Rebellious Love Read online

  But for the sullen poor, too long weighed down by the combined abuses of the king and certain of his rapacious nobles, the present situation fueled a tinderbox of resentment and violence needing only a spark to set it off.

  Late that evening, just as the long spring twilight gentled into darkness, the firebrand fell.

  Verony had returned to her chamber after sharing supper with the Lady Emelie and Arianna in the Great Hall. Even in the absence of all but the younger boys, the family retainers gathered at the long trestle tables were ever mindful of their manners.

  A musician strummed his lute as a bard recited. No one was in a mood for song, but there was no objection to quiet listening.

  Verony was pleasantly drowsy before the meal ended. She accepted Lady Emelie's company back to her chamber and the two women talked briefly before the countess departed for her own quarters.

  Undressed by her serving women, the silken veil of her hair brushed to a coppery sheen, she slid into a long white sleeping robe and padded over to the bed. Glancing down the length of her body under the covers, Verony smiled ruefully. She thought she looked like a beached whale.

  Only by lifting her head as far as possible could she catch a glimpse of her toes. They wiggled at her cheerfully as Hilda grumbled: "That's enough now! It's time you were asleep."

  Verony relented with poor grace. Now that she was actually in bed, her contrary body no longer felt tired. Disappointment over Curran's continued absence gnawed at her.

  The message received that morning had said the earl and his son would be home as quickly as possible, but that could mean the following morning or even perhaps several days hence. Her patience, already sorely tried, stretched almost to breaking.

  Flopping over on her side, she tried vainly to get comfortable. Hilda bustled about, straightening her clothes and picking up the sewing left discarded by the window. The nurse gazed at her charge tenderly, wishing she could do more for her but knowing that only Curran's return would better her humor. Bidding her lady a fond good night, Hilda departed to find her own rest.

  Half an hour later, Verony was still awake and growing more discontent by the moment. Experience had taught her that any effort to lie still and court sleep would fail. Rising with considerable difficulty, she pulled on a woolen robe and returned to the window.

  The last light had almost faded. A pale crescent moon shone ghostly against scattered clouds. The fields surrounding the house were empty; no boats moved along the river. London was settling down for the night.

  Drowsily, she leaned her head against the stone wall and thought of the men and women going about their lives in the narrow timber-frame houses. Children would be sound asleep by now, snuggled into their beds under the eaves. Tables would be clear of the debris from dinner, wiped down with sand and water and tucked against the wattle and daub walls where they were out of the way until morning. Pallets spread on the dirt or flagstone floors would offer some slight ease to weary servants whose final tasks of the day would include banking the fires beneath the wide stone chimneys.

  With so many people packed so tightly together, the smoke of London's fireplaces could be seen miles away. During the winter, the chimneys were in constant use. Only with warm weather, such as that enjoyed during the past few weeks, could fuel be saved by extinguishing the fires when the day's cooking was done.

  It was an economy no Londoner failed to take advantage of, so why then could she make out wisps of dark smoke rising from the west of the city?

  Straightening, Verony stared intently out the window. She was not mistaken. Black smoke was pouring into the sky from the residential district near the river, and it was growing denser by the moment.

  The Jewish Quarter! Comprehension slammed through Verony with the force of a blow. Turning, she raced from the room. As quickly as her cumbersome shape would allow, she negotiated the steep stone steps leading down to the courtyard, sped across the open field and hurried into Lady Emelie's house. The countess was already downstairs, her clothing hastily jerked on and her voice sharp as she rapped out orders.

  "Leave twenty men to guard the compound. Take the rest with you. Find Aaron ben Sharon and offer your help. He will be in contact with the other Jewish leaders and will know what can be done."

  "My lady," the man protested, "your safety must be my first concern. I cannot leave you here so poorly defended."

  Lady Emelie straightened to her full height. Without rancor, with the simple calmness of one who expects to be obeyed, she said: "You will do as I order. Immediately."

