tried to ignore the low slanting of the sun's rays. Endure it again? She must. Dusk was fast upon her.

  She would not endure it waiting, waiting for the sun to creep down the sky, waiting for the birds to fly to their nests, for the dogs to curl upon the hearth, the men to sit and game before the crackling fire. She would not wait. She had her duty to occupy her.

  What duty awaited her now?

  Richard always seemed busy about some task. Surely there were tasks which depended upon the Lady of Dornei; the hall was clean, the laundry fresh, the tapestries beaten. Yet the menu awaited. Isabel sighed happily, her duty discovered. The menu for tomorrow must be planned today, the spices sorted and chosen, the meat prepared, the dough set to rise. Yea, much called to her from the kitchen; she had her duty before her.

  With a sprightly step, she made her way down the stair into the dark recesses of the undercroft. The spices were stored here under lock and key, and the Lady of Dornei held the key. She jangled them in her fist, enjoying the heavy ringing; they were the sign of her authority over her domain. She alone would unlock the chest that stored such flavorful treasure. She would carry up what was needed for tomorrow's meal. Let Richard read his accounts; she was in charge of the larder. No longer would she unrepentantly pass the duty on to Joan, who had taken it when Lady Ida died; it was her duty and she would perform it.

  In the still and quiet undercroft, lined with trunks of fabric and spice, she gazed about her. She had played here as a child, an act of daring, for it was a forbidden place to any who did not have the authority to trespass here. A dark place, which swallowed the feeble light of the torch she carried as it swallowed sound. All was subdued, the sounds without coming as if from a far distance, muffled by dirt and stone.

  Isabel shook off her mood and placed the torch in a ring set into the stone. She had the authority to be here. She was Lady of Dornei.

  For so many guests, both welcome and unwelcome, a fine table must be prepared. Capon with eggs would suit, and it required saffron, sea salt, pepper, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. And for the creamed fish, saffron and ginger as well. Chicken pasties were a favorite of hers, and she added more ginger and black pepper to her mental list. It was the season for spring greens, and she liked them best without seasoning.

  She did not know why she had put off this duty. It was most pleasurable. Isabel loved a hearty meal as well as the next and planning what savories she would put in her mouth tomorrow was a thrill. Having made her choices, she proceeded to collect them. ‘Twas not a great task; the spices were delicately packaged in small sacks, her mother's invention to prevent spoilage from damaging the lot, and one which had become Dornei tradition. She was turning to take her torch when she gasped and took an involuntary step backward.

  She was not alone.

  Adam awaited her, a smile on his lips. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, blocking the stair, trapping her.

  Trapping her? It was a foolish thought birthed by her childhood fear of the undercroft. There was nothing to fear from Adam. In truth, he should fear her, had he not disobeyed her instruction to go to Braccan? She could feel her irritation rise just looking at him, so confident and handsome and nonchalant. Richard never had the bad taste to look so... so condescending.

  "Why are you angry, Isabel?" Adam asked, uncrossing his arms and coming toward her. "Because I am here or because I left?"

  Such arrogance; Richard might be proud, but he was never arrogant.

  "Richard cast you out of Dornei. You should not be within Dornei walls now," she said, clutching her bags to her breast and lifting her chin decisively.

  "But what do you want, Isabel? You are the Lady of Dornei."

  No matter how great the chasm between herself and Richard, she would not suffer Adam's clumsy attempts to wedge the gap wider. Moving to retrieve the torch, she answered, "I want what my husband wants. He has said you are not welcome in Dornei. Heed him. You are not."

  Adam only smiled, his smile as wide as his obvious disbelief, and blocked her approach to the torch. Very well, she would leave it and send Robert down for it later. She had not forgotten Adam's amorous attack nor the insult such liberties implied; she did not want to remain in the most isolated part of the tower with him for a moment longer. When she darted toward the stair, he stalked her, stopping her, trapping her.

  Aye, she was trapped. She could call it what it was. Had she ever thought Adam charming? She could not remember. Was she afraid? Nay, but her anger grew with each affront to her person and her dignity. This was not a game she cared to play.

  "Come, Isabel." He smiled, the torch lighting his hair to amber red, his pale eyes like pearls in the flickering light. "Come and let me show you what you truly want."

  Before she could respond, he grabbed for her and she dropped a bag or two of spice upon the widely spaced stones of the undercroft. His arms encircled her as if in play; but it was not play. There was nothing charming about being touched against her will.

  "Leave me!" she commanded, her anger high and bright, impossible to miss even in the flickering shadows. "You know not your place, and you clearly know not mine."

  He pressed her against him, his hands hard upon her back, his breath in her face. The smell of him was repellent. Another bag tumbled over her arms and to the ground.

  "I know more than my place," he said, his voice soft and urgent, his hands roving. "I know how you must ache for a true man to teach you the meaning of passion. All here know that your one night with Brother Richard was memorable for all the wrong reasons."

