Lady Knight (24 page)

“I don’t want a cursed war!” Mathilda said. “A plague on the emperor! A plague
on that ambassador! A plague on our damned cousin Riannon. Why could she not
have stuck to spinning and needlecraft like other girls?”

Aveline sipped her wine calmly as the queen strode about the room. “Your lands
share no border with the empire.”

“Surely you don’t think a hundred miles of Iruland will be a barrier to the
emperor’s legions!” Mathilda emphasised her words with wild gestures with her
fists. “I cannot afford a war! Henry and the other idiotic hotspurs are all
rattling their swords and frothing at the mouth about the bloody Vahldomne
leading them to glory. A pox on men! A pox on glory! We need a good harvest, not
a fucking war!”

“Your treasury wouldn’t be unduly drained by a war,” Aveline said.

“That oily ambassador with his adder’s tongue will pour lies into the Lion
Emperor’s ears about the death of that fat dolt with the tattoo, and the next
thing you know there’ll be a hundred thousand accursed infidels stomping into my
lands, burning and pillaging for vengeance. If only I hadn’t agreed to let that
poxed ambassador come! I knew no good would come of it.” Mathilda jabbed a
finger at her sister. “I blame you for this!”

“Yes.”

Mathilda stared, nonplussed.

Aveline set her cup aside. “There will be a war. But you’ll not have to finance
it beyond a grand gesture of support. It’ll be a crusade.”

Mathilda’s expression brightened. “Crusade?”

“All those dangerous hotheads – those landless and feckless young men you find
so troublesome – will throw themselves into a holy war for the reclamation of
Evriat. They can gorge themselves on glory and loot well away from your lands.
And keep the emperor far too busy to bother you.”

Mathilda looked thoughtful and began twisting her coronation ring. “If this is
to be, then mayhap Henry was right.”

“About what?”

“Riannon. He has urged me to grant her a manor or two. To more firmly tie the
Vahldomne’s allegiance to me, rather than let Fulk of Iruland snap her up as one
of his leading vassals. Yes.” Mathilda nodded. “Especially if this crusade does
win back some of Evriat. You know Fulk will want to claim lordship of it for
himself. Greedy whoreson. At least we should keep the Vahldomne as our own.”

“It’s a sound idea,” Aveline said. “But, I warn you, she’ll be leaving on
crusade. However, I see no trouble with her being a leading member of the
Tirandese contingent as well as the representative of my order.”

Mathilda nodded and looked around. Aveline offered her own wine cup. Her sister
took it and drank.

“Or I could marry her off,” Mathilda said. “That’d be even cheaper than using
some of those properties I escheated from that prick Greywater. I must have a
ward I can use. Though, he’d need to be an unusual lad, do you not think?”

Aveline smiled as she rose. “If you’d wanted to endow her that way, we’ve
already used up the ideal marital candidate. Now, I must be away. I’ve business
at the grove. I’ll return to join you after your afternoon ride.”

Aveline strolled to the door.

“Who?” Mathilda said.

“For Riannon?” Aveline asked. “Eleanor of Barrowmere.”

Mathilda’s mouth fell open. “You… you jest!”

“What makes you think that?”

“They’re both women. Although, I suppose our cousin might be something in
betwixt male and female. For certès, she is not feminine.” Mathilda gave an
exaggerated shudder. “It makes me feel unclean to think about such unnatural
things.”

Aveline stared at her. “Why do you think you have no bastard nieces and nephews
from me?”

Mathilda scowled at her. The moment of her realising Aveline’s meaning was as
transparent as if a flame leaped to life behind her eyes and set her brain on
fire.

“Just so,” Aveline said.

Aveline sat back on her heels and dried her wet hands on the sleeves of her
robe.

“Victory on all fronts,” she said. “And wheels set in motion for continuing
rewards.”

She rose and stared down at her reflection in the holiest pool. She saw merely
her image, but she remembered herself as matriarch. One day, she would stand
thus at the edge of the Cave of the Pool in northern Evriat. The holy site would
be recaptured and re-consecrated. Perhaps she might be matriarch then. She could
be the one to draw power from the holiest of waters. If only half the tales of
the power of the cave pool were true, she would be able to tug on threads of
divine magic beyond the imagining of most mortals. She could bathe the world in
the might of the Dark-Faced One. And then… let the emperor, and his legions, and
his tattooed witch-priest warriors with their puny powers, all tremble before
the might of the Goddess.