  For just a moment, the man looked as though he wished to argue further. He thought better of it. Decades of service to the d'Arcy clan had taught him that once the Lady Emelie made up her mind about something she could not be swayed. At least not by anyone other than the earl himself who, God pity them, was not at home.

  With the men dispatched, Lady Emelie turned her attention to the two white-faced young women watching her. "We will need blankets, salves for burns, bandages, warm clothing. Get the servants busy setting up shelters in the bailey. What space there is inside will be used for the most seriously injured."

  Numbly, Verony and Arianna nodded. Each was experienced in the aftereffects of battle and had a fair idea of what could be expected. But the knowledge that this time the victims were helpless men, women and children—rather than seasoned warriors—added a piercing sense of dread to what they would shortly confront.

  As the twilight flickered and died, huge fires could be seen burning in the west. The entire quarter must be aflame, Verony thought dimly as she hastened about her tasks. There was mercifully little time to dwell on what was happening. Every bit of strength and concentration had to be given over to preparing for the injured and homeless who would be unlikely to find care anywhere else.

  Not very far away, in the center of the ghetto, Curran also paused a moment to watch the flames. Despite the cool night, his face was streaked with grime and sweat. The heat of burning buildings scared his skin.

  Along with his father and Mark, he had ridden hard all day in hope of reaching London before nightfall. After weeks in the saddle, he might have expected to feel some weariness. But the sight of a rampaging mob descending on the homes of unarmed, unprotected families sent a surge of rage tearing through him that banished all fatigue.

  It was a relentless, implacable warrior who—in company with the other d'Arcy men and their escort—breached the wall of attackers around the ghetto, established a line of defense around the houses not yet afire and fought fiercely to stop the assault.

  They were gravely outnumbered by the drunken, bloodthirsty mob carrying axes, picks, clubs and swords. But with the help of men from the quarter, whose desperate determination made up for their lack of training, they managed to turn the tide.

  Fighting alongside a young, bearded rabbi who showed considerable natural talent with the short-sword, Curran led a defensive line that gradually pressed outward against the crowd.

  Reclaiming one house not yet engulfed in flames, he dispatched a rampaging citizen about to hurl a howling infant out a second-story window. Returning the child to a sobbing young girl, only just saved from gang rape by the sudden arrival of the defenders, he left a small group to hold the recaptured ground while the rest fought on toward the main focal point of the attack, the synagogue.

  It was already on fire when they arrived. All outer walls were aflame and the roof had begun to ignite.

  No amount of effort could save the structure, but that did not prevent the young rabbi from racing inside.

  Curran yelled at him to stop, without effect. Hesitating barely a moment, he ordered his men to stay where they were and followed.

  Thick black smoke almost blinded him. A corner of his cloak wrapped around his face offered little protection. Shouting at the man to come back, he swallowed fumes that made him gag.

  Stumbling and choking, Curran managed finally to reach the temple's inner sanctuary. Behind a burning curtain, the r
abbi was frantically pulling large, cloth-wrapped scrolls from an ornate box. The man's smoke-reddened eyes opened wide with shock as he spied Curran. Unable to speak because of the thick clouds of smoke, he mutely acquiesced to let him help carry whatever it was he was trying so desperately to save.

  Holding onto each other and the scrolls, they only just managed to make it back outside before the entire temple roof gave way in a rush of flame and the building fell in on itself.

  Slumped on the ground, retching up blackened mucus, Curran was only dimly aware of his father and Aaron ben Sharon kneeling beside him. A cold cloth was pressed to his face as his helmet was pulled off.

  Resisting the removal of his armor, Curran was stopped by the earl. "It's all right. It's over. The mob's been driven off."

  When the words penetrated the haze of smoke and blood and flame, Curran relented. He lay back long enough to allow his father to determine that he was not seriously injured, but rejected the suggestion that he rest for a few minutes.

