And your mother? Attica shook her head. It was my mother who first suggested the alliance. A bitter smile tugged at her lips, then faded. My betrothal is one of the few things Blanche Blissot and Robert d'Alérion ever did agree on. I told you they despise each other. Now that my father's age and illness have freed her from the constraints of childbearing, they are rarely together. She spends most of her time at the southern courts, while he travels between his various castles and hunting lodges in Normandy. She was aware of de Jarnac's hard, intense gaze upon her. Is your mother as loyal to Henry as old Robert d'Alérion? he said. Her horse stumbled in the sodden grass, and she pulled it up sharply. I don't know. Why do you ask? But he only shrugged and squinted away into the distance. Attica let her fingertips trail down the fiery lightning bolt emblazoned across the front of de Jarnac's shield, hanging against the roan's side. When did Sergei leave for La Ferté-Bernard? she asked after a moment. Yesterday afternoon. He slanted a grin up at her. Unlike me, Sergei guessed the truth about your sex from the very beginning. He simply didn't tell me. Why not? He laughed out loud but didn't answer her. They were traveling now through thin woodland of oak and birch with an undergrowth of bracken and fern and wide stretches of soft green grass. At the base of the slope, to her right, she could see a small hamlet of crude huts huddled against the cold, the dense gray smoke of their hearth fires curling up from holes in the thatched roofs. Encircling the village, a thick, protective hedge of brambles showed a prickly face to the world. Tell me more about him, she said. About Sergei, I mean. She watched de Jarnac's brows draw together in a frown of concentration. If you're asking me to explain him, I'm not sure I can. I'm beginning to think that sometimes, when something truly horrid happens to peopleparticularly if they're sensitive to begin withit can alter their perception in some way. A way that enables them to see things the rest of us tend to miss. But explain it? He shook his head. I can't. She stared down at the high, bold line of his cheekbone, at the wind-tossed wildness of his dark hair blowing against the tanned column of his throat. He was no longer looking at her but at the gorse-covered cliff above, hovering dark and silent in the gloom. So what happened to Sergei? she asked, remembering the squire's haunted eyes. What happened to him that was so horrid? De Jarnac's head swung around to look at her again. His town was attacked by nomads from the east. Mongols, he told me his mother called themand every man, woman, and child in Christendom should get down on their knees each night and pray to God that scourge never reaches our borders. Why? she asked breathlessly. What do they do? She saw his nostrils flare. They're herdsmen, Attica. From the steppes. They don't believe in cities, and so they destroy them. He tightened his jaw. Destroy them with a savagery the world doesn't often endure. Looking at him now, she could see no emotion in the hard planes of his face. But Attica found she could scarcely speak for the tightening of her chest. And Sergei saw it all happen? De Jarnac met her gaze steadily. You wouldn't want to even imagine the things he saw. He and his mother were the only survivors out of a population of several thousand. She lifted her head, listening to the wind blowing through the grass and scattered trees, and the tired clomp of the roan's mud-splattered hooves on the sodden earth. The things he spoke of, they had happened so far away and so long ago. Yet it seemed in that moment as if the horror of those dreadful events reached across the distance of time and space to touch her with a chill of fear and the sickness of despair. She wondered how anyone could endure such a thing and survive. A child. A woman. A woman, put up for sale at an Eastern slave auction. She dropped her gaze to the reins twisted through her fingers. This was one of the dark, secret things she wanted to know about this man; she wanted to know about the woman he had bought in the slave market of Aleppo. She wanted to know about Sergei's mother. But when she cast another look at the dark knight beside her, she saw that his attention had been caught by a line of horsemen that had suddenly appeared on the crest of the low ridge on the far side of the vale. He pulled the gelding into a copse of birches and waited, his hand over the roan's muzzle, until the riders disappeared over the rise. By then, the moment had been lost, and they pushed on. Early in the afternoon they came to a stream and paused beside its grassy banks to rest for a while. The rain had stopped by then. Attica swung off her wet cloak and tied it to the back of the saddle, while de Jarnac sat on a water-darkened log near the streambed and