Rebellious Love Read online

  Fairleigh swayed. The blow Was just enough to stun him, giving Curran the chance he so desperately needed. A long, muscle-hardened leg shot out, wrapping around the other man's pelvis in a wrestler's hold. Turning agilely, Curran managed to deflect the blow that would have cleaved his chest. At the same time, his steely arm grappled for the sword.

  They struggled briefly. Fairleigh was willing enough to attack when he believed he held an insurmountable advantage. But with the contest turned more than equal, fear engulfed him. He saw the deadly implacability in Curran's eyes and knew what was to come.

  Tense moments of frantic struggle did nothing to change the end result. Resisting the impulse to extend the man's torment, Curran moved swiftly. He did not even bother to use the sword, but simply bent his knee into Fairleigh's back, grasped him around the neck and pulled.

  The younger man's backbone ruptured, sending splinters ricocheting into his brain. He died so swiftly that it took his body a moment to realize its fate. A low sigh broke from him and he crumpled to the ground.

  Clutching the blanket to her, Verony stared down at him. She who had never willingly harmed anyone in her life had just helped kill a man. Yet she felt not the slightest regret. No hint of horror or dread touched the utter relief filling her. To save Curran, she would have gladly helped slay a hundred such.

  The surprise darkening her sapphire eyes was familiar to her husband. He, too, understood what it was like to act with such absolute deliberation and certainty that there was no room left over afterward for even the faintest remorse. Nor could he find it in himself to feel anything but immense admiration for what his wife had done.

  Taking her gently into his arms, he led her back to their tent. The crowd, stunned by what had happened, moved quickly to lift the wall back into place.

  This latest evidence of the d'Arcys daring and ruthlessness, extending even to one of their ladies, made the barons acutely aware of how close they had come to disaster. If Curran had been harmed, the Earl Garrett would undoubtedly have exacted revenge against every man who stood by and let it happen. Breathing a silent prayer of thanks for the unexpected ending to the confrontation, they dispersed swiftly.

  Seated on their bed, held close to Curran's massive chest, Verony shivered. She, too, was thinking of the crowd and what might have been. "They were like animals . . . standing there . . . cheering him on. . . . T-they wanted to see you die. . . ."

  Several months before, when he did not know her as well, Curran would have tried to soften the harsher edges of reality. But now he paid her the compliment of being completely frank.

  "They fear us greatly. Despite all we have said about not wanting to supplant John, many still believe we desire the throne for ourselves. Added to that is immense envy of our wealth and power. You are right to think that had I been killed out there, many of our so-called allies would have rejoiced. At least until they had a chance to discover all the results of such an act."

  "But why then do you try to work with them? Why endure all these months of debate and negotiation ... all the long, wearisome efforts to hold the barons together? If they are so unappreciative and distrustful, so filled with savage resentment, why try to help them?"

  Curran sighed, running a hand through his rumpled hair. He felt wearier than he had in a long time. The weeks of effort and struggle were taking their toll. He longed to carry Verony and the children off to their own lands, where they might recapture at least a measure of the peace and happiness that was so briefly theirs.

  Only the strongest respect for duty, drilled into him since childhood, forced him to stay to see the outcome of all their careful planning.

  "We try," he explained slowly, "because whether we like it or not, our fate is linked to theirs. No matter how much power we have, we can still be hurt by the king. His authority is too far-reaching, too free of any control or restraint. That has to

  change, or we will always be potential victims for unscrupulous rulers."

  Verony closed her eyes. She dreaded the thought that Curran's part in the conflict might deepen, but she felt compelled to say: "If one of you ruled, there would be justice for all."

  Her husband laughed softly. He studied her with indulgent eyes. "Maybe, but there's no guarantee. We are men like everyone else. Better than some, worse than others. If we could take the throne, without provoking civil war, perhaps England would be better off for a while. But down the years, who's to say that we wouldn't breed inept, selfish rulers as bad as anything that's come before?"

  Shaking his head, he stroked her cheek gently. "The system itself has to change. We must have a body of law that protects all men regardless of who happens to sit on the throne. Only then will we have any protection against abusive rulers like John."

  "All men? Even the serfs?"

  "Well... no ... not yet at least." Glancing down at her, Curran smiled. "I know you think the peasants are as deserving of rights and privileges as the rest of us, but very few share your opinion. Someday perhaps the laws we're struggling for will be extended to everyone, but right now it's enough to protect those who hold property."

  His tone made it clear he regarded her vision of a world in which all men—and women—would be dealt with equally as a fantasy not to be taken seriously. Verony was in no mood to argue with him just then, but privately she clung to the hope that

  whatever good came out of this encounter at Runny-mede might one day be extended to people like those who protected and sheltered her when she was most in need.

  Snuggled into the warmth of his chest, she blocked out the sounds of men outside carrying away Fairleigh's body. She supposed there would be some complaint from his family, but given the circumstances of his death, she doubted they would do anything but bluster. At any rate, she was not willing to worry about it.

