Authors: Susan Sizemore
words, my lord?"
Paquin was from Father Raymond. Raymond was not a friend of his, perhaps, but Raymond was
certainly an enemy of Vivienne's. Simon gave a cold smile. "Of course."
Paquin nodded, and started down the stairs ahead of Simon. Simon waited until the man was nearly
out of sight, then followed him all the way to a chapel on the riverbank. They did not enter together. The
little church was dark but for candles before the altar. Simon kept his hand on his sword, just in case
someone was waiting in the shadows. After Paquin had prayed before the altar for a while, Simon
stepped forward and knelt by him, as though to make confession.
"Well?" he asked as he looked up into the man's face. "
"Do you know why Lady Vivienne is at court?"
Simon hated to admit to ignorance, but he answered honestly. "I haven't the faintest idea."
"To negotiate your son's marriage to Marguerite deHauly."
Simon scratched his jaw. "How odd, I thought I was in Paris to negotiate
my
marriage to the deHauly
heiress."
"And Lady Vivienne is trying to undermine that. She is doing her best to convince the girl's father that
Denis de Argent is a better choice than his father. The witch can be very persuasive," the priest added
with a sneer.
Simon knew that very well. He nodded, and got to his feet. "I thank you for this information, Father."
"I am happy to be of help, Lord Simon."
"Good," Simon said, and blocked the priest's way when the other man would have moved past him.
Simon put a hand on Paquin's arm to stop him.
Father Paquin gave him an anxious look. "Yes?"
"I have a question." The man blinked nervously as Simon asked, "Are Gilbert Fitz-William and his
—wife—" Simon very nearly choked on the words. His grip tightened on the priest's arm. "Are they in
Paris?"
Paquin hesitated before he said, "Is murder on your mind in this house of God?"
Simon tilted his head sardonically to one side. "Possibly."
"Father Raymond said that that was what would interest you. That you didn't come to negotiate a
marriage, but an assassination." Paquin shook his head sadly. "Is Gilbert's death what you truly seek?
More than a marriage that will bring you peace and power?"
"I seek justice," Simon answered. "Is he in Paris? Is Felice with him?" The priest nodded reluctantly.
"Where can I find them?"
This time, Father Paquin shook his head. Simon decided to let it go for now. He had the one answer
he wanted. And a man who had influence with the king knew in what way he could be bought. Simon
would let it go at that for now, though the thought of his daughter's having to spend even one more night
in a forced marriage bed was hard to bear.
******************
of the awful dream. Her breath frosted the air as she threw off the covers and sat up, but she was
covered in sweat. It was sweat from fear that froze in the hall's frigid air. She was still half caught in the
dream as she picked her way between the sleeping forms huddled on the floor. She moved through the
darkness to the door, went past a guard who didn't seem to notice her, and moved, wraithlike, into the
moon-frosted courtyard.
Nothing was familiar. She was nervously aware that this was not Marbeau, but a place where she was
even more of an outcast stranger. Dangerous or not, she wouldn't stop the urge to be outdoors. The
shadows were dark black and threatening. The silver light was faint, alien. The stars overhead burned
cold and far away. Diane turned slowly, around and around, searching for the threat she sensed watching
her, just out of sight, the silent voice that called her. She spun, her cloak spreading out around her like
dark wings, until she became dizzy. Until the dream images couldn't be fought off any longer and she fell.
Not to the ground, but into her own memories.
She was back in the solar, alone with the man who'd dragged her in by her hair. Alone with the man
who told her in vivid, disgusting detail how he planned to tame her, to keep her for himself, that she was
his to do with as he pleased. He'd hit her while he gloated. He'd kissed her and fondled her. He'd forced
her to touch him, told her how he wanted her to please him, what he was going to do with her. He kept
hitting her, using a belt across her back to reinforce just who was in control of this situation. Of her.
The man in the dream was Simon de Argent.
What brought her out of the dream was that someone nearby was crying. The quiet sobbing was not
her own, not a part of her nightmare. Someone else was in trouble. Diane responded to the need in the
sound. The reality of someone else's pain was enough to help clear her head.
She found that she had fallen to her knees on the hard-packed frozen mud of the courtyard. Not
Simon, she told herself as she got shakily to her feet. Not Simon, she wanted to scream to the presence
she still felt lurking in the shadows. She had the odd sensation that something was trying to twist her
memories. She fought that sensation, but it wasn't easy. She
knew
it was Simon who had saved her from
Thierry, not the other way around. Still, she
felt
betrayed, and defiled, and helplessly angry at the Lord
of Marbeau no matter what had really occurred that night.
She tried to hold onto the facts as she went looking for the person who was crying. But the dream had
been so vivid it was hard to keep the truth and the illusion separated. What she found only a few feet
away, hunched among the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, was a skinny girl. Even from a few feet away,
and with only the moon for lighting, Diane could tell that the marks on the girl's pale face were not
shadows. The bruise on the girl's cheek looked new, but she'd had the black eye for a few days.
Anger on behalf of the abused girl drove out all of Diane's confusion and self-pity. She couldn't ask the
girl any questions, or offer any words of comfort, but Diane did drop to her knees and put a comforting
hand on the young stranger's shoulder.
She'd approached silently, and the girl was lost enough in her own pain not to have noticed. The girl
nearly jumped out of her skin at Diane's touch. A frightened gaze locked with Diane's. Even in the faint
light, Diane could make out that the stranger's eyes were amber. Her loosely braided hair shone like spun
gold even in the silvery moonlight.