pulled off his boots with a quickly concealed wince. We've only seen those few horsemen, she said, coming to sit beside him. And we don't know for certain they were Renouf 's men. Perhaps no one is following us. He grunted and raised the wineskin they'd brought from the woman at the cottage. They're out there. Renouf knows where we're going, so he'll have sent most of his men on the direct roads east to Le Mans. But he's bound to have small groups of knights out covering the country to the north and south, too. Attica wrapped her arms around her bent legs, hugging them close. The rain might have stopped, but she was still wet and cold and already beginning to feel stiff from the hours she'd spent in the saddle. Who is the Saintly Guido? she asked, resting her chin on her knees. What? The Saintly Guido. Olivier de Harcourt mentioned him, and when I told you of it on the road to Laval, it seemed to mean something to you. De Jarnac rubbed his cramped toes. He was the singing master of a Benedictine monastery in Italy. Guido of Arezzo. He came up with the system of notation for writing down music. Music? She frowned, trying to remember. But there is no seventh note. He shrugged. Guido's system used six notes. But if a seventh has been added He shook his head. But what has any of this to do with Henry and Philip? she asked, leaning forward. De Jarnac held her gaze for a long, intense moment, then turned away, reaching for his boots. Philip has always had a fondness for codes. I suppose it goes with his fondness for treachery and intrigue. He paused to ease his right foot into the wet leather of his boot. At first, he used just simple ciphers, where the normal alphabet is replaced by another. But such ciphers are fairly easy to break, so now he's had someone develop a new code. He slammed his heel down into the boot. A musical code. A musical code? She studied his strong-boned profile as he reached for his second boot. But how is that possible? Even with the addition of a seventh, there wouldn't be enough notes. Not in a useable range. No. He stretched to his feet and swooped to pick up the wine skin. Which is why I think they're using a code that relies on the length of the notes, not just on their pitch. Her head fell back. But there is no way to indicate the length of notes, is there? He shrugged, turning away. Not that I know. She watched as he crouched down to refill the skin with water from the stream. The rain-cooled breeze gusted around them, bringing the scent of wet grass and earth, and the scolding churr of wrens in the copse of birches farther down the slope. She was suddenly intensely aware of their isolation here, in the wilds of Maine, and of the hours and days she would be spending alone with him. The hours, the days, and the nights. She found herself watching the way his tunic molded itself to the muscles of his broad back and the veins in his strong hands stood out against the hard sinew as he dunked the bag beneath the surface of the stream. She swung her gaze away to the distant mountains lost in the misty shroud of lowlying clouds. When you were in Brittany and Ireland, she asked suddenly, did the things you heard lead you to suspect John's loyalty to King Henry? He glanced at her over his shoulder. I know there have been messages sent back and forth between Paris and John's court. But no, I didn't discover any real proof that John has decided to join the rebellion. Yet the letters patent from the breviary would prove it, wouldn't they? To my way of thinking, yes. He stood, his back to her, his attention still focused on the wineskin in his hands. But I don't know about Henry. After all, he's not only a king; he's also a father. He'd probably argue that the letters only prove how much Philip is willing to offer. There's no real evidence that John intends to accept. I don't understand how a son could turn against his own father the way Henry's sons have turned on him, she said softly. What kind of men must they be, to rebel against the very man who gave them life? To conspire with his enemies? She was startled by the abruptness with which de Jarnac spun about. She saw the taut set of his shoulders, saw the sudden flare of an old, old pain in the depths of his vivid green eyes. Pain, and something else, something she thought might have been guilt, although she couldn't be certain because in the next instant his lids drooped and his lips curled into a bitter line. Perhaps you were more fortunate in your sire than some of us, he said, and swung away to catch up the roan's reins. She stared after him, her heart aching in her chest, a rush of unshed tears stinging her nose as she wondered what long-ago wound had cut so deeply that it still festered raw and bleeding in the depths of this man's dark soul.