Aveline’s reflection smiled back up at her.

She grew aware of not being alone. She turned to see a junior priestess standing
at the entrance to the clearing.

“Yes?” Aveline said.

The priestess curtsied. “Forgive me, Eminence. The Vahldomne waits to speak with
you.”

Aveline’s eyebrow arched. “Escort her to the pool of contemplation.”

The priestess hurried off. Aveline cast a frown down at her reflection. Perhaps
Riannon needed more healing. If so, it was unlikely she would come here and wish
to talk with Aveline.

Riannon paced the clearing. She wore her left arm in a sling and the gift sword
at her hip. Aveline thought better of a remark about Riannon’s having recourse
to it to win her duel.

“Your legs have suffered no hurt, I see,” Aveline said.

Riannon turned a fierce frown on her. “You have what you wanted.”

“The duel? True. I daresay the outcome was to your liking, too.”

Something behind Riannon’s expression hardened. Aveline took note of the
warning.

“Not that the Goddess’s cause could have failed to emerge victorious,” Aveline
said. “You served the Goddess well and earned yourself no small reward. Two days
ago, any man who spoke of Riannon of Gast did so with revulsion. Today, I only
hear admiration and wonder when those same men speak of the Vahldomne. I see
that you’ve even regained your family and Henry has clasped you to his burly
bosom. Why the grim look? Is this not what you’ve always wanted?”

“You have influence with the queen,” Riannon said. “If you bear me any
gratitude, or if she truly wishes to engage my thanks, have the marriage of Lady
Eleanor stopped.”

Aveline took a couple of heartbeats to recover from surprise. “Well, cousin, you
certainly have a way with frontal assaults.”

Riannon stepped closer and looked down at Aveline. “I have bled for you. You can
do this thing for me.”

“Actually, your service, as you’ve reminded me more than once, is to the Lady of
Creation, not to me.”

“Whatever her Grace needs that old man to do, let me do it instead and leave
Lady Eleanor alone.”

Aveline frowned. “You’re smitten with her?”

“The lady wouldn’t be happy wed to a man old enough to have whored with her
father.” Riannon’s jaw muscles worked. “Why can the queen not marry her to Guy?”

“Would that be more palatable to you? Imagining your brother with –”

Riannon’s large hand clamped around Aveline’s throat. Aveline could all but
taste the violence her cousin barely contained. She remembered yesterday. Once
Riannon had negated the witch-priest’s supernatural sword, she had killed him
quickly. She might be the perfect weapon that Aveline would wield again for the
order, but a sword had two edges. She had spoken more truly than she realised
with her casual remark to Mathilda about Riannon and Eleanor.

“You credit me with more power over my sister than I have,” Aveline said. “I’m
not even on her privy council.”

Riannon’s hand withdrew. Aveline resisted the urge to massage her throat.

“You could speak with her,” Riannon said. “If you chose to.”

“I can try,” Aveline said. “What would you have me say? That you want Lady
Eleanor unwed so that you can bed with her?”

Riannon glared and strode to the pool. Her right hand clenched tightly into a
fist.

“Your purpose lies elsewhere,” Aveline said. “Holy war is coming. You and I, our
kind, have no place in the mundane world of domesticity. Especially not we two.
Remember your higher purpose. Your rewards will be the divine favour that many
dream of but few earn.”

When Riannon turned, her expression was grim and obdurate. She stalked across
the clearing and past Aveline like she faced another death duel. She halted
three paces beyond Aveline.

“Can our kind marry?” Riannon asked.

“You wish me to persuade my sister to find a husband for you?”

“No. I want to know if I can take a wife.”

Aveline was too taken aback to try to conceal it.

“Is marriage betwixt two women or two men forbidden, or just not done?” Riannon
asked.

Aveline’s mind raced along different paths of possibility simultaneously. She
addressed what she thought Riannon intended. “The Lady Eleanor is already
pledged to Lord Howe.”

Riannon strode away. Her long legs swiftly carried her along the path between
the trees.

