Читать книгу Hidden Honor - Anne Stuart - Страница 7

This was not good, Adrian thought, keeping his head down to hide his doubts. There were few things he trusted in this chaotic life, but the strength and purity of Brother Peter’s vocation was one of them. He knew little of the details, only that something in Peter’s past made his need to atone all-consuming. It made no sense that he would flirt with danger like this.

In theory Peter’s plan had been eminently practical. Prince William was a man with many enemies, not the least of which were the powerful Baron Neville of Harcourt and his well-trained men. His only daughter had died at the prince’s hands, and while the king had done his best to help conceal his son’s brutality, in the end William was forced to face the consequences of his behavior. That those consequences were relatively trivial—a journey of repentance, a large tithe at the Shrine of Saint Anne, and then freedom to return to his debauchery—did not sit well with Baron Neville. If Prince William were to reach the remote shrine alive it would require more than an armed guard. It would require strategy, as well. And fortunately the monks at Saint Andrews had among their fold an excellent strategist.

Once they reached their destination they would all be safe enough. Prince William would be shriven of his sins, and no one, not even a vengeful father, would be fool enough to murder a man in a state of grace, thus ensuring his swift ascent into heaven.

No, Neville would wait until William sinned again, knowing the wait would not be long. But by then the prince would no longer be the responsibility of the monks of Saint Andrews, and if he met his bloody fate it would be no more than he deserved.

Brother Peter would admonish him for his lack of charity, Adrian thought, insisting that even the most unregenerate of sinners could be saved. Even if in his heart he knew that William had been lost to the Devil long ago, and no amount of penitence and prayer could bring him back.

Adrian looked ahead to the tall, straight back of the man leading the caravan. Brother Peter had the woman up in front of him, an arrangement that would fail to concern the others. But Adrian knew him better than anyone, and he knew what a struggle would be warring in Brother Peter’s heart.

He glanced back at the other monks, riding closely together except for Brother Matthew. He played his part well, Adrian thought critically. Anyone would be fooled by those chaste, downcast eyes and his sweet smile. Doubtless that was how he’d managed to get away with his wickedness for so long. All he’d need do was turn to his father, the king of England, and smile that dulcet smile, and all would be forgiven.

But not this time. And the only way to ensure that he stayed alive long enough to atone for his many crimes was to have him travel incognito, in the garb of a simple monk, surrounded by brothers of the strictest order in all of England.

And up front, tall and strong and commanding, rode Brother Peter, a moving target for any assassin out to end the prince’s life.

It had been Brother Peter’s plan, and the abbot had agreed with its practicality, even if he loathed the necessity. Before joining the order Brother Peter had been a knight, a trained fighter, a soldier of the Holy Crusade. He was taller than most, stronger than most. In a righteous battle there would be few who could best him.

With Brother Peter leading the caravan, the devious, charming bastard prince of England would live to sin another day. Perhaps kill another innocent. The knowledge of which would weigh heavy on Brother Peter’s soul.

But that innocent wouldn’t be Baron Osbert’s long-limbed daughter. Peter was making certain she was kept safe, as he’d pledged to protect all innocents. And it wouldn’t concern Adrian at all, if he hadn’t seen the look in Brother Peter’s eyes as they rested on the tall, skinny young woman.

They said red hair was the sign of the Devil, but Adrian didn’t believe in such nonsense. But looking at Elizabeth, he couldn’t help but wonder how such a plain girl could entice a determined ascetic like Brother Peter when he’d shown no interest in far greater beauties who’d thrown themselves in his way.

Or perhaps it was simply that Brother Peter was and always had been a mystery.

Either way, he’d never betray his vows. For all the ways his eyes lingered on Lady Elizabeth when she wasn’t looking, nothing would come of it. She would be delivered up to her convent, a bride of Christ. Prince William would be shriven, throw off his monk’s robes and return to his life of sin. And Peter, Adrian and the others would return to Saint Andrews, away from the temptations of the great wide world.

They were but a few miles from the household of Thomas of Wakebryght, one day closer to the holy shrine of Saint Anne. God willing, they’d reach journey’s end without disaster.

He could see nothing of Lady Elizabeth but the occasional flutter of her drab clothes or the occasional strand of devil-red hair. All would be well, he told himself.

But he was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this.

Elizabeth slept. She wouldn’t have thought it humanly possible—the gait of the horse beneath her was smooth enough, but bouncing around the countryside was hardly conducive to slumber. And the solid body behind her, the warmth of his breath stirring her hair, the feel of his legs beneath hers, the rise and fall of his chest, his arms around her, holding her captive…

She couldn’t bear to think of it. No man had touched her in three years, and that man had disillusioned her forever. The man holding her on this huge horse was far more dangerous. Lethal, in fact.

And still, she slept. When she woke it was growing dark, and every bone in her body was stiff and aching. She jerked awake as she realized where she was, and the horse beneath her startled, increasing her uneasiness.

The horse was brought under instant control with a brief murmur, and she remembered who held her. The dark prince, the Devil incarnate, with the mouth of a fallen angel.

“Be still,” he said, and she stopped squirming, more afraid of the fall from such a huge horse than the man behind her. Perhaps.

“Where are we?” She sounded breathless. Absurd, when she’d been sound asleep.

“ Where are we, my lord William?’” the man behind her corrected her in a lazy voice.

“My lord William,” she amended, silently adding, my scum-sucking, hell-spawn lord William.

“At our destination for the night. From now on we’ll be sleeping in the forest, but tonight you’ll be assured of a warm bed to ease your weariness.”

“Who says I’m weary? My lord,” she added hastily when she heard the sharpness in her own voice. The prince was not known for his tolerance, and he’d killed women before.

“You could barely stand. I’m expecting someone will end up carrying you to your bed.” There was a faint undercurrent of amusement in his voice, one that increased her annoyance.

“Not you!” she said before she thought better of it.

She almost thought he laughed, but she couldn’t twist in the saddle to see his face, and in the growing darkness it would most certainly reveal nothing.

“No, not me. I have servants who take care of menial details, such as carting argumentative women around.”

She stiffened. “Then why am I riding in front of you? Wouldn’t I be better off riding with a servant?”

“You’re no tiny flower, Lady Elizabeth. My horse is the only one capable of holding you and another man. Besides, I am inclined to be generous toward all. Part of my penance.”

She controlled her instinctive snort of derision, more afraid of startling the horse than annoying the rider. The man behind her was an enigma—she had no doubt he was a dangerous man, capable of violence. She had no doubt he was possessed of strong carnal appetites, strong enough that they even appeared to spill over onto a plain creature such as herself.

But he didn’t strike her as a cold-blooded killer, one to lash out in rage and brutality. But the plain, ugly truth belied her own instincts, and if she wanted to make it to the Shrine of Saint Anne in good order she needed to curb her random tongue.

Leaving the prison of her father’s house had lured her into thinking she had more freedom than in fact she truly had. She would be much better off reassuming the mantle of a faintly witless woman.

“Yes, my lord,” she said in the slightly breathless voice she used with her father. “And you’ll be truly shriven, by our Lady, and go on to live a life of peace and justice.”

He was the one who snorted with laughter. “You think so?”

“But how else could it be, my lord? My father has told me so, and a good daughter knows the wisdom of her parents.”

She wasn’t expecting him to put his hands on her. He transferred the reins to one hand and took her chin in the other, turning her face up to his. It was too dark to see him, too dark for him to see the banked anger in her dulcet gaze. “And you’re such a good daughter, Lady Elizabeth, are you not?” he said lightly. “A fine housekeeper, a dutiful child, with a gift for herbs and healing. You’ll fit well into a convent, serving our Lady and keeping a still tongue in your head.”

“A still tongue in my head?” she echoed nervously, still looking up at him.

“You’re aware that Saint Anne’s is a silent order? Devoted to meditation? Most days you won’t be allowed to speak a word that isn’t in Latin. You’d best get all your arguments out ahead of time.”

She turned her head away from him, and he dropped his hand. In truth, the feel of his long fingers on her stubborn jaw had been almost as unnerving as the information he’d imparted. An order of silence? Where her only conversation would be the words of holy orders? She’d go mad.

And trust Baron Osbert not to have apprised her of that fact. If he had even a particle of wit she’d suspect he’d done it on purpose, but her father hadn’t the brains for such treachery. Besides, she kept her conversation to a minimum in his presence—he wouldn’t think silence would be a particular burden. He tended to think all tongues should be stilled except his own.

It would have served him right if she’d poisoned him before she left. A miscalculation in his calming draft could do wonders.

She wouldn’t have done it, of course. No matter how great the temptation, her gift with herbs and remedies was only to be used for good, not evil. Tampering with her father’s carnal desires had saved the servant women, though unlikely as it was, some didn’t appear to want to be saved. Tampering with his life would be unforgivable, and no journey of penance would wipe the stain from her soul.

She would deal with life as it happened. She had every intention of becoming abbess of the small order in record time—with her wit, learning and fierce determination she had little doubt she could do almost anything she wanted. She would find a way to relax the strict rules of the order. Or start talking to herself in her cell.

“I have no arguments, my lord William,” she murmured in her best, placate-her-father voice.

He muttered something under his breath, and she almost thought he said “like hell,” but she must have misheard. The wind had picked up, the warm spring day was growing cooler, and the ramparts of the small castle loomed ahead, looking ominously familiar.

It couldn’t be. Thomas of Wakebryght’s home was in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine. They would have had to spend the day traveling away from their destination in order to reach it, a detour that would make no sense.

No, many castles looked the same, built as they were to keep marauders at bay. And the shadows were growing long, making things hard to see. She’d only been at Wakebryght once in her life, on her betrothal day. The day her humiliation had been complete, and she’d sworn she’d never return.

“You might know this place,” the prince continued, unmindful of the thoughts racing through her brain. “It belongs to a neighbor of your father’s. Wakebryght Castle.”

“No!” She couldn’t help it, the word came out sharp and definite.

The man behind her seemed unfazed. “No?” he echoed. “I assure you, it’s most definitely yes.”

“Wakebryght Castle lies in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine.”

“So it does. A little subterfuge for those watching who might wish to cause harm to the king’s beloved son.” There was a strange note in his voice. “No one will suspect us of doubling back. There’s no need to fuss, Lady Elizabeth. One day more or less won’t make a difference when the whole of your life stretches ahead of you, devoted to God and good works. And silence.”

“I won’t go.”

He seemed unfazed by her flat refusal. “I did rather doubt your vocation, but it’s not for me to question a father’s judgment. I suspect you’ll cause the good abbess of Saint Anne more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I mean I won’t go to Wakebryght,” she said flatly. “I’d rather die.”

“My dear Lady Elizabeth, neither choice is yours. We’re already here.”

They were at the front gate, and she could see the welcoming committee awaiting them. Including Thomas of Wakebryght’s harridan of a mother, Lady Isobel. Her reaction was instinctive, unwise and immediate. She tried to jump off the horse.

She’d taken the prince unawares, but he was still too quick for her. One moment she’d seen the ground looming up from a great distance, in the next she was pulled back against his hard chest, clamped there by strong arms, so tightly she could barely breathe. “Not wise, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Not to mention an overreaction. If you dislike your host so much you needn’t worry. His wife was entering childbirth when we left yesterday—most likely he’ll either be at her side or celebrating his new heir. The man is thoroughly besotted.”

She knew that, far too well. “Please don’t make me go,” she whispered. “I’d rather sleep in the forest. You don’t even need to leave anyone with me to guard me—as you well know I’m not the kind of woman to tempt men into dangerous behavior.”

She didn’t understand his sudden laugh. “You’ll sleep beneath Thomas of Wakebryght’s roof, my lady. And if you give me any more arguments I’ll have you tied to my bed.”

Not a pleasant proposition. Though if it made Thomas think she’d become the treacherous prince’s leman, then he might wonder at his own rejection.

No, he wouldn’t. As children they’d played together, betrothed in the cradle, good friends as they’d tumbled in the grass. But at age fourteen, when she’d been brought to marry him, he’d looked up into her green eyes as she towered over him and simply, flatly refused.

The bride gifts were returned. As was the bride, who traveled back to Bredon Castle in an uncomfortable cart, veiled to hide her shame, while Thomas of Wakebryght married his tiny, buxom, flaxen-haired cousin Margery.

And now she was back. “I’d rather be fed to dragons,” she said under her breath.

“Unfortunately there are none around. What have you got against Thomas of Wakebryght? Did he break your heart?”

She stiffened, saying nothing, but it was answer enough. She’d forgotten how unnaturally observant the dark prince was. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you needn’t worry about it. He’s unlikely to even realize you’re here. His wife’s confinement has been quite difficult, and she’s yet to be brought to bed with a living child. I imagine he’ll be too busy worrying, celebrating or mourning to pay any attention to you.”

“God willing,” she muttered.

“Then again, if he’s mourning this might be your chance. If his lady wife isn’t up to the task of delivering an heir, perhaps she’ll die in childbed and you can take her place. A happy ending for all.”

She looked up at him, but it was full dark by now and she could only see his silhouette against the night sky. “That’s a foul thought,” she said fiercely. “I would never wish misfortune to fall on an innocent.”

He said nothing, urging the horse forward into the brightly lit courtyard.

He was right—Thomas of Wakebryght was nowhere in sight. His mother, a sour-tempered shrew with an unlikely smile of welcome on her face, and Thomas’s uncle Owen were the only ones welcoming them. There was no way they could miss seeing her, trapped as she was in Prince William’s arms, but their eyes slid over her politely to settle on their exalted guest.

“You honor our household with your return, Prince William,” Lady Isobel said in her cool voice. “We had no idea we were to enjoy the pleasure of your company so soon. I regret that my son isn’t here to greet you. His wife is still suffering greatly. I’ve sent word, however, and he should join us for dinner.”

“There’s no need. Expectant fathers are extremely tedious.” The prince slid off the horse with surprising grace, then reached up for her. For a moment Elizabeth hesitated. If she grabbed the reins and drove her knees into the horse’s flank, he’d take off, carrying her away from this wretched place and the wretched man who’d held her and taunted her.