  "How many injured?" he demanded, standing up.

  Aaron shook his head despondently. "We aren't sure yet. Dozens, at least. And as many dead. If it hadn't been for you and your father ..."

  "We will not speak of that, old friend," the Earl Garrett interrupted, "or I will be forced to remind you of the great service you only recently provided to my family."

  Aaron did not try again to express his thanks, knowing that words were unnecessary. The look on the earl's face and on the faces of the other warriors slowly gathering round them was enough to silence him. He saw shock and more. In the eyes of lords and knights alike was great shame for what their fellow Christians had done. Later there would be time for Aaron to express his gratitude. Just then it was kinder to say nothing.

  A line of wagons entering what remained of the ghetto from the direction of the d'Arcy compound caused no surprise.

  Lady Emelie would have anticipated the need to transport the injured. But when the countess herself hopped lightly from one cart, the earl hurried forward in concern.

  "You should not be here, Emelie. It's still far too dangerous."

  His lady ignored him. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a short, hard kiss to his lips before demanding briskly: "Let's not waste time in foolish argument, Garrett. We cannot care for the injured here. They must be moved at once. Verony and Arianna are waiting back at the compound with all the necessary supplies."

  Glaring at the grin that passed between his sons, the earl gave in with poor grace.

  The courtyard of the d'Arcy compound was ablaze with light. Every servant was awake and hurrying about their tasks under the watchful eyes of Verony and Arianna. Large vats stood ready with bandages being soaked in water and fat for the burned. Two reluctant surgeons dragged out of their beds by the countess's men readied their implements. A discomfited priest moved about, trying to determine which among the dead and injured he could legitimately succor.

  No such hesitation afflicted the d'Arcy women as they threw themselves into the grisly business of sorting out those who could still benefit from help. Verony steeled herself against the sight of a little girl, her face streaked with blood from a head injury, crying in the arms of her burned mother. Accepting the woman's insistence that the child be seen to first, she gently determined the extent of damage before cleaning and bandaging the wound. With rest and care, the little girl would recover.

  But her mother was a different matter. Though the woman remained stoically silent throughout Verony's ministrations, she was clearly in great pain. One arm and shoulder were badly burned and there were lesser burns on her back and legs.

  Remembering Lady Emelie's warning that burn victims were particularly susceptible to virulent inflammations, she took special care to apply all the medicines the countess recommended. That done, she wrapped the woman in blankets and eased her onto a pallet. A neighbor who had mercifully escaped with little more than bruises took up the watch beside her as Verony hurried on to others needing her attention.

  The hours before dawn passed in a blur. After the initial horror, a welcome numbness set in. It was pierced only briefly, when she found Ruth and Miriam helping with the injured. The women embraced, sharing their sorrow even as Verony found profound relief in the knowledge that all members of the family that had sheltered her had come through the terrible night unharmed.

  "Aaron is still with the earl," Ruth told her. "They are keeping watch over what's left of our homes and businesses, to prevent looting." She took a shaky breath, blinking back tears. "May the Lord protect them. If it hadn't been for Earl Garrett, his sons and his men, none of us would be alive."

  "I thought we were doomed," Miriam admitted, "when I saw the mob coming. Our men would fight with all their strength and courage, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they were overcome." Her eyes darkened with remembered terror.

  Ruth put an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "Your husband deserves our special thanks," she told Verony. "He went into the burning temple after Rabbi Josephus to bring out the scrolls."

  "The scrolls?" Verony repeated blankly. "Our holy writings," Ruth explained. "To us they are as living things, the symbol of our belief. When scrolls are destroyed, we bury the remains just as we would a person. Their loss would have caused great sorrow throughout our community."

  Glad though she was that Curran had been able to help their friends in some mysterious way, Verony was more concerned with his safety. He had yet to return from the Quarter, and though she knew his continued absence meant he was unharmed, she still needed reassurance of his well-being. "Did you see him?" she asked. Ruth smiled understandingly. "Only for a moment as we were leaving to come here. He was lifting children into the wagons and looked dirty and tired, but uninjured."

