Lady Of Fire (32 page)

Alessandra’s hands slackened, and in the next instant she was gripped beneath the arms and lifted.

Feeling as if jerked from a terrible dream, she looked over her shoulder into Lucien’s beautiful eyes.

How had he come to be here? What of the contest with her father?

She turned to him. “I thought…Leila…” She shook her head, then pressed her face against the heat of his armor.

His arms came around her, and it was the most wonderful thing she had felt in weeks. She heard her father’s voice, Agnes’s shrieks, the bishop’s condemnation, and the chatter of the crowd. But she refused to give up Lucien, holding tight to him and praying he would not reject her.

“Quiet, woman!” James shouted.

Agnes finished her accusation, claiming Alessandra had attacked her without cause, then fell silent as the bishop asserted that the
infidel
had insulted Agnes and himself and been corrected with a slap that in no way made recompense for what had been spoken against them.

“Lord Bishop, I assure you my daughter is a Christian,” James said in a strained voice that reflected veneration and humility. “Her mother raised her in our faith. ’Tis simply a matter of England and its ways being foreign to Alessandra. But she will learn. I implore you, accept my apologies for her conduct.”

Alessandra lifted her head to protest her father’s apology, but Lucien pressed it down and hissed, “Be silent.”

“I do not believe she is without taint of the infidel,” the bishop said. “Methinks she ought to be questioned to determine the truth.”

Alessandra felt Lucien tense further.

“I attest to her purity of heart, Lord Bishop,” James said. “Each morning, she attends mass and offers prayers to our Lord. She knows the Bible and quotes scriptures. She—”

“Yet she shows her body like a trollop, lines her eyes with the black of the devil, speaks out of turn, shows no respect for the clergy or her elders, and has just attacked your good wife.”

“Lord Bishop, do you speak of the gown she wore yestereve, it was improperly hemmed. By the time it was discovered, it was too late to correct. As for the cosmetics, she has been told it is improper and does not wear any this day. The rest she will learn.”

The bishop snorted. “You excuse her sin as trivial, yet even now she wantonly clings to a man not her husband.”

“She is frightened, Lord Bishop. This is her first tourney, and surely a shock to one gently raised.”

“You do not understand the gravity of the situation, Breville. Your daughter could be tried as a heretic. She—”

“No doubt,” Lucien said, “you are also shocked to see blood shed in a manner condemned by the Church, my Lord Bishop. Verily, it is the reason you did not protest, is it not?”

What was clearly a threat caused the bishop to sputter. “But she…I…”

“No harm has been done,” Lucien concluded. “Though methinks it best that Lady Alessandra attend no more contests.”

“Aye, for the best,” James agreed.

After some moments, the bishop begrudged, “Very well. This matter is concluded.”

“What of the attack upon my person?” Agnes cried. “Look at my throat. I will be bruised—”

Whatever James hissed, it silenced her.

Lucien turned Alessandra toward the steps and, an arm around her waist, aided her descent from the pavilion. But as they started toward the castle, James stepped into their path.

“I will take my daughter.”

Alessandra lifted her gaze up her father’s battered figure and face. No longer the warrior provoked to foolish rage, he looked weary and gaunt. Old.

Wordlessly, Lucien guided her around James and away from the lists.

“Did you not hear me, De Gautier?”

Lucien halted, looked over his shoulder. “I hear well, Breville. Do you?”
 

From the lists came the booming voice of the chief marshal as he announced the points for each of the contestants. Twice he named Lucien the victor—once in the joust, once in foot combat.

Alessandra felt dirtied. Lucien had won, gaining the ability to purchase his lands from her father, but it seemed such an unholy thing.

“The ransom for your horse and armor will be high, Breville,” Lucien said, then continued forward and across the drawbridge.

“As expected,” James said, following, “but it will not be near enough to buy back your lands.”

The muscles of the arm around Alessandra tightened. “Be assured that by the end of this tourney, I will have amassed enough to have much—if not all—of it back.”

“Not even you have the endurance to challenge enough comers to raise that much,” James retorted.

Lucien said naught, and the remainder of the walk to Alessandra’s chamber was covered in silence.