But that would require turning the horse, who’d doubtless be in a panic, or else she’d simply ride deeper into the courtyard, and nothing would be accomplished…

She didn’t have time to finish the thought. The prince put his strong hands on her waist and lifted her down, wresting her away from her grip on the saddle, her skirts flying up in an immodest fashion before he set her on the ground. He didn’t release her—a good thing, since she still wasn’t sure she could stand.

“You are already acquainted with Lady Elizabeth of Bredon, are you not?” he said smoothly.

Lady Isobel looked as if she’d seen a snake. “Of course,” she murmured. “Welcome to Wakebryght.” Her eyes went straight back to the prince. “I’m afraid we won’t be very festive—I expect by the time you leave we’ll be a house in mourning. Lady Margery is not expected to last the night.”

“And the child?” Elizabeth asked.

Not a snake, a garden slug. “The child will die with her,” she said. “There is nothing to be done.”

Lady Margery and her unborn child would die, and Elizabeth would be there, to comfort Thomas, to aid an unwilling Lady Isobel, to perhaps change her life to what it should have been. All she had to do was remain silent.

She could feel the prince watching her, and she had the uneasy feeling that he knew everything that went through her mind. She lifted her head, looking down into Lady Isobel’s hard, dark eyes.

“I have a gift for childbirth,” she said flatly. “I’ve helped the women of Bredon through many a hard labor. Take me to Lady Margery and I will see if I can be of any assistance to her.”

It wasn’t a request, but Lady Isobel looked as if she were about to refuse. Until the prince spoke.

“Take her to the poor lady,” he said. “I grow weary of arguing in a stableyard.” And he gave Elizabeth an obnoxious little shove.

Peter watched Lady Elizabeth disappear into the depths of Wakebryght Castle, her slender shoulders squared beneath the veil of bright hair that cascaded down her back. He recognized that cool posture—it was the gait of someone marching into a battle they weren’t convinced they wanted to win, but knew they had no choice but to try.

He knew, because he’d been in that very position too many times. Trapped in the midst of bloody battles for a land already awash in human suffering, and he was never sure for what. The desert was scorching and inhospitable, the wealth that had accumulated there of little value when measured against the lives of innocents.

A Holy Land, to be sure, but a Holy Land to all faiths. And he was no longer certain that his own God wished him to kill and plunder in order to wrest it from other poor souls who happened to follow a different God who, in the end, was not so unlike his own.

She would fight for Lady Margery and her unborn child, just as he’d fought for the Holy Lands. And she wouldn’t find her sword red with the blood of those who didn’t deserve to die.

The real prince was watching him with that faint, knowing smile on his pretty mouth, as if he could read Peter’s thoughts. He was a dangerous man who’d been free to roam and ravage for far too long. For as long as he’d known him, William Fitzroy had been a vicious, dangerous man. The Crusades had suited him well—slaughter was his great pleasure—and life back in England must have paled without infidels to butcher. He’d had to turn to English innocents. It was simple enough to see how he’d managed to get away with it for so long. His enchanting smile tended to make women forget the brutalities he was capable of, and his knowledge of human nature made him far too wise when it came to getting what he wanted. William would know what plagued him. And knowing, William would use it as a weapon.

Which meant that Peter needed to redouble his efforts to keep Elizabeth away from him. To his knowledge William had never touched any but the most comely of women, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that made Elizabeth of Bredon safe. She might not be a fragile beauty, but her very strength would be an affront to someone like William.

Adrian was watching him, a troubled expression on his face. In his own way he was just as knowing as Prince William—he could sense Peter’s unexpected weakness.

It made little difference in the end. Peter had no choice but to protect Elizabeth, and if being near her brought up unexpected, long-dormant desires, then it was nothing more than fit punishment for his sins. The more he wanted her, the more painful her presence was, and he was a man who embraced pain as a means to salvation. He would welcome the torment of Lady Elizabeth’s clever tongue, knowing he would never taste it.

In the end it wouldn’t matter. In the end Brother Peter suspected he would pay the ultimate price, and it was up to his God to judge him. The sin he contemplated was far greater than the sin he was avoiding.

He was afraid he was going to have to kill Prince William. Cut his throat and let him drown in his own blood, rather than let him live to murder another innocent. There were too many women and children weighing on Peter’s soul. If he had to give his up in order to save even one, then he would do it. If he must.

He would give him time to truly repent. There was always the chance that Prince William would attain a state of grace, though he doubted it would last long. Peter had killed before, so many times he’d lost count of the corpses that had lay at his feet. He’d killed innocents and villains, women and men, aging crones and young children. In war, death was impartial.

He would break his vow and kill the man he’d been charged with protecting, kill when he’d prayed never to kill again. He would do what he must to keep one more innocent from dying.

And God have mercy on his soul.