Free Dragon Tree by Marsha Canham Page B

does
she not? And the body of a nymph with a well of nectar so sweet it
makes your tongue ache from the pleasure.” Odo leaned in closer and
lowered his voice to a conspiratory whisper. “Is that why you
defend her, Priest? Because you have tasted that nectar
yourself?”
    Friar Guilford
turned his face away, his eyes burning with rage and despair.
Neither food nor water had passed his lips in over ten days and he
was weak enough, feverish enough that he had begun to fear he might
go mad and say or do anything to gain relief for his thirst.
Somewhere he had heard it took a healthy man more than three weeks
to die by starvation, but madness, brought on by ravening thirst,
came much sooner.
    He could smell
the water on Odo’s skin, see it glistening on the fine red hairs
that coated the freckled hands. He prayed day and night to keep his
mind off the sound of the stream burbling by only a few dozen paces
away. When he was not praying, he was thinking of Amaranth. He had
been so utterly convinced he would see Rolf de Langois returning to
camp that day dragging Amie behind him, that he could scarcely
believe his own eyes when the knight had come back from the raid
bleeding and empty-handed.
    His relief had
quickly turned to fear. If she was not in the village where he had
left her, then where was she? Surely she would not have wandered
off on her own?
    Their escape
from Belmane had been a hasty, ill planned thing at best.
    A frantic
knocking on his door in the middle of the night had wakened him.
Elizabeth de Langois was standing there, her night sheath
splattered in blood, her teeth chattering so badly she could not
speak. A cup of wine heated with a fire tong had loosened her
tongue enough to set the hairs on his neck standing on end.
    She claimed
she had bludgeoned her husband to death. She had crushed his skull
with a candlestick and left him soaked in blood on their bed. He
had been drunk, as usual. Brutal, as usual. He had whipped her with
his belt then torn into her like a ravening beast. He had called
her a whore and a bitch and a dozen other filthy names even as he
tugged on her hair and howled out his pleasure.
    When he was
spent, he collapsed beside her still groaning promises of carnal
horrors yet to come. Blinded by disgust, she had grabbed the
closest thing to hand—a pewter candlestick—and brought it smashing
down across his head.
    Amie assumed
she had killed him. She had not fled to the chapel seeking help to
escape. Rather, she had gone in search of absolution, to confess
her sins and wait for the dawn to bring the sound of the alarm
bells. Despite her noble blood, she would be punished as harshly as
any peasant for her crime. Women who committed murder were
strangled then burned.
    The peace of
death, she had declared, was preferable to spending another day
trapped inside Belmane Castle, and strangulation would be a
merciful relief.
    Friar
Guilford, while unable to condone what she had done, had stayed by
her side and prayed with her through the rest of the night. When
morning came there was, indeed, a hue and cry, but not because Odo
de Langois was dead. He was very much alive with a split skull and
a boiling rage that promised her punishment would not be so swift
or merciful as a mere hanging.
    Without
thinking of the consequences, the friar had hastily outfitted Amie
in peasant’s clothing, tucked her hair under a worn felt hat and,
after pausing in the chapel and praying for forgiveness, had
removed the coins from the bishop’s box.
    Bundling Amie
in a cloak, he had taken her out of the castle through the postern
gate. They had made their way south through the forest, heading in
the direction of Kent and the abbey at Exeter. Guilford knew the
prioress there, knew the holy mother would shield Elizabeth
Amaranth de Langois with the last breath in her body if need be.
Moreover, Exeter was nearly a hundred miles away, far enough that
whispers of Amaranth’s whereabouts might not reach the ears of