Attica was surprised into letting out a quick laugh that ended on a wry note. So this was Alice, Princess of France. Daughter of the late French king Louis VII, and sister to his son and heir, Philip II, she had been betrothed as an infant to Richard. Only that had been twenty years ago, and the marriage had never taken place. Henry simply kept her at his court, ignoring Philip's demands that Alice either be made a bride or be returned to Paris along with her dowry
a particularly strategic and therefore valuable bit of French soil within a day's march of Paris.
Some said Henry delayed Alice's marriage because he wanted her wed to his son John, whom he doted on, rather than to Richard, who was already too dangerous. But others whispered that Henry delayed Alice's marriage so that he could keep her in his own kingly bed.
Puzzled, Attica searched the princess's face. I don't understand. Are you saying Salers has applied to Philip for aid in securing my return?
Alice nodded, and the two women turned to walk together along the water's edge. The viscomtesse accuses Henry of deliberately withholding her son's betrothed. She wants you back, and Philip is standing behind her demand.
At the other woman's words, Attica had the strangest sensation, as if the world around her had suddenly dimmed and blurred. She was aware only of the slow, heavy beating of her own heart, sending the blood pounding through her body until she felt as if she were shaking, shaking on the inside with a terror such as she had never known. If her betrothal had become a matter of state
In the meadow beyond the castle, some boys were playing knight, the smaller boys mounted on the shoulders of the bigger ones, each pair trying to unhorse their opponent. The two women stopped to watch, the French princess laughing gaily when one of the half-grown knights went sprawling into the grass. Then she glanced at Attica, and the laughter faded from her lips.
Mon Dieu
, you
are
reluctant, aren't you? She reached out gently to touch Attica's hand. I see it in your eyes. I'm sorry. I only made a jest before.
Shaking her head, her throat suddenly too full of tears to risk saying anything, Attica swung her betraying face away.
It is not, in truth, a proper subject for jests, said the French princess, her voice suddenly and surprisingly harsh. We women are not born to find happiness in this world, are we? Only to do our duty and bring honor and glory to our house. She stared off across the river, her last words little more than a whisper. However miserable it may make us.
Attica looked down into the other woman's face and saw the strain of worry there, and the sadness, and a trace of the anger the French princess probably didn't acknowledge even to herself. Will Henry do this thing? Attica asked quietly. Will he hand you over to Philip as part of a peace settlement?
A pair of wild geese flew above them, the sinking sun touching their outstretched wings with gold. Alice tilted back her head, watching them a moment, her features carefully erased of all emotions before answering. If he decides it is in the best interests of his people, then, yes, Henry will do it. She brought her gaze back to Attica's. To me, and to you.
The weight of the delicate band of gold on Attica's head suddenly felt unbearably heavy, weighing her down. She understood now the meaning of this precious gift. She understood that Henry Plantagenet had paid what he considered his debt to her. Now, if she wished to escape her marriage to Fulk, she could expect no support from him. For the sake of peace, he would see her returned to Salers against her will, even, if that became necessary.
Overhead, the geese dipped and wheeled, their twinned voices filling the evening sky. But Attica could not bear to look at them.
*
I hate these damned banquets, growled Henry, his hands curling around the carved arms of his high-backed chair. It's inhuman, expecting a man to sit still for so long.
Seated at the place of honor on the king's right, Damion laughed softly, while Alice put her hand on Henry's arm and said, If you had any sense, you'd be in bed.
Henry growled again.
Torchlight gleamed on upraised brass as some half a dozen liveried trumpeters stepped forward. A fanfare rang out, bouncing off the vaulted stone ceiling of the hall and heralding the entry of a procession of pages bearing basins, ewers of water, and cloths.
Only by leaning forward was Damion able to look down the long swath of white linen-covered table to where Attica sat on the king's far side, beyond the French princess. She had her head turned, listening to something Stephen was saying. Damion willed her to glance his way. She did not.
The noise of the crowded hall swirled around him; voices rose in greeting and laughter, benches and stools scraped over the rough floor, dogs barked and chased one another beneath tables. But he was aware only of the honey-haired woman with big brown eyes and a sad, winsome smile who would not turn and look at him.
She wore a gown of soft midnight blue wool that molded itself to her high, round breasts and bared the long, smooth line of her neck. A gossamer white veil held in place by a circlet of jeweled gold framed her face in graceful folds that fell back when she raised her goblet to her lips. He watched her throat work as she drank, watched her neck arch and her breasts lift, and felt his need for her fill him until he was shaking with it, shaking with his want.
He wanted to bury his face there, in the curve of her neck, and breathe in the heady fragrance of her hair. He
wanted to take her hand and lead her someplace far away from this noisy, crowded hall, someplace where he could undress her slowly and wondrously, where he could lay her down and make sweet, wild love to her. He wanted to make her his, all his, forever and ever. He wanted these things with a savageness that tore at his gut and filled him with terror. Because he was so afraid, so achingly afraid
I don't think you're a very gallant knight, said a young, petulant female voice at his side.
He turned to find himself staring down into the malevolent blue eyes of a pale-haired, flat-chested girl of perhaps thirteen years who sat on his other side, her head held high and haughty.
I beg your pardon, my lady. He flashed the disagreeable little girl his most charming smile.
The girl tossed her long, straight hair so that it floated in a silken cloud around her thin shoulders. I am Lady Rosamund of Carlyle, she said, and this is Lady Ermengart.
Murmuring politely, Damion raised his gaze to the stern-faced woