stillness before a breaking summer storm. "I did not make up the pallet," Luke said, "for I was not sure if you'd want me to sleep here tonight."
"Is there a reason why I should not?" Justin asked, very evenly, and their eyes met for the first time.
"No," Luke said, "no reason." He took a deep swallow of the wine, then set the cup down with a thud. "Hellfire, de Quincy, that is one beautiful woman. Of course I agreed to escort her home. But a friend once told me that he was not one for poaching in another man's woods, and neither am I."
Those words were Justin's own, his assurance to Luke that he'd recognized Aldith was not fair game, already spoken for. He almost asked Luke if Claudine had offered him anything more than a walk home, then decided he didn't truly want to know. "Death to all poachers, then," he said with a crooked smile and he and Luke clinked their cups ceremoniously.
Luke was quiet for a moment, green eyes probing. "I do not know what you did, but you'll have no easy time making your peace with her. She is right wroth with you, man."
Justin drank, saying nothing, and Luke reached again for his own cup. "You can get her back, though," he said, "for when we reached the Tower, there were tear tracks on her cheeks."
Justin looked away, but not in time. The other man was staring. "My God, you've got it bad," he said. "Then why did you let her leave like that... and with me!"
"I do not want to talk about it, Luke."
"Why not?"
"Probably for the same reason that you do not want to talk about what has gone wrong between you and Aldith," Justin said, and Luke grimaced, then grinned reluctantly.
"That sound you hear," he said, "is a trumpet signaling retreat."
They finished the wine in silence and then retired for the night, Luke on his pallet by the hearth, Justin in the bed that still bore the imprint of Claudine's body, the scent of her perfume. He did not sleep well that night.
~~
Windsor Castle rose up on a chalk ridge a hundred feet above the River Thames. Just twenty miles from London, it had been chosen for its strategic significance by John's great-greatgrandfather, William the Bastard. The motte was flanked by two large baileys, crowned by a stone shell keep known as the Great Tower. Standing on the battlements, John gazed down upon the small village nestling in the shadow of Windsor's walls.
Daylight was fast fading but he could still see the parish church, the cemetery, the open market square, the wattle and daub houses. The narrow streets were empty of villagers. New Windsor resembled a plague town, for the inhabitants had fled, some to the deep woods south and west of the castle, others trying to reach the hamlet of Bray or the nunnery at Bromhall. Ordinarily in time of danger, villagers would have sought refuge in the castle, but Windsor Castle was no sanctuary. It was a target.
A few forlorn dogs still roamed the streets, abandoned by their panicked masters, and pigs would soon be foraging in the untended gardens, until they ended up on spits over soldiers' campfires. John paid no heed to the deserted village and the stray animals, keeping his gaze upon the road that stretched toward London. The dust clouds were growing thicker, kicked up by hundreds of horses and marching men.
"My lord?" He turned to find that Durand de Curzon had joined him at the wall embrasure. Together they watched the approaching army. The banners were visible now, the royal lions of the English king, his absent brother, hopefully rotting in an Austrian dungeon. John leaned his elbows upon the merlon, hearing again his mother's cool, clipped tones as she warned that she'd do whatever she must to protect Richard's throne.
"My lord?" Durand repeated, somewhat impatiently this time.
"What?"
"They are going to demand that you surrender the castle to the queen. Will you?"
Until that moment, John hadn't been sure himself what he would do.
"Is there a reason why I should not?" Justin asked, very evenly, and their eyes met for the first time.
"No," Luke said, "no reason." He took a deep swallow of the wine, then set the cup down with a thud. "Hellfire, de Quincy, that is one beautiful woman. Of course I agreed to escort her home. But a friend once told me that he was not one for poaching in another man's woods, and neither am I."
Those words were Justin's own, his assurance to Luke that he'd recognized Aldith was not fair game, already spoken for. He almost asked Luke if Claudine had offered him anything more than a walk home, then decided he didn't truly want to know. "Death to all poachers, then," he said with a crooked smile and he and Luke clinked their cups ceremoniously.
Luke was quiet for a moment, green eyes probing. "I do not know what you did, but you'll have no easy time making your peace with her. She is right wroth with you, man."
Justin drank, saying nothing, and Luke reached again for his own cup. "You can get her back, though," he said, "for when we reached the Tower, there were tear tracks on her cheeks."
Justin looked away, but not in time. The other man was staring. "My God, you've got it bad," he said. "Then why did you let her leave like that... and with me!"
"I do not want to talk about it, Luke."
"Why not?"
"Probably for the same reason that you do not want to talk about what has gone wrong between you and Aldith," Justin said, and Luke grimaced, then grinned reluctantly.
"That sound you hear," he said, "is a trumpet signaling retreat."
They finished the wine in silence and then retired for the night, Luke on his pallet by the hearth, Justin in the bed that still bore the imprint of Claudine's body, the scent of her perfume. He did not sleep well that night.
~~
Windsor Castle rose up on a chalk ridge a hundred feet above the River Thames. Just twenty miles from London, it had been chosen for its strategic significance by John's great-greatgrandfather, William the Bastard. The motte was flanked by two large baileys, crowned by a stone shell keep known as the Great Tower. Standing on the battlements, John gazed down upon the small village nestling in the shadow of Windsor's walls.
Daylight was fast fading but he could still see the parish church, the cemetery, the open market square, the wattle and daub houses. The narrow streets were empty of villagers. New Windsor resembled a plague town, for the inhabitants had fled, some to the deep woods south and west of the castle, others trying to reach the hamlet of Bray or the nunnery at Bromhall. Ordinarily in time of danger, villagers would have sought refuge in the castle, but Windsor Castle was no sanctuary. It was a target.
A few forlorn dogs still roamed the streets, abandoned by their panicked masters, and pigs would soon be foraging in the untended gardens, until they ended up on spits over soldiers' campfires. John paid no heed to the deserted village and the stray animals, keeping his gaze upon the road that stretched toward London. The dust clouds were growing thicker, kicked up by hundreds of horses and marching men.
"My lord?" He turned to find that Durand de Curzon had joined him at the wall embrasure. Together they watched the approaching army. The banners were visible now, the royal lions of the English king, his absent brother, hopefully rotting in an Austrian dungeon. John leaned his elbows upon the merlon, hearing again his mother's cool, clipped tones as she warned that she'd do whatever she must to protect Richard's throne.
"My lord?" Durand repeated, somewhat impatiently this time.
"What?"
"They are going to demand that you surrender the castle to the queen. Will you?"
Until that moment, John hadn't been sure himself what he would do.
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