Aveline frowned. This could be dangerous. She had best hurry to Mathilda. Get
that marriage solemnised before Riannon tried anything foolish. And have Riannon
feoffed with those manors, if only to make her undergo another ceremony of
homage. Riannon needed a reminder that she served the queen’s will. The last
impediment Aveline’s plans needed was her paladin outlawed or imprisoned because
of a woman.

When Riannon stepped into the garden, Eleanor’s posture confirmed her fears
about the betrothal. Despite the heat of a summer’s day and her shoulder burning
with a growing ache, Riannon felt cold. She strode along the neatly clipped path
between herb beds. Eleanor turned. She had been weeping.

“Hold me, Nonnie.”

Riannon slipped her good arm around Eleanor. Eleanor clung to her. The
scintillating blue of the cloudless sky mocked their tiny island of misery.
Riannon wanted Fate to appear before her in human form. She would do her
damnedest to cut the slippery trickster apart.

“When is it to be?” Riannon asked.

“The sixteenth.”

“Shite. So soon.”

“Hear me.” Eleanor looked up. “Whatever happens is not the choice of either of
us. Given the freedom, our immediate futures would be together. Believe me when
I tell you that neither he nor anyone will reach that part of me from whence
love springs. You are there at the root of it, where it is purest and strongest.
Where no one has dwelled before.”

“Marry me,” Riannon said.

Eleanor’s eyes snapped wide.

“You said that if I were a man,” Riannon said, “we could marry and prevent this.
I am not a man nor ever could be. But why must that stop us marrying?”

Eleanor frowned as she considered this. She shook her head. “Man or woman, we’re
still vassals of the queen. We’d still be breaking our oaths to her. Could you
really do that? And we know not what punishment she would mete out.”

“I… Shite. Yes, I want to do this.”

“Truly?” Eleanor said. “Just four days ago, you risked your life rather than
break your sworn word.”

Riannon ground her frustration between her teeth. “I cannot bear the thought of
you unhappy.”

“Nor I you. And you would be, if you did this thing for me. Not at first,
mayhap. But what about later? As the years passed, you’d brood on the stain on
your honour. The disgrace would not lessen with time. You’d blame me.”

Riannon shook her head. “I’ve always lived with the consequences of what I do.”

“Beloved, I know.” Eleanor touched Riannon’s face. “But what if those years
passed for you in captivity?”

“I’m useful to the queen. As the Vahldomne. She may be lenient because of it.”

“That’s true. But I’m not particularly useful, aside from as a pawn.” Eleanor
squeezed Riannon’s hand. “You’ve no idea how tempted I am. A future with you.
But my head tells me, while my heart and other bodily parts are lost in their
blissful fancy, that we’re deluding ourselves. Even if we were to marry – and
I’m not at all sure that we could – I’d wager such an unusual ceremony could be
quickly annulled. Forget not that the queen has a naer for a sister who’d be
capable of discharging that for her most expeditiously. And where would that
leave us?”

Riannon scowled down at the path, where Eleanor’s hem draped over the toe of her
boot. “You sound like you don’t wish us to try.”

“I’m being realistic, beloved. And you know it.”

Riannon did not want to admit it.

She had surrendered before. It was the honourable course in the face of
overwhelming force. But she had so much at stake now. There must be a way, while
she had strength and breath.

“Come and sit.” Eleanor drew Riannon towards a bench. “You need to rest, however
much you protest. Let me have Agnes fetch my lute and I’ll sing to you. Then you
can tell me more tales from outlandish places you’ve been. This afternoon is
ours. We’ll enjoy each other’s company and forget that life can be other than
the two of us together. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows, can wait.”

Riannon obediently sat, though every fibre futilely vibrated with frustrated
purpose. This was one problem she could not solve with a sword.

“We’ll be like one of those beautiful pages in a breviary,” Eleanor said. “The
ones which show a couple in a garden under a lapis lazuli blue sky. Whenever I
open a book and see such a gorgeous picture, I’ll again be here with you, the
woman I love.”

Riannon lifted Eleanor’s hand to kiss. The idea that she would not be able to do
so in a few days’ time defied all belief. She studied Eleanor’s face. Eleanor
was dearer to her than even the cherished idea of the woman who had died bearing
Riannon – the only person she had believed might have loved her.

