Chapter 78

THE SOLDIERS STOOD at stiff attention, swords and lances raised in salute. The duke galloped into their midst. He raised his arm to salute them, then grinned triumphantly at Bertrand and Marcel Gamier, his seneschal, the steward of his estate.

Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Anne.

Stephen then jumped off his mount. His hair had grown long and wild since she had seen him last, like a Goth’s. His cheeks were hard edged and gaunt. Yet he still carried that narrow glint in his eyes. As was his duty, he came up to her. It had been almost two years.

“Welcome, my husband.” Anne stepped forward. “To God’s grace that He has brought you safely home.”

“To God’s grace,” Stephen said with a smile, “that you have shined like such a beacon as to guide me back.”

He kissed her on both cheeks, but the embrace was empty and without warmth. “I have missed you, Anne,” he said, in the way a man might exult in seeing the health of his favorite steed.

“I have counted the days as well,” she replied coldly.

“Welcome, my lord.” Stephen’s advisers rushed forth.

“Bertrand, Marcel.” He held out his arms. “I trust the reason you have come all this way to greet me is not that we have misplaced our beautiful city.”

[234] “I assure you your beautiful city still stands.” The chatelain grinned. “Stronger than ever.”

“And the treasury even more filled than when you left,” promised the seneschal.

“All this later.” Stephen waved a hand. “We’ve been riding nonstop since we docked. My ass feels like it’s been kicked all the way from Toulon. Tend to my men. We are all as hungry as beggars. And I…” He mooned his eyes at Anne. “… I must attend to my lovely wife.”

“Come, husband,” Anne said, trying to seem teasing before his men. “I will try and kick it toward Paris, so as to even it out.”

All around them laughed. Anne led him to their large tent draped in green and gold silk. Once inside, Stephen’s loving look disappeared. “You perform well, my wife.”

“It was no performance. I am glad for your return. For your son’s sake. And if it has brought you back a gentler man.”

“War rarely has that effect,” Stephen answered. He sat on a stool and removed his cloak. “Come here. Help with these boots. I will show you just what a petting pup I’ve become.”

His hair fell over his tunic, greasy and grayed. His face was sharp and filthy from the road. He smelled like a boar.

“You look like the wars have left you no worse for wear,” Anne remarked.

“And you, Anne,” Stephen said, reaching out to pull her down to him, “you look like a dream from which I am not yet willing to awaken.”

“Then awaken now.” She pulled herself away. It was her duty to tend to him. Remove his boots, rinse out the damp cloth around his neck. But there was no way in hell she would let him touch her. “I have not sat alone for two years to be mounted by a pig.”

“So hand me the bowl and I will wash, then.” Stephen grinned. “I will make myself fresh as a doe.”

“I did not mean your stench,” she said.

[235] Stephen still smiled at her. He slowly removed his gloves.

A servant stepped in, carrying a bowl of fruit. He placed it on the bench and then, feeling the stiffness in the air, hurried out.

“I have seen your new interests,” Anne said derisively. “The dark troops you have sent from the Holy Land. Your noble men of the black cross who kill and slaughter women and children like curs, innocents and nobles alike. Your governing has reached a new low, Stephen.”

He got up, slowly sauntered over to her. Her skin felt like an insect was crawling up her back. He walked around her as if he were inspecting a steed. She did not look at him.

Then Anne felt his hands caress her neck, icy and loveless. She felt his lips close to her.

“I may be your wife,” she said, turning away, “and for that, Stephen, I will tend to your health and welfare, for the sake of my son. I will stand for you, as is my duty, in our court. But know, husband, you will not touch me, ever again. Not in my weakest moment or in your most urgent need. Your hands shall never soil me again.”

Stephen grinned and nodded, as if impressed. He stroked her cheek and she pulled away, trembling. “How long, lovely Anne, have you been working on that little speech?”

Before she even knew it was happening, he tightened his caressing grip on the nape of her neck. Pain flashed through her. Slowly, he increased the pressure, all the while fondly smiling at her.

The air shot out of her lungs. She tried to cry out, but to no avail. No one would come. Her cries would be misunderstood as pleasure. Her pulse echoed like a drum in her ears.

Stephen pushed her down to the ground. He followed, all the while pinning his thumb and forefinger into her neck and forcing her thighs apart with just the power of his legs.

He tried to kiss her, but Anne twisted her head in the other direction, leaving his vile slobber all over her neck.

[236] Then he pressed himself against her rump. She felt him erect and hideous, the detestable hardness she had grown to loathe. “Come,” he whispered, “my bold, headstrong Anne… After all this time, would you deny me what I want?”

She tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong. He slithered up the length of her spine and yanked her underdress down, about to force himself in.

Anne swallowed back an urge to vomit. No, this cannot be happening. Her heart beat in panic. I swore, not again …

But just as quickly, he pulled off of her, grunting back a laugh, leaving her trembling. He pushed his wet mouth close to her face.

“Do not misunderstand me, wife,” he hissed in her ear. “I did not mean I desire your cunt… I meant the relic.”

Part Four . TREASURE

Chapter 79

THE HULKING MAN in the sheepskin overvest pounded in the fence post with well-timed strokes of his heavy mallet.

I crept from the woods, still in the torn remnants of my jester’s garb, carrying Emilie’s cloak. I had clung to the forest for a week now. Hungry, avoiding pursuit. I had nothing. Not a denier or a possession.

“You’ll never mend a fence by lazing away like a fat cow,” I said boldly.

The burly man put down his mallet and arched his thick, bushy eyebrows. He stepped forward to the challenge. “Look what’s crawled out of the woods… some scrawny squirrel in a fairy’s costume. You look like you wouldn’t know a day’s work if it jumped up and strummed your dick.”

“I could say the same for you, Odo, if it wasn’t always in your hand.”

The big smith eyed me closely. “Do I know you, malt-worm?”

“Aye,” I answered. “Unless, since I’ve seen you last, your brains have grown as soft as your gut.”

“Hugh…?” the smith exclaimed.

We embraced, Odo lifting me high off the ground. He shook his head in astonishment.

[240] “We heard you were dead, Hugh. Then in Treille, wearing the costume of a fool. Then word that you were in Borée. That you killed that prick Norcross. Which of these are true?”

“All true, Odo. Except for rumors of my demise.”

“Look at me, old friend. You killed the duke’s chatelain?”

I took a breath and smiled, like a little brother embarrassed by praise. “I did.”

“Ha, I knew you’d outfox them.” The smith laughed.

“I have much to tell, Odo. And much to regret, I feel.”

“We too, Hugh. Come, sit down. All I can offer you is this rickety fence. Not as fine as Baldwin ’s cushions…” We leaned against it. Odo shook his head. “Last we saw you, you ran into the woods like a devil, chasing the ghost of your wife.”

“She was no ghost, Odo. I knew that she lived, and she did.”

Odo’s eyes widened. “Sophie lives?”