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They were plodding up a long, grassy slope, wet and slippery with rain, Attica on the roan, de Jarnac walking beside her, when she saw his head jerk up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. She followed his gaze, her heart slamming up against her rib cage at the sight of two mailed knights, cresting the hill above them. Nom de Dieu, de Jarnac swore under his breath. Yanking Sergei's sword free of its scabbard, he leapt up behind her and grabbed the roan's reins from her hands just as one of the knights shouted out a challenge. Hold on, he told her on a quick expulsion of breath as the roan shied badly. She clutched at the pommel, flattening herself back against his chest as he swung his great shield around in front of them both. Up ahead, the knights were still collecting for their attack when de Jarnac sank his spurs into the roan's sides and charged. The roan's hooves pounded into the sodden grass as the horse strained forward, its great head rising and falling with each upward lunge. Looking up, she saw that one of the knights, the one on the dark bay horse, had already pulled his sword and sent his mount plunging down the slope toward them. She couldn't see his face, only his dark helmet and the jutting flare of his nose guard as he rode at them, filling her terrified gaze with a vision of slashing hooves and red-rimmed nostrils and a deadly length of naked, polished steel held high. Attica squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. The shock of the two horses coming together reverberated through her. She heard the thud of iron against iron, heard de Jarnac's breath, harsh against her ear as he twisted and thrust. The gelding lunged sideways, stumbling. De Jarnac pulled it up, and Attica's eyes flew open. She saw de Jarnac's blade, dripping blood, and the dark bay shying away, riderless. Get down and grab that horse! de Jarnac shouted, practically throwing her sideways from the saddle. She hit the ground hard, rolling away from the gelding's flashing hooves as de Jarnac, swearing loudly, jerked the roan back toward the top of the hill and spurred it on. She picked herself up and wiped her stinging, grass-stained palms on her surcoat. She would not look at the crumpled, bloody body of the knight, dark against the lush green grass of the hillside. His bay horse stood at his side, quivering. When Attica reached for it, it shied violently, its head flung back, its eyes wide, its ears flat to the poll. Easy, boy, she whispered. Nice, pretty boy. From the hill above, she heard the clash of swords. Someone screamed. Attica didn't dare look up. Whoa, boy, she said again, her voice shaky. Watching her warily, the horse snorted and tossed its head. Attica leapt forward, just catching the reins below the bit as the big stallion sidled away, dragging her with it a few steps. She'd never liked the knights big warhorses, but she grabbed a fistful of mane and hauled herself into the saddle of this one. She noticed something dark and wet staining the wooden pommel. It was a moment before she realized it was blood. Shuddering, she gathered the reins and turned the big destrier toward where de Jarnac waited, a dark, solitary silhouette against a rain-drenched sky. The second knight's destrier had strained one of its hocks and was limping badly, so they left it there, on that bloody hillside. Before they left, de Jarnac stripped the helm and hauberk from one of the knights and took them for himself. He also took the knight's tunic to replace his own torn and muddied one. They made better time after that, with the two horses. She was glad when he took the big bay stallion and gave her back the smaller roan. She preferred the roan. And she didn't like the stains left on the knight's saddle by his knight's blood. The rain started up again for a while. But the cloud cover was already breaking up, and in late afternoon the rain petered out and the sun shone fitfully through shifting white clouds. They rested the horses again, then pushed on, speaking little, the atmosphere between them strained and tense until de Jarnac finally broke it by saying, It bothers you, doesn't it? Those two knights I killed? She lifted her head, her gaze locking with his. Yes. Why? He searched her face, as if he could find the answer written on her features. You didn't seem particularly distressed by the death of the routiers . You killed one of them yourself. She struggled with the effort to put the troubled ache inside her into words. The routiers were outside the law. They attacked me for their own gain, their own greed. But those knights She stared down at the reins threaded between her fingers. Those knights were simply following the orders of their lord. They weren't vicious, murdering thieves, only brave, loyal men. And they died for it. Would you rather we had died? No, but He pressed his lips together, and she saw the