Free Castles in the Air by Christina Dodd Page B

him to curb you with a large stick, but he was soft. He was so soft, but I reminded him of his duty.” He laughed, a nasty snicker. “You’re a disgrace to your family and a humiliation to your father. You’re nothing but a whore.”
    Not a sound disturbed the silence of the bailey. Everyone had heard Sir Joseph’s accusation, projected in the manner of the half deaf and with all the venom of a scorpion. Juliana had heard Sir Joseph’s accusation—indeed, had heard parts of it—before. But never before had he admitted to his role in her father’s absolute, continuing, and final rejection of her. Never before had he called her a whore. And never, ever had he spoken in such a fashion before her people, her friends—and Master Raymond.
    She couldn’t look at them. She looked, instead, out over her lands. Her lands, spread out before her in patches of wood and plain and village. Her lands,rich and fertile, alive with her cattle, her serfs, her villeins. She’d been the shepherd for this land and its folk, tending it, encouraging it, protecting it. From this land she drew her strength.
    With that strength she faced the people who stared, peering up from the trench and out from the bailey. She faced the triumph that sharpened the hawklike features of Sir Joseph, and she faced Master Raymond.
    She couldn’t know the way she looked to Raymond: proud chin raised, copper hair soft around pale cheeks, mouth quivering, blue eyes muddy with anger too long restrained. He wanted to step forward, to defend her, but some wisdom curbed him. This was her fight. She wouldn’t thank him for his interference, nor would she gain the poise she needed so acutely. Let her resolve this to her satisfaction.
    In a clear, calm voice, she said, “Sir Joseph, you presume above your station. Go to Bartonhale Castle, and live there until you die.”
    By slow degrees, the satisfaction in Sir Joseph faded. He stared at her, then at the people standing around. Every face wore an identical expression, set in revulsion and rejection. If one man had reached down and picked up a stone, Raymond thought, every man would have picked up a stone, and Sir Joseph would have been consigned to the fate reserved for whores. A fitting justice for one so vicious.
    “You may go now.” Juliana dismissed him and turned her back.
    The staff quivered in Sir Joseph’s hand as he stared at the wimple wrapping her head, and Raymond nodded at Keir. Keir stepped forward and caught the aging fiend’s arm in a warning grip. “The lady of the castle no longer requires you,” Keir said softly.
    Sir Joseph tried to wrestle free, and when he couldn’t, called, “Lady Juliana! Lady Juliana, I’m an old man. I’ve lived here most of my life. Won’t you have pity on an old man and let me stay?”
    Never by any sign did she indicate she heard him.
    Keir began to hustle him away, but Sir Joseph cried, “Lady Juliana! At least give me time to pack. To say my farewell to the place that has been my home these many years! I beg you—”
    Raymond jerked his head at Keir. Keir almost wrenched Sir Joseph off his feet, but too late. Juliana was not immune to a woman’s pity. Without looking at Sir Joseph, she pronounced, “You may stay until after Twelfth Night. The day after Twelfth Night, you will leave, regardless of your health or the weather or any other excuse.”
    Keir tossed an apologetic glance at Raymond, but Raymond only shrugged. He couldn’t condemn Juliana’s good sense in sending her opponent away, nor could he condemn her kindness to her obsolete commander.
    Smugly, he realized one goal of his masquerade had been achieved; he had identified the reason Juliana had avoided marriage. Perhaps she had wanted some unsuitable man. The unbending old man’s contempt, excessive though it had been, had made it clear it was nothing more than a foolish love affair.
    She stood on the drawbridge, so still, so upright, unaware of his cognitions and seemingly oblivious to the