“Why would it make an enemy of you?” she said in a hushed voice, her anger vanishing as quickly as it came, replaced instead by anticipation.
He put his hand to her face, and lightning sizzled in the air. She shivered, but she didn’t pull back.
“What do you remember of last night?” he countered.
“Very little.”
“Then come upstairs with me now,” he said, “and I’ll remind you.”
Chapter Twenty
She ran from him. She ran from his touch, suddenly terrified. She ran across the courtyard, and he made no move to follow her, stop her. She knew if she looked back Simon of Navarre would be watching her out of his still, golden eyes. But she didn’t dare look back.
If she did, she might stop running.
What had happened last night? What had he done to her? Why couldn’t she remember? She was supposed to be unnaturally wise for a woman, learned and thoughtful. How could she have forgotten the loss of her maidenhead?
Her mind had forgotten, but her body remembered. His touch on her skin had sent waves of sensation washing over her. Her stomach had knotted, her breasts had tingled, and between her legs she felt hot and wet.
What had he done to her?
The lightning sizzled behind her, and she let out a terrified shriek as she stumbled up the short flight of stairs to the Great Hall.
“Marriage has turned you into a slattern, sister dear.”
Richard stood there, a dark, unreadable expression on his ruddy face, staring down at her, and she knew a sudden, unreasoning fear.
She touched her damp, tousled hair, unrestrained by circlet or wimple. She wore no jewels, and her feet were bare. “I… was in a hurry, brother dear,” she said. Belatedly she came up to him and pressed a dutiful kiss on his bearded cheek.
“And why were you rushing about, sweet Alys? Were you in search of your sister? I’ve yet to see her today, and I confess, I miss her pretty face.” It was said with great innocence, but Alys wasn’t fooled.
“She’s sick,” Alys said abruptly. “She has the stomach grippe. Madlen has been holding a basin, and you think there’d be an end to what she can get rid of, but she keeps spewing. I don’t think you’d want to see her. Her face isn’t the slightest bit pretty when it’s green.”
Richard was looking slightly green himself at the picture she’d conjured up. “A reasonable excuse,” he said, nodding. “Then if you’ve just been with her, where were you running to? Your husband’s side? I wouldn’t have thought Grendel would be the sort to kindle that strong affection. Or were you, perhaps, running away from him?”
Curse the man and his father as well, Alys thought, not caring that it was a father they shared. She’d never even seen old Lord Roger of Summersedge, but he sounded like a womanizing, unprincipled bastard, and his lecherous son took after him.
“I am a most dutiful wife,” she said meekly, hoping she looked it.
“Of course you are, my dear,” Richard said. “I would expect no less of you. And I’m certain you don’t want to spend your days being ogled by the servants while they guess exactly what kind of member your husband has. I’ll see that you’re taken back to his solar for privacy.”
“No! That is, I’m ready for company…” she began, but it was already too late. Richard had signaled for two of his menservants to approach.
“Which reminds me, dear Alys. I’m as curious as the next man. What kind of member does Simon of Navarre have? Does it work? Is it forked like the tongue of a snake?”
The two men had taken her arms and were leading her away. She could have struggled, but she suspected it would have been useless. They would take her back to Grendel’s lair, throw her in, and fetch her broken bones in the morning. She made one last attempt.
“I need to speak with Lady Hedwiga again,” she said, squirming in their tight grip. “I need her wise counsel…”
“My lady wife is indisposed,” Richard said with a doleful expression on his face. “She hopes that the posset you brought her will help, but we can only pray.”
“Posset?” Alys echoed, but she was already being dragged toward the stairs of the tower, and it would have been useless and undignified to fight.
At least the tower rooms were empty. A fire blazed brightly in the fireplace, and the room smelled of spices and dried roses. The bed hangings were drawn back, the coverlets neatened, the rushes on the floor were fresh and strewn with dried flowers. She looked at the bed with dismay, trying to will her memory to return.
She was rewarded with a crack of thunder, and she moved away from the window in sudden panic, taking a seat by the fire. Lightning storms were bad enough on the ground—up high in a tower they were well-nigh unbearable.
Her sister was out on a night like this, with only a high strung horse for company. A horse who hated thunderstorms as well. Alys could hear the rain pelting against the heavy stone walls of the tower, mixed with the intermittent sound of thunder, and she forced herself to calm down. Claire wasn’t afraid of storms. Claire wasn’t afraid of anything at all, and even on a stormy night like this she would somehow manage to find shelter, keep herself safe until she was found.
There was nothing more Alys could do for her. If she went out searching for her she would get lost herself. She had done her best—lied to her brother to keep his suspicions calm, and sent the one man she could trust to find Claire. If Thomas couldn’t find her, no one