  There were far more immediate concerns. Despite all her resolve to be at least a little less independent and forceful, she had done it again. While Curran would certainly not have preferred her to stand by and watch him killed, he couldn't help but take her assault on Fairleigh as further proof of her "unwomanly" temperament.

  While she yet had the opportunity, Verony resolved, she would do her best to convince him she was the equal of any female. But no sooner had she reached out a slender hand to stroke his thigh than fate once again intervened.

  "What's this I hear?" the Earl Garrett demanded from just outside the tent. "My son has taken to fighting bare-ass naked, leaving it to my lovely daughter-in-law to rescue him?"

  Snorting, Curran rose from the bed. He paused long enough to throw on a tunic before greeting his father. "If we have to stay here much longer, my gentle wife may reveal other skills I hadn't suspected." He looked back at her teasingly. "But right now, it's enough to know she can look after both herself and me."

  Stepping into the tent, the earl studied Verony carefully. "Are you all right?"

  She understood that he was asking after far more than just her physical safety. "I'm fine. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't hesitate a moment."

  Though he believed her readily enough, the earl also knew she was far too gentle and kind not to suffer some aftereffects from what she had done. But he was glad to know they would be no more than the normal revulsion that comes from confronting death.

  Satisfied, he saw no reason to dwell on the near tragedy. "John is on his way. He should be here at any moment."

  Curran reached immediately for the rest of his clothes. "I'll meet you in your tent, all right?"

  His father nodded, turning to leave. He paused a moment to smile down at his newest grandchildren, still fast asleep despite all the turmoil. "I'll send your nurse to look after them," he told Verony, "so you can come along to see the king." A wicked gleam entered his gray-green eyes. "I think it's a sight you'll enjoy."

  Verony wasn't sure exactly what he meant, but she hastened to ready herself. Great events were at least coming to their culmination, and she was determined to be part of whatever now happened. W
ith Curran's help, she got herself into a soft blue tunic and navy surcoat trimmed with gold thread. Her hair was left free to fall down her back in glinting waves covered only by a transparent veil and jeweled circlet.

  Waiting only long enough for Hilda to arrive, she hurried off to join Curran at the earl's tent. A large group was already there. Arianna and Mark, reunited after months apart, stood close together. They hurried up to Verony as soon as they saw her, exclaiming over what had happened.

  "How brave of you," Arianna said. "Curran must be so proud."

  "Proud, nothing," Mark teased. "He'll know to go carefully from now on and not do anything to make you mad!"

  Verony managed to smile, though her heart wasn't in it. She told herself Curran had been kindness itself in the few moments they had alone in their tent. But her feelings and his were all mixed up with passion and fear and the tension of the long-drawn-out confrontation with the king.

  She couldn't begin to guess how he would feel once he had a chance to consider what had happened. Her action against Fairleigh would surely make him realize, as it did her, that she was no closer to being the docile, malleable wife he seemed to want. It was not enough that Curran still desired her. If he could not accept that her pride and strength were as much a part of her as her love for him, she had no idea how she would endure.

  Her fretful thoughts broke off as a trumpet blast announced the king's approach. Standing on tiptoe, Verony strained to catch sight of the man who had so abused and terrified her.

  He looked rather the worse for wear. Beneath gloriously embroidered velvet robes, his body seemed to have shrunk. Though he sat erect in the saddle of his caparisoned palfrey, he appeared weary and tense. Deep lines were etched into his face, particularly around his still sensual mouth and beneath his small, dark eyes.

  Staring at him, Verony's lips parted in a soft exclamation of surprise. A long, white scar ran across John's forehead, mute evidence of her tormented response to his claim of having killed Curran. Grimly, she wondered what the king would say when he heard of Fairleigh's end. At least he couldn't pretend to be shocked.

  For a ruler so given to ostentatious display, his escort was remarkably small. White-bearded Stephen Langton rode beside him, the archbishop's presence being solely to guarantee the king's. Verony had no doubt John would have been far happier without the prelate's company.

  Behind John came the papal legate and beside him, the Grand Master of the Order of Templars. William Marshal, one of the most respected men in England, was also there. His rigid concept of loyalty demanded his attendance. But his expression made it clear he would rather be elsewhere.

  Rounded out by a few lesser knights and bishops, the train was a poor show indeed for the arrogant John. But Verony found it heartening. There could be no more eloquent testament to the effectiveness of the d'Arcys' efforts over the last months. Though the barons' coalition was shaky, they had succeeded in isolating the sovereign and forcing him to this showdown.

  The Earl Garrett went forward to greet him. Only years of discipline enabled him to keep his expression blank. No sign of the intense personal victory he felt showed in the careful regard of gray-green eyes sweeping over the man before him.

  Most of the other nobles were not so circumspect. They pressed forward eagerly. Mocking sallies and daring insults, unthinkable just a few months before, filled the air.

  John's face darkened ominously. He had accepted the necessity of negotiation, but that did not mean he was willing to see his overwheening pride ground into the dust.

  Before the encounter could get out of hand, the earl intervened. "If you will join us inside, Highness," he said quietly, "we may begin."

  John agreed stiffly. Flanked by the earl and Garrett, with Mark lingering to have a word with the archbishop, he disappeared into the blue-and-gold tent.