Dear, but not dearer than honour. Or was she? Could Riannon cast aside every
principle that had sustained her through her contrary life? Could she trample
those years of striving and adversity for love? Everything that Riannon had
become, through all the struggles that shaped her, was founded upon a bedrock of
her belief in her sworn word, her rectitude, and living the truth of the word of
the gods. Never had she stained her own honour in her dealings with men or women
of any station. No matter what other calumnies men levelled at her, or how they
reviled her, none could ever impugn her integrity. Eleanor was right – Riannon
had risked death rather than dishonour.

Love, too, was such a fickle emotion. It could afflict strongly one day, then
leave after but a few weeks or months, or sicken and wither. Was it a sound
basis for building a secure future? Perhaps not, but… “Does your shoulder pain
you?” Eleanor asked.

Riannon shook her head. Caring not who might see, she bent to kiss Eleanor.
Eleanor slipped her arms around Riannon’s neck. Riannon had often wished she
could have been other than she was, but never more acutely than at that moment.

Riannon would rather have been a thousand miles away, but Eleanor had asked her
to attend.

Nonnie, please be there. Let me see that, even though I must do this thing,
you’ll still be with me in some part.

So, Riannon, standing beside Guy and surrounded by her family, watched Eleanor
marry Geoffrey of Howe.

Eleanor looked pale but strikingly handsome in her scarlet kirtle. No one
looking at her could doubt why anyone would want to marry her. She was beautiful
and wealthy, with a reputation for generous hospitality and lively charm. To
those attractions Riannon could add many more – facets of Eleanor’s character
which had unfolded to love and intimacy.

Riannon stood ten feet from the most splendid woman the gods had created and did
nothing to stop her from marrying an old man. No sword cut wounded her deeper,
or left sharper seeds of misery, than the brief glance Eleanor cast her way when
Lord Howe slipped the ring on her finger.

“You were right,” Guy said to Riannon. “I’m a fool.”

Not nearly as big a fool as me.

Riannon let Guy guide her to the hall decorated for the wedding feast. She
numbly acknowledged the greetings of men and women who had ignored her at the
last wedding feast she had attended – before they knew her to be the Vahldomne.
Even Cicely offered her a meek hello.

Riannon could not stop watching Eleanor. The way she walked. How she gestured
with her hands as she spoke. That slight tilt of the head as she considered
something. Riannon did not need to see Eleanor’s face to know exactly how her
lips curved when she smiled, or how her whole face radiated joy when she
laughed. Not that Eleanor did much laughing that day.

“Vahldomne, how honoured I am that I can boast of your presence on this happy
occasion.”

Riannon dragged her attention from the figure in red across the hall to the man
before her. Lord Howe smiled up at her.

“When a man marries,” he said, “it’s a privilege to gain new relations and
friends. I’m fortunate beyond most men in that I not only gain a charming bride,
but the most illustrious of family connections, and acquaintances that must make
me the envy of all.”

He spoke courteously and with good humour. Riannon hated him. She loathed him so
strongly that it threatened to choke her. She could barely bring herself to
offer him a polite nod of acknowledgement. Even more than she despised him, she
reviled herself. There must have been something she could have done to prevent
this.

One of the entertainments was, again, the famous troubadour, Raoul de Nuon.
Riannon sat through his smoothly powerful rendition of the traditional wedding
song. Then, just as he had done at Henry’s wedding, he sang of Vahl. Riannon
frowned down at the table and let it wash over her. The wine in her cup might as
well have been sand. At the conclusion, the cheers broke out again. This time
they were clearly directed at Riannon. Even the arrogant troubadour himself
bowed to her before acknowledging the cheers for his performance. The acclaim,
which every young aspirant to knighthood and fame dreamed of, echoed hollowly
through the hero.

Riannon watched Eleanor dance with her husband. She bled inside.

Guy danced with Eleanor and made her smile. But even he had never seen that
soft, glowing look left on Eleanor’s face from the turbulence of her sexual
climax.

“They make a handsome couple,” Joan said.

Riannon nodded.

