Free Almost Innocent by Jane Feather Page A

considered Magdalen.
    “Lively, impatient of restraint. Strong of character, yet with a softness that craves and responds to affection. She learns quickly if she is so minded, but she is more interested in the pursuit of pleasure than of learning. However, that is not unusual.”
    “Of what complexion is she?”
    “Fair, gray eyes, dark brown hair. Small frame, as yet unripened, but she bids fair to beauty.”
    Guy de Gervais knew that Lancaster wanted to ask: Is she like her mother? But he could not ask that question. Guy would not know how to answer it.
    “I will see her for myself,” John of Gaunt said, as if he had heard his companion’s thoughts. He went to the door concealed in the paneling and gave low-voiced instructions to the guard who stood without.
    When Magdalen received the expected summons, she sighed with some relief. She curtsied to the duchess, thanking her for her hospitality, and followed the guard, eager to be with de Gervais again. The passageways were thronged with servitors, men-at-arms, pages and squires in every kind of livery, accompanying the courtiers and hangers-on at the court of the Duke of Lancaster. None gave the child hurrying after a sentry more than a cursory glance. She was not taken to the antechamber, however, but up a wide, winding stone staircase and into a bedchamber hung with red and gold brocade, the Lancastrian rose embroidered on the tester and the curtains, set into the carpet and the upholstery. Privately, Magdalen thought the design overused.
    “This way.” The sentry pressed a panel, and a door swung open leading to a narrow stair, seemingly within the wall. Her companion plucked a torch from the sconce beside the door and held it high to light their path.
    Mightily puzzled, the child followed him down the stair. At the foot stood a narrow doorway set into the stonework. The sentry banged on the door with the heavy stave he carried at his belt. A call answered the knock, and the sentry opened the door, gesturing to his companion that she should enter.
    Magdalen stepped into a dim, warm heaviness. The door closed behind her. Lord de Gervais and another man were standing by a long table, goblets in hand. The other man moved to place his goblet on the table, and the candle on the wall above cast the gigantic shadow of his hand. The child’s scalp crept and her skin prickled in the smothering atmosphere. Someone walking over her grave . . . Why would Lord de Gervais say nothing to her? Why was he standing there, so immobile?
    “Come over here.” The other man spoke, moving into the more vigorous light of two torches above the fireplace, where burned a fire, despite the warmth of the May morning outside this secret burrow.
    Hesitantly, Magdalen crossed to him. She glanced in appeal at de Gervais, but his face was unsmiling. He had no part to play in this scene, but he was filled with a nameless apprehension.
    The duke took his daughter’s face between both hands and tilted it to the light. She felt the fire hot through her damask gown; his hands, hard with the calluses of a swordsman, on her jaw; the edge of the massive ruby in his signet ring touching cold against her cheek. She had no choice but to look up at the expressionless face staring into her rather than at her with such frightening, unwavering intensity.
    “God’s blood!” He flung her face suddenly from himand swung away to the table, lifting his goblet and draining it to the dregs. “God’s blood! I never thought to see those eyes again.”
    Magdalen knew that something was dreadfully awry. She began to shake, although she knew not why. De Gervais came over swiftly. “Wait outside,” he said softly, hustling her to the paneled door.
    “But how have I offended?” she whimpered. “I do not know what I have done wrong.”
    “You have done nothing wrong,” he assured her, pushing her through the door. “Wait abovestairs with the sentry.” He turned back to the room, his face grave as he dared to