With a sigh of capitulation, Madelyne acquiesced to the new-found fussiness of her maid and her mentor.
Her hair was black.
“Good evening, my lady,” Gavin said as he struggled to contain his shock at the transformation of Lady Madelyne. Out of her habit and veil, and garbed in clothing that he thought had belonged to Nicola, Lady Madelyne de Belgrume was barely recognizable…and looked not the least bit nunlike.
“My lord.” She gave a brief curtsey, bowing her head slightly, her thick, dark hair spilling over her shoulders and brushing the floor at his feet.
Some masterful person—Peg, he realized—had taken that thick, inky river, taming it into two thick braids that pulled back from his guest’s temples…and left the rest of it to fall unencumbered down Lady Madelyne’s back. When she raised her face and reached to place her fingers on his arm, he noticed a thin, gold chain that rested on her forehead and was woven into the darkness of her braids.
It was glorious hair.
With a start, Gavin realized he’d frozen, and she now waited for him to lead her to the dais upon which they would sup. “Come,” he said abruptly, turning toward the high table and forcing his attention to matters at hand.
As the most high-ranking persons in the hall, he and Lady Madelyne were the only two seated at the high table. He took the lord’s chair, the massive, walnut seat with a cushioned bench and without arms. She gathered her gown carefully, settling its folds over her legs, as she sat in Nicola’s regular seat.
Gavin had just taken a sip from the excellent Bordeaux Mal Verne imported from Aquitaine when Lady Madelyne ruined his meal.
“I must thank your wife for allowing me to wear her clothing,” she said, looking at him from behind her own wine glass. “Will she be joining us this evening?”
He felt the familiar anger and a bit of humiliation rise within him, and recalled those many, many evenings when Nicola sat to his left as Lady Madelyne now did. The woman had been a viper in his world, and he’d not known it until it was too late. “I do not speak of my wife,” he said in the deathly chill voice he used whenever he meant to intimidate. “Nor does anyone else within my hearing.”
Her eyes widened, innocent and luminous. Then she turned away, poking at the chunk of fish he’d placed in her bread trencher. “I did not mean to pry,” she said steadily, but he noticed that there was the slightest tremor to her fingers as she reached for a crust of bread. Then, with a boldness that surprised him, she firmed her lips and continued, “Whatever reason you do not choose to speak of your wife is of no matter to me, but there is no need to leap upon me over the most innocent of comments.” She did not look at him, but instead took a dainty bite of bread.
Gavin snapped his mouth shut on the apology he’d been about to make for his sharp, hasty words. Had the wench shed her nunlike modesty along with her habit and veil? He took another sip of wine to hide his chagrin as much as the admiration he felt at her temerity.
“I,” she continued, this time turning to look at him with a spark of fire in her cool eyes, “meant only to make polite conversation with you, my lord. Thus, I shall leave it in your hands as to whether we have a silent meal or nay.”
If he had not seen that her hand still trembled when she reached with great casualness for her wine goblet, he might have been angry at her continued audacity. But that bit of tremor eased his ire and he merely gave her a slant-eyed look. “But you have only tried one topic of conversation, my lady. Surely you do not intend to give up on me so easily?”
Mayhap it was the fact that he’d tamed the sharpness in his voice that prompted her to try again. However, her next words brought no more palatable a topic than Nicola had been.
“Then, my lord, perhaps you inform me of the purpose for which the king has summoned me, and when I shall see him myself.” Again, she did not look at him, but continued to pick at her food as though uninterested in his reply.
“If only my men were as unerring in their aim with a bow as you have been in suggesting topics of conversation that do not appeal to me!” He bit into a piece of cheese, chewed, and swallowed as he formulated his reply. “I have sent word to the king that you are in my company. As to the answers to your questions, I cannot say, but you will remain here under my guard.”
This time Lady Madelyne looked at him. “Do you then—in the name of the king—intend to keep me prisoner here at Mal Verne? As I have seen no evidence of a writ from his majesty ordering my presence, I wonder if he is even aware of my existence. Or have you merely used his name in order to gain your will—whatever that may be?”
Annoyance flared within him and he looked at her sharply. “That would be treason, my lady. I do not tolerate such implications by anyone, be it man or woman—particularly one who is a guest in my home.”
“A guest?” Lady Madelyne raised her fine eyebrows, adopting an innocent posture that grated on him. “I was not under the impression that my status is that of a guest. If that is the case, then I am free to leave at my will—am I not?”
Gavin dragged his gaze that had somehow become fastened on her shapely mouth up to glare into her eyes. “Lady Madelyne, if you were given the freedom to leave—which I will not give—you would last no more than a night without these castle walls. Do not speak of such absurdity.” He returned to demolishing his meal, certain that that would be the end of it.
But, still, she would not relent—and her tenacity was beginning to wear upon him. “Such may have been said to my mother and myself ten autumns ago, when we left Tricourten with naught but the clothing on our backs and a few simple jewels, my lord.”
Gavin placed his goblet very deliberately on the table and turned to face her fully. He would not allow this wisp of a woman to goad him into losing his temper—but he knew he was nearing the end of his tether. “Lady Madelyne,” he said tightly, “if it would end this discussion then, aye, I shall call you not a guest, but a hostage. Aye, a hostage of the king. And, lady, if you could read, I would show you the writ that orders me to bring you to his majesty.”
“Very well, then, Lord Mal Verne. A hostage I am. And, as I am capable of reading not only French, but Latin and Greek, I should be pleased to peruse that writ of which you speak.” She used her eating knife to spear a piece of turbot and raise it to her mouth.
Gavin snapped his jaws shut so hard that his jaw hurt. “Very well, my lady. On the morrow you shall see your writ. And methinks I should prefer a silent meal after all.”
Seven
Buildings forming the town of Mal Verne lay like little studs on the plateau below the castle wall. The orange sun had lowered to just above the horizon, and thick gray clouds had begun to fill the sky. A distant rumble of thunder came on the cool night air, and far off to the north, Madelyne could see a flash of lightning illuminate the belly of a heavy cloud.
The wind whipped up, tossing about her skirt and the hood she’d drawn over her head as she looked down from the castle wall. Jube, the tall, blond guard Lord Mal Verne had delegated to her, leaned casually against one of the merlons, talking with another man-at-arms who’d been assigned the night watch. He stood far enough away that she didn’t feel smothered, but close enough that she was aware she was not free to come and go as she pleased.
Hostage. Madelyne clenched her fingers together under her cloak and closed her eyes. Innocent of the ways of the political world, she knew she was at a disadvantage in parrying to keep her freedom, to keep herself safe from the hands of her father. She would see that writ on the morrow, and mayhaps there would be a clue within to indicate what the king planned to do.