“I wish that brother of ours had more resolution,” Joan said. “The lady would
have been a prize for him. And they are such good friends. It seems a grievous
waste that Lady Eleanor go to so old and inactive a man.”

Riannon wondered if she would feel any better if Eleanor had married her
brother. She would not have wanted to hate Guy as she despised Geoffrey.

The music ended.

“I’m surprised that the lady wasn’t given to the son,” Joan said. “Though, for
the lady’s sake, I cannot help being thankful it isn’t so.”

Riannon did not care about Ralph of Howe. Another dance began to form. She
passed her cup to her sister and strode towards Eleanor. People watched her and
moved aside for her. Some bowed and curtsied to the Vahldomne.

“This must be my dance, madam,” Ralph Howe said to Eleanor. “Since you refused
me your hand in –”

“She is promised to me,” Riannon said.

Ralph scowled up at her. “You’re a woman, so they say. You have no business
dancing with my father’s wife.”

Riannon stared down at the rude whoreson. “They say other things about me, too.
Do you wish to test them?”

Eleanor put her hand on Riannon’s arm and tugged. “I’m promised to the
Vahldomne. Mayhap a later time, Ralph?”

Riannon resisted Eleanor’s pull while she returned Ralph’s stare. Despite her
shoulder, and despite the disgrace it would cause, part of her wanted him to
give her an excuse to vent her self-loathing fury on someone.

“Just the man I wished to find.” Guy slapped a comradely hand on Ralph’s
shoulder. “My brother, the Earl Marshal, is talking about horses. Come and tell
us what you know.”

Ralph wavered. He was clearly flattered, but he looked reluctant to let himself
be drawn away from Riannon.

Eleanor dug her fingers into Riannon’s forearm. Riannon finally turned and
dismissed Ralph from her thoughts. Eleanor looked worried. Riannon awkwardly
moved her arm across in her sling to softly touch Eleanor’s fingers digging into
her forearm.
I love you!
A softening of Eleanor’s expression showed she heard
the unspoken cry.

Riannon did not care who watched or how many tongues she set wagging by dancing
with the bride. Ralph Howe might be fool enough to challenge her to her face,
but no one else in that hall was. For as long as pipes, lute, drums, and tabor
played the tune, she had Eleanor to herself again.

Through their innocent touches – hand to hand as the dance dictated – they
reassured each other that, no matter what drove them apart, there remained a
part of themselves that would belong to the other. A piece of Riannon might have
shrivelled as she watched Eleanor speak her vow that gave herself to Geoffrey of
Howe, but that part was not Riannon’s love for Eleanor. Only after the music
stopped and people moved between them did Riannon realise that they had spoken
not a word to each other during the dance.

From the time when her mother had died giving birth to her, Riannon had largely
lived alone. A priestess and wet nurse had raised her in isolated Gast, because
her grieving father could not bear the sight of the babe who had killed his
cherished wife. Outcast, her adult life had followed a singular path. She knew
what it felt like when men who had called her friend, and fought shoulder to
shoulder with her, spurned her as a woman and creature unnatural. Never, though,
had she felt more searingly lonely than in the middle of a hall loud with
merriment, with her name warm on every second pair of lips, as she watched a
group of laughing women draw Eleanor away to the nuptial chamber. Eleanor met
her eyes for one look of distilled regret.

A raucous cheer heralded the second part of Riannon’s torture. In loud, tipsy
voices, men encouraged Geoffrey of Howe to join his new wife. They shouted crude
suggestions as to what he should do to her.

Riannon wanted to kill. She could not stop herself imagining Eleanor in a bed
somewhere close. Naked. Anointed with perfumes by her female attendants. Her
glorious hair brushed and loose about her shoulders. Lying in bed, waiting for
him.

With a cheer, men lifted Geoffrey on their shoulders. They carried him towards
one of the doors.

They would strip him and bundle him into the bed with Eleanor. Her Eleanor. His
now. His to do with as he wanted.

Riannon closed her eyes against the pain. “I was wrong. Gods, I’ve made the
biggest mistake of my life.”

Too late.

Guy put a hand on her shoulder. He looked as serious and unhappy as Riannon had
ever seen him.

“I’m going to get drunk,” he said. “Coming?”

“Yes.”