Once there, she sank down on the mattress, drew her knees to her chest, and peered through narrowed lids at the two men who stood over her.

It was not only her father who bore the marks of battle. Lucien’s breastplate was dented, the mail of his arming doublet in disrepair, and the stain of blood was abundant.

She shivered.

James drew the coverlet over her. “Are you ill, Alessa?”

“She is in shock,” Lucien said.

James touched her cheek. “Aye?”

“I am fine,” she whispered.

“Keep her away from the tournament,” Lucien said and pivoted.

“Halt!” James called.

Lucien paused.

“I have not thanked you for intervening with the bishop,” her father said. “Truly, I am grateful.”

“I did it for her, not you.”

“This I know. Thus, I would encourage you to wed my daughter that there be no more bloodshed. ”

Mouth compressed, Lucien said, “’Tis Alessandra you offer?”

She felt as if struck by a bolt of the blue lightning that often preceded rain in England. Would Lucien truly consider a match with her?

“Though I do not wish to relinquish her,” James said, “if it keeps the peace between us, I shall give you her hand in marriage.”

Alessandra held her breath.

“Nay, Breville. I would rather spill blood than wed a Breville to gain back what was stolen from me.” He turned and strode from the room.

Alessandra stared at the empty doorway, keenly felt Melissant’s humiliation of yestereve, then the longing to run after Lucien and repay him with every vile word—Arabic and English—to which she could set her tongue. Instead, she hugged the coverlet tighter.

“You love him,” her father said.

She met his gaze where he bent near. How had he guessed? Did it show upon her face?

Awash in humiliation, she sought another topic. “Why do you fear the bishop?”

Unmindful of soiling the bedclothes, James lowered to the mattress edge. “Very well, we will not speak of Lucien and you, but do not think you fool me, Catherine’s daughter.”

“What of the bishop?” she persisted.

Worry lined his brow. “If he determines you are a heretic—”

“I am a Christian. More than he!”

“It does not matter. Many Christians whose only crime was in being different have suffered persecution, have even been put to death. You must suppress those things Arabic if you are to assuage his suspicions.”

“It is not fair.”

“It is not, but neither is Bishop Armis. He is a powerful man of the Church and easily inflamed.”

Feeling her stubborn streak surface, knowing it best to keep it hidden, she lowered her eyes. “I will try to suppress my upbringing, but it will not be easy.”

Though anxious to return to the lists where the future of the De Gautier lands lay, Lucien paused in the great hall that was silent but for servants who made it ready for the next meal.

He feared for Alessandra, and she gave him good cause. Still, there was some good to be found in the attack upon Lady Agnes that had so roused the bishop. No longer would Alessandra witness the battles in the lists, which was as Lucien wished it, for he would not have her see the animal he must become these next days to gain his lands.

Recalling James’s taunt, he ground his jaws.
Not even you have the endurance to challenge enough comers to raise that much coin.

The same might have been said for the amount of soul given to survive the ordeal of slaving a galley. But Lucien had survived, and his scarred body was testament to it. The question was, had he enough soul left to endure the quest to retrieve all his lands? If so, at the end of it, might he find himself soulless?

Vowing he did have enough soul and it would be intact, hoping James Breville would not be swayed from keeping his daughter away from the tournament, Lucien braced his mind and body for the day ahead.

The talk was of Lucien’s triumphs that evening. Though conspicuously absent from the banquet, his deeds filled the mouths of men and women. Even those who had lost to him regaled listeners with accounts of the blows they had traded during jousting and foot combat and the ransom paid for their horse and armor.

Sitting alongside Agnes’s brother, Gavin, Alessandra tried not to think of Lucien and the further injuries he must have sustained. Tried but failed, though over and again she told herself she did not care what became of him and he was undeserving of her concern. All lies.

Averting her thoughts, she returned to swinging her foot beneath overly long skirts for which she had finally found a use. The soft peal of bells fastened about her ankle that were hidden beneath her hem eased her anxiety and gave her something to smile about each time they caused someone to glance her way.

It was rebellious, and the bishop would disapprove if he learned whence the sound issued, but the satisfaction of resisting some things English seemed worth it.