  Verony thanked her softly. The worst of the casualties had been seen to, and activity in the courtyard was slowing down. A few people still moved around, checking on friends and relatives, but most lay quietly on straw pallets.

  In the aftermath of terror, shock was settling in. Voices were muted, faces pale. Children whimpered fearfully in their sleep. Adults soothed them automatically, their minds still engulfed by the terror they had passed through.

  Among the last left on their feet after that long, exhausting night were the d'Arcy women. Lady Emelie and Arianna were rolling up the few leftover bandages when Verony joined them. They were both white-faced and weary, but still had more strength than her burdened body could manage. It needed but a single look for the countess to order her off to bed.

  "You've already worked far too hard and there's little more to be done here. Go and lie down before nature compels you to do so."

  Only the knowledge that the last thing they needed was another patient forced Verony to obey. Wearily she trudged up the stairs to her chamber, where Hilda waited.

  The old nurse, who had done more than her part in caring for the injured, was beside herself with dismay. Muttering dire comments about noble ladies' disregard for their well-being, she eased Verony's bloodstained clothes from her, washed her gently in warm water and slid a clean linen chemise over her head before tucking her into bed.

  "Don't let me see you move, my lady," the nurse warned ominously. "You'll answer to me and Lord Curran if you do, and I've no doubt what he would say."

  Verony smiled tiredly. She would be willing to listen to anything from Curran if only he was there to be with her. Hoping that he would soon return, she drifted into uneasy sleep.

  Her rest did not last long. Before the sun was fully risen, a stabbing pain in her back woke her. Verony lay unmoving in the bed, hoping the discomfort would ease. It did, only to return within minutes.

  A sheen of perspiration shone on her face as the pain came and went through the next hour. Each time it returned, the hurt was greater until finally a low anguished moan broke from her.

  Hilda, who had remained near her mistress, was instantly alert. She bent over Verony worriedly, taking in the ashen pallor of her skin and the
contractions rippling through her swollen belly.

  Squeezing the young girl's hand reassuringly, she hurried out to fetch Lady Emelie. While she was gone, Verony lay staring up at the beamed ceiling. No words had been needed to tell her that out of this night of blood and fire her child would be born.

  CHAPTER 15

  Verony floated in a sea of pain. Far from any hope of rescue, she drifted under a burning sky. A relentless red sun seared her. Tossed on waves of agony, her body arched piteously, too weary even to cry out.

  The women gathered in the room looked at each other helplessly. Through all the previous day and the long night, they had done everything within their skill to bring the child forth alive. Every remedy had been tried, and had failed. In the last desperate hours, even those ancient practices prohibited by the church were resurrected in a final, extreme attempt to save the life drifting away from them.

  Nothing worked. Hour followed torturous hour, and still the child would not be born. Lady Emelie wondered if it even still lived. Not that it mattered.

  Verony stood on the brink of death. Downstairs, watched over by his father and brothers, Curran was going slowly mad. Silently Lady Emelie told herself there would be other children. But only if Verony lived.

  Stepping to a corner of the room, the countess motioned to Ruth ben Sharon. The two women spoke urgently for several minutes before nodding in agreement. Servants were sent for fresh towels and water. Hilda was dispatched to the kitchens after some herbal concoction it would take a good while to find. Miriam followed her to the door, making sure no priest was in sight.

  Lady Emelie opened her medicine chest. She carefully removed the fitted trays holding ointments, tinctures and elixirs. Beneath the last, hidden under a false bottom, lay half a dozen steel implements. They bore no resemblance to the crude, often filthy tools used by the surgeons. Brought from the East, where medicine maintained an exacting standard free of religious interference, the blades, needles and forceps were meticulously honed and clean.