  Only a very few of the more intelligent, rational nobles would actually take part in the discussions. The rest, easily bored by anything that did not hold the immediate promise of a good brawl, wandered away.

  Lady Emelie, Arianna and Verony stood for a moment staring at the closed tent flap. Taut with anticipation, they wished desperately to be part of the talks. But that was impossible. Though Lady Emelie in particular had made her feelings clear in private conversation with her husband, no woman would be allowed any part in the final effort to keep England from civil war.

  "We may as well make ourselves comfortable," the countess said at length. "I suspect this will take some time."

  She proved more correct than she could have guessed. The talks dragged on for three days. Separate accommodations were raised for John some little distance from the main camp, but he spent almost all the time inside the earl's tent. What began as a general discussion of goals quickly gave way to precise listings of grievances and detailed demands for reform.

  On the second day, snatches of written proposals began to emerge, to be avidly seized by the women. One such brought a snort of rage from Verony.

  "It says here," she exclaimed waving the piece of parchment on which a scribe had hastily jotted down the latest provision, "that a woman's testimony can only be accepted in court in cases having to do with the murder of her husband. For all else, she remains unable to have any part in bringing justice be it for theft, the murder of someone not her spouse, or even an assault on her own person."

  Emelie sighed. She rocked the cradle holding her youngest grandchildren as she said: "There would be no mention at all of women if I hadn't persuaded Garrett it was necessary. He knows neither the king nor the barons will ever agree to laws that make us anything but chattels of our fathers and husbands, but at least this provision opens the way for future gains."

  "What about this one," Arianna commented, studying the parchment. Carefully, she read, " 'No widow shall be compelled to marry if she be desirous to live single.' That's a big concession for John, who's always been one for selling noble widows into new marriages or demanding money from them to refrain from doing so."

  Verony was glad to hear of that, as well as the other provisions which guaranteed widows immediate access to their inheritances and kept their property from defilement. But remembering her own experiences, she wished there was more said about the protection of minors who might be orphaned before marriage.

  As it was, the king retained the right to sell guardianships, but he was forced to approve provisions against the misuse of estates, which had sometimes left young wards impoverished when they finally came of age.

  These and the other clauses dealing with the rights of debtors and those accused of other crimes reassured her that the d'Arcys' overall objectives were being realized. Slowly but surely, they were whittling away at royal power and in the process establishing a system of law that would protect all freemen.

  Throughout the three days of talks the weather grew increasingly warm. On the first day, the prideful barons insisted on strutting about in full armor. By the second, some of the more sensible were removing their helmets. On the third, Verony noted with amusement that they had stripped down to tunics and little more, and were spending the better portion of their time either by the river or sloshing water from the horse troughs over each other.

  Food and, more critically, drink grew short. The earl and Stephen Langton had originally estimated the talks would not take more than two days. But John proved unexpectedly obdurate, picking at even the smallest points. As the hours plodded by, runners were sent out to buy beef, mutton, vegetables and large quantities of wine and beer to keep the barons content. Under strict orders to pay a fair price for all the provisions, they quickly became favorites of the surrounding merchants, who valued a windfall far more than any liberties that might come out of the talks.

  By the end of the third day, rumors and predictions were racing through the camp: The king absolutely refused to accept the final, most important demands limiting his power to tax or seize property; Earl Garrett and the other negotiators had threatened to hold him captive and confis
cate the royal treasury being held a short distance away in Windsor if he did not give in; John dared them to do anything that would provoke civil war, warning that their old nemesis, King Louis of France, would waste no time taking advantage of the situation and invading; England would be drenched in blood before the year was out.

  Verony tried hard not to listen to the wilder claims circulating among the waiting nobles. She could credit John with any obduracy or deceit, but she did not for a moment believe the earl or his sons would rashly threaten any action that could lead to war. If only she could speak with Curran and learn the truth. But during the days of talks he never left the negotiating tent. Her worries about how the great clash of wills going on around her would end had to be satisfied by what little could be gleaned from the scribners' notes and cautious comments.

  On a more personal side, she struggled with the still unsettled question of whether Curran had changed his mind about her unsuitability as his wife. The note of pride she thought she had heard in his voice when he spoke to the earl of her attack on Fairleigh gave her hope. But until she could hear from his own mouth that he truly loved and wanted her, she would remain doubtful of their future.

  Not until the night of the third day did Curran emerge with most of the other men to seek a few hours of exhausted sleep. Verony, having retired early to tend the twins, was in their tent.

  Gawain lay at her breast, suckling peacefully as Catherine slept beside them. Candlelight gleamed against the ivory perfection of Verony's skin. Her hair was loose and unveiled, falling in a silken cloud around her slender shoulders and long, tapering back. In deference to the warm weather and her task, she wore only a loose shift that did little to hide the ripe loveliness of her form.

  Curran stood for a moment at the entrance of the tent drinking in his wife's beauty and the tender scene before him. He was wearier than he could ever remember being in his life. Not even weeks of forced marches and constant battle had so sapped his strength.