hardness in him, the cynicism left by the years he'd spent fighting in Outremer and across the battlefields of Europe. That's what most battles come down to, Attica. Brave knights killing other brave knights because they happen to be loyal to different lords. Or to different versions of the same God. She let her breath out in a long sigh. She felt a tearing away of something inside her, another part of the woman she had been. I know you are right. Only I've never been quite so close to the killing before. He gave her an unexpectedly gentle, understanding smile and gathered his reins. The road is good here, and the land flat. Let's stretch their legs, shall we? With an answering smile, she touched her heels to the roan's sides and let the wind blow away her troubled thoughts. They stopped frequently to water and rest the horses, and allow them to graze. But they always pushed on. As twilight descended on the high, thinly wooded slopes, the wind kicked up again, damp and cold with the threat of more rain. Attica clutched at her saddle's wooden pommel with numb fingers, her body stiff and aching and so chilled, she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering. She was so intent on simply enduring that she was only dimly aware of it when the horses finally stopped. She felt de Jarnac's arms around her, easing her from the saddle and cradling her close to his chest as he carried her through the darkness. Where are we? she asked, too exhausted even to lift her head. It looks like an abandoned shepherd's hut. He ducked through a low doorway. Part of the roof has fallen in, but there's enough left to keep us dry, should it come on to rain again. And we can light a fire. He laid her gently on the leaf-littered earth floor beside a sunken, clay-lined hearth. She tried to push herself up on her elbows, but it was so difficult even to keep her eyes open. Go to sleep, Attica, he said softly, his hand gentle on her hair. She awoke to find herself staring at a warm, crackling fire. She lay still for a moment, letting her gaze drift around the small, crude hut. It had been built of thick, curving branches, the cruck frame filled in with woven reeds plastered with mud and straw. But much of the daub had fallen away with age and lack of repair, and she could see black sky sprinkled with a hazy pattern of cloud wisps and stars where some of the roof thatching had collapsed into the far corner. A whisper of movement brought her attention back to the fire. He sat beside the hearth, his forearms resting on his bent knees, his head turned as he stared thoughtfully at the dancing flames. Firelight glinted a hellish orange across his sharp features. He looked so big and strong and fiercely beautiful, she thought she could look at him forever. The wind moaned through the tall grass outside, bringing her again that awareness of their isolation, that warm breathlessness that tingled her skin and set off a peculiar hum low in her belly. She must have made some slight sound, for he turned his head to find her watching him, and smiled. So you're awake, are you? She pushed herself up into a sitting position. You should not have let me sleep. I would have helped you with the horses. He didn't say anything, only looked at her, his eyes dark and glowing in a way that told her he, too, felt the intimacy of their situation, the vastness of the dark velvet night wrapping itself around this small, fire-lit hut. He turned to stretch toward one of the saddlebags. Are you hungry? No. I know I should be, but I am not. Eat anyway. He swung back to hand her some of the rye bread and cheese they'd found in the dead knights bags. You'll feel better. I feel better already, since I slept. But she took the bread and made herself tear off a chunk. It tasted dry, and she had to work hard to swallow it. Do you think there are more of them out there? she asked, reaching for a wineskin. There'll be more. He leaned forward to grasp another log and toss it onto the flames. The wet wood hissed, and he stared at it for a moment, watching it send up a plume of wet smoke. The wind rustled the thatch overhead, bringing the scent of wet leaves and grass. Tell me about Sergei's mother, she said suddenly. He swung his head to look at her. The fire glazed the hard planes of his face, but his eyes were dark, their secrets hidden from her. He stared at her for so long, she didn't think he was going to answer her. Then he turned back to the fire. What do you want to know? She studied his profile, the lean line of his cheek, the deep creases left beside his eyes by years of squinting into the desert sun. What was her name? Maria. Her name was Maria. She bent her knees, drawing them up close to her chest with one arm, while she continued to nibble on the bread and cheese he'd given her. Did she look like Sergei? He held himself very still. In a way. She