“You will be found out,” Sir Gavin spoke near her ear.

She met his gaze. “Whatever are you talking about?”

He grinned. “I may be mistaken, but methinks I hear the sound of bells coming from ‘neath your skirts.”

“Aye, Sir Knight, you are mistaken.” She swung her foot more vigorously.

His grin softened into a charming smile. “Forgive me. It just seems something your mother might have done.”

She stilled. “Tell me what she was like as a girl.”

“Ah, now ’tis silent.” He tilted an ear to the air. “Methinks the wearer of bells has departed the hall.”

Alessandra gave her foot a shake. “She is still here—merely curious.”

Pushing aside his food, he began to relate Catherine’s sorrow when she had first come to live with his family. Her grief for her parents was not short-lived, but eventually she had settled in and light had returned to her eyes. In relating her antics and the rivalry between her and his sister, he became animated. He chuckled, grimaced, and became teary-eyed when he spoke of the last time he had seen her—a few months following her marriage to James.

“Though she was my cousin, I considered her a sister,” he said. “Indeed, methinks I was closer to her than my own sister.”

Alessandra smiled. “Thank you for telling me. It is easier knowing my mother had you for a friend.”

“Though she did not speak of me, apparently,” he murmured, and she glimpsed hurt in his eyes.

Alessandra touched his arm. “I am certain she thought of you often. It is just that when she spoke of England, it was usually as my father’s wife. Rarely did she mention her childhood.”

Gavin leaned back in his chair. “Now you must tell me of the Catherine who mothered you.”

As she opened her mouth to comply, meal’s end was called.

“Later,” Gavin said and stood.

Assisted by his hand beneath her elbow, Alessandra rose. “I am indebted, Sir Gavin. You have been very kind.”

He snapped a bow, then strode to the hearth where the senior knights had gathered.

Left on her own, Alessandra turned to search out Melissant and found a red-faced Agnes before her.

“You will remove those pagan bells at once!”

Determined she would not be bested by this bloodthirsty woman who had struck her, Alessandra said, “I know not what you speak of.”

“Nay?” Agnes grabbed Alessandra’s skirts, clearly intending to expose the anklet to any who watched, including Bishop Armis.

Alessandra caught Agnes’s wrist. “You would expose my legs when the good bishop has directed they remain covered?”

Agnes jerked at her hand. “I would show what is hidden beneath your skirts.”

“I have my ankles, knees, and thighs,” Alessandra said, “none of which are appropriate to bare.” She pulled Agnes’ hand from her skirt, then stepped around the woman. Bells softly tinkling, she crossed to where Melissant stood before a group of minstrels who tuned their instruments.

Having observed the encounter, Melissant’s face was pale. “No doubt, Mother will forbid me your company again,” she bemoaned.

And again, Melissant would appeal to their father, who would overrule Agnes.

“I wish she did not hate me so,” Alessandra said. “Previous to this day, I did naught to earn her enmity, yet she behaves as if I have grievously injured her.”

Melissant sighed, said softly, “You have, Alessandra. You remind our father of your mother, whom he makes no secret of having loved above all others. Ere you came to Corburry, my mother was lady of the castle and had Father’s affection. Now she is once more eclipsed by Lady Catherine.”

Alessandra nearly protested, for it seemed unfair that she should be blamed for something over which she had no control. But then she recalled the day she had come upon mother and daughter while they studied the household accounts. The older woman’s pain at being second in James’s life had been clear, but Alessandra had overlooked it, exerting little effort to not become entangled in Agnes’s jealousy.

As hard as it was to admit, especially now with even greater animosity between them, she had made a mistake in not heeding the older woman’s feelings.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I should have been more understanding, should have held my tongue better and discouraged Father from lavishing so much attention upon me. Truly, it is not my wish that your mother be reduced to such a state.” She started to turn away. “I shall apologize.”

Melissant pulled her back. “Just now, I do not think she would be receptive.”

A glance over Alessandra’s shoulder confirmed it. The bishop her companion, Agnes looked entirely unapproachable. “Then later,” she acceded.