Holy shit!
Diane thought.
You're Felice!
Simon hadn't told her about Felice, but Jacques had. He'd told her that Felice was Simon's daughter,
and that she had been married over Simon's objections to a knight that the king—Jacques hadn't said
which king—approved of. She suspected that Jacques hadn't told her anywhere near enough.
Which was typical.
After a few moments, the girl blinked away her tears, then ran the back of her hand across her cheek.
"You're the storyteller," she said. "My father's foreigner."
Diane frowned, but nodded.
Felice took a deep breath and sat up straight. Diane had the feeling the young woman was going to
pretend she hadn't been hiding under a tree crying like a baby a few seconds before. De Argent pride,
no doubt. She couldn't help but smile.
"I've heard about you," Felice said. "Vivienne says you're his mistress."
Diane got to her feet. She held out her hand and helped Felice up. She also shook her head
vehemently as Felice watched her. They walked slowly into the center of the courtyard together.
Felice paused, then turned to face Diane. "Alys says you are my father's lover as well." Diane tried
shaking her head again, but the girl ignored her as she went on. "That's why Alys came to Gilbert." Felice
folded her arms defensively around her waist. "I'm glad she came to Gilbert for protection," she said,
"instead of returning to Denis's bed. My brother deserves better than that whore."
Diane had no idea who Gilbert was, or why Felice was telling her these things. Maybe Simon's
daughter wanted her father to know this information and couldn't get it to him herself. Well, if she
expected Diane to act as a messenger she was out of luck. Diane wondered how she was going to tell
Felice that she couldn't talk, so she didn't have much of a future in the courier business.
What Diane did think she needed to do was get Felice back to Simon. Somebody had beaten the girl
up. Simon wasn't likely to let them get away with it.
Before Diane could think of any way to communicate with the girl, a noisy group of people entered the
courtyard. These newcomers were brightly dressed courtiers, their jewels and fancy clothes illuminated
by servants carrying torches. They had a pair of lute-strumming minstrels with them, and other servants
with trays of food and wine moved briskly around, like waiters at a reception. It looked like a great
party.
"I should go," the girl said as this moveable feast came closer.
She moved back into the shadows, but a woman's voice called out, "Felice! There you are! We've
been looking for you."
Diane recognized the voice, and a moment later Vivienne had broken away from the group and was
standing in front of her.
Vivienne beckoned to her friends. "Look, we have Simon's little friend too." A clawlike hand grabbed
Diane under the chin. Diane's heart froze as Vivienne forced her to look in her eyes. "You're so pretty in
the moonlight."
Diane forgot about Felice. She forgot about the party. She didn't know how she ended up back under
the tree with Vivienne. "Let's have a few words in private, my pretty."
And your little dog, too,
Diane thought, struck by the appropriateness of the witch's choice of words.
And you'll be the one doing the talking.
Vivienne's smile was vivid. "Such bitterness I sense in you."
Vivienne stroked Diane's cheek. Diane wanted to jerk her head away, but couldn't rouse the strength
to move, somehow.
"There's so much you need to know, pretty one. So much Simon and Grandfather haven't told you.
You have so much to be bitter over. So much you need to make them pay for. You've been robbed,
cheated, misused."
Yeah,
Diane thought.
So?
Somehow she didn't think Vivienne was the caring type.
What's in it for
you?
Diane wondered.
"Do you know why Denis hates his father?" Vivienne leaned close. Her voice was low and seductive.
It spoke not just in Diane's ear, but her mind. "Simon killed Denis's mother. Killed her, and drove Denis
from his lands when the boy objected to her wrongful death."
Diane shivered. She wanted to run. She didn't want to listen to this venom, but found that her back
was pressed to the rough bark of the old tree. She was trapped. The world beyond where they stood
was dark, empty, formless. Vivienne's hypnotic gaze bored into hers, and those eyes were the whole
world. The power of the woman was inescapable. Vivienne was as seductive as hell.
"Denis has a right to kill his father. You have good reason to help him. Jacques stole your voice, took
you from your own people for the pleasure of his master."
It was true. So true.
"I could give you your voice back, Diane Teal. Would you like that? To talk again?"
More than anything.
"Jacques can't do it. The old fool has lied to you. He hasn't got the power to give you your voice
back. I have that power."
Diane believed her.
"You need me. I want to help you."
No, she didn't.
Vivienne's cold laughter echoed through Diane's mind. "Perhaps want is the wrong word. You know
deception when you hear it."
Diane wasn't sure she did. Not from Vivienne. Not from Jacques. Not from Simon. Nothing was
simple. Nothing was necessarily true. Not even what she felt for Simon. What was it she felt?
"It's true that Simon murdered his wife." Vivienne's harsh voice cut through her thoughts. "It's true that
he's using you. True that Simon will toss you aside when he's done with you."
He's going to marry someone else.
"It's true that Jacques doesn't have the power to help you. I do. I'm willing to help you. I will help
you."
Not for free. Nothing was for free.
"Nothing is for free. But help me and I will help you. All you have to do is help me."
Betray Simon, Diane thought.
"He deserves it. He's hurt you. He'll destroy you. You can have revenge. And your voice."
She desperately wanted to speak again. Vivienne was right. He'd hurt her. Hurt her so bad. Taken
everything from her. Treated her like dirt. Tried to rape her.
Simon had raped her.
She could see the details clearly, as though watching some grainy pornographic film of something that