  "Release me," she hissed, struggling against him, dropping all the bags willingly so that she could push against him.

  "A man more monk than man would not know how to bring a woman to her pleasure. I am no monk, Isabel. I can make you scream for release."

  "I am screaming now," she whispered.

  But she was not. She could not. Fear had her trapped, and she could not see a way to freedom. He had her, his arms and hands everywhere, his mouth upon her, wet and open, touching her where she did not want to be touched. Doing things she did not want done. And none to help her.

  None knew where she was.

  None would hear if she screamed.

  Yet she could not scream, she could only fight in silence, losing with every moment that passed, with every unlawful touch upon her body.

  And the thought that held her captive above all his hands could accomplish: Did he think her willing? Had she somehow invited this attack?

  His mouth covered hers, his tongue hard against her teeth and his hands hard upon her breasts.

  Nay, 'twas too much. No man could think a woman would invite this.

  The keys were still in her hand and she swung them against his face, thinking of nothing but driving him from her. The red mark of contact rose quickly on his fair skin and he lost his smile. He did not release her.

  Grabbing the keys and throwing them across the room, he snagged both her hands and held them above her head. He had lost his smile, she could see. He did not think she wanted this; 'twas he who wanted it. And he would stop at nothing to get what he had set his hand to.

  This was no game.

  With a snarl, she kicked him hard and felt the joyful thud of bone against her foot.

  In the next instant, her breath was gone as he knocked her down to fall on her back, the stones driving the air from her lungs.

  He was all she could see, his form blocking even the struggling light of the torch. She could not breathe. She could not move.

  He moved.

  His head was jerked back by some unseen force, his throat exposed and white in the dim light. She saw the dagger slice its way across, leaving first a dark red line and then a gap as wide as the sky, opening, spilling blood, pumping blood, out, out, a flood of red to cover her.

  And then she saw Richard.

  Dark he was in the darkened room, dark and glorious, his face stern and set and unrepentant, his dagger red and wet. He reached for her, but she could not reach back, though she wanted to. All she could see was blood, blood covering the stones, covering the bags of spices, running across the floor in trails which grew ever wider, like a stream in flood.

  "Isabel!" he said, his voice an echo from afar. "Are you harmed?"

  The blood slowed, the pumping stilled from the wedge in Adam's neck. And yet the blood looked to fill the room.

  "Isabel," Richard said, taking her in his arms, cradling her, pressing her head against the warm and solid mass of his chest. "Speak! Did he hurt you?"

  Hurt? She was not hurt. She was covered in blood, the spices ruined, her keys lost.

  All was broken.

  "Nay," she said, her voice a tremble that came from the center of her to shake her soul.

  She could not hear the weight of unshed tears in her words. Richard could.

  He carried her in his arms, her weight light as down, her trembling the heaviest thing about her. He rushed her to their chamber, a place familiar to her, a place of safety. She was safe now. She must know she was safe.

  William and Rowland met him there, their swords unsheathed, their faces determined.

  "Watch her," Richard commanded. "I have more yet to do."

  "With a will," William answered.

  Richard was already turning away. He had laid Isabel upon their bed and covered her with a thick marten fur. She trembled still, curled in a ball so tight she could scarce draw breath. But he must leave her for now, for danger still awaited in Dornei.

  Rowland followed him, a silent wraith of vengeance. They shared a look of dark intent and then rushed down to the undercroft. It was full of the silence of death. Without hesitation, Richard hacked the head from Adam's white and lifeless body. Lifting the head by the shimmering auburn hair, he mounted the stair swiftly.

  A crowd was gathering, clustered in the bailey, pressed into the tower stair, shuffling into the hall. They massed to see the gruesome sight and were more haunted by the memory of Richard's grim visage.

  Here was no monk.

  Richard paid them no heed. He strode with his prize into the hall. Henley was playing chess with one of Malton's knights, and both watched Richard approach, their faces expressionless. No thoughts of Bertrada intruded, no pain at facing his sin, no fear at receiving well-deserved judgment at Henley's hands—all washed away on a tide of blood by his need to protect Isabel. All Richard could see when he faced Henley was Isabel and her mute struggle not to be defiled.

  Richard tossed the head to roll and land at Henley's feet.

  Henley jumped out of the way.

  "You brought this dog into my domain, against my express will," Richard said, his voice heavy and strong. "He laid hands upon my wife. Death was his payment. So it will be for any man who harms Isabel. Take what is left of him and leave. Now."

  Rowland stood at his back, in all ways backing him. Yet it was not necessary. Henley had no desire to fight, and if he had, Richard was more than a match for him. This all knew who stood within the hall. Richard was an adversary who had faced his demons daily; such a warrior had little fear left in him, and, in truth, his strength had grown mighty in his battles against the unseen forces of darkness.

  Henley looked at the head with its bloody and ragged stump and then at Richard's face. Without a word, he left the hall, his knights following him.

 

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