was small like Sergei. Slight. And fair, with that pale, snow-white skin that never shows the touch of the sun. She sounds beautiful. His lips lifted in a sad, sweet smile she'd never seen before. She was. Something caught at her heart, something as sad and sweet as his smile. You loved her, she said softly. He brought his gaze back to her face, his eyes hooded. No. I was fond of her. But I have never loved any woman. Attica reached for the wineskin, surprised to see her hand trembling. So you bought her simply to share your bed? His grin flashed wide. I bought her to cook my meals and keep my clothes clean. She was your slave. A beautiful slave. You mean you didn't She broke off, unable to put her thoughts into words. He ducked his head, the smile lingering on his lips. I'm not saying I didn't want her, Attica. But I didn't force myself on her, if that's what you're asking. She came to me of her own free will, and not until I had owned her for six months. He reached for another piece of wood, but instead of tossing it on the fire, he held it in his hands, his fingers moving restlessly over the rough bark. We were in Syria at the time. There'd been a skirmish that day, with some of Saladin's men. She watched his chest lift as he drew in a deep breath, then let it out, slowly. I had a friend. Ponce. We'd been together ever since I left Anjou. He was one of the squires who dared you to try the stilts, she said, remembering. That's right. A brief, sad smile flashed across his face, then faded. Ponce was disemboweled in the fighting. His throat worked as he swallowed. A man can take hours to die, Attica, with his guts hanging out. His blood turns the earth beneath him to mud, and still he lives. And no matter how brave he is, after a while he just can't take the pain without screaming. Not near the end. She held her breath, listening to the crackle of the fire and the moan of the wind. De Jarnac's voice rolled on, as flat and emotionless as his face. I held him in my arms until he died. And then I don't remember exactly what I did. I only know that after a time Maria came to me. He tossed the stick on the fire. The last of the bread and cheese seemed to stick in At-tica's throat. She swallowed hard. She'd grown to love you. He shook his head. No. She was fond enough of me to want to help ease my pain. And she needed something that I could give her. But she never let herself love me. She didn't even speak to me. Ever. Attica's hand jerked in surprise, so that she almost spilled the wine. She couldn't speak? She could speak. I'd hear her talking to Sergei while she worked or murmuring to him when she put him to bed. At first, she knew only her own language, of course. But even after she learned French and Arabic, she never spoke to anyone but Sergei. I think she'd lived through so much horror and loss that she simply withdrew to someplace deep inside of her. The only person she let close to her was Sergei. She had such a fierce love for him, it was almost frightening. She lived for him. Attica replaced the stopper in the wineskin and set it carefully aside. She wouldn't speak to you, yet she touched you? She took you into her body? He shrugged. Like I said, I could give her something she needed human warmth and a kind of comfort, I suppose. I think she let me come as close to her as she dared. But somehow, by not speaking to me, she kept me out of her heart. An ache built in Attica's chest. She tried to push it out with a sigh, but it didn't work. And how did you keep her out of your heart, Damion? He stared into the fire, the flickering light playing over the harsh planes of his cheeks, the tight line of his jaw. She must have come close to you, Damion. You mourned her when she died. And you have kept her son with you to this day. He tilted his head to look at her over the tensed muscle of his arm, propped on his knee. She came close. I could let her, you see. The pain in Attica's chest tightened until she thought it might kill her. Because she put up all the barriers? she whispered. His eyes blazed at her, dark and fierce. No. Because she was not the comte d'Alérion's daughter, betrothed to the viscomte de Salers. For one intense moment she stared at him. He sat very still, his arms on his bent knees, his chest lifting with his soft breathing. Beside him, the fire crackled and spat as a fresh breeze gusted through the empty doorway. She pushed up from the floor and went to stand at the entrance to the hut. The high, sparsely wooded hills spilled out before her in wildly shifting patterns of moonlight and wind-tossed shadows. She felt as if the dark, stormy night called to her, to something deep inside her, lured her with a beckoning sense of abandonment as dangerous and compelling as the man behind her. The woman she had been even two days ago would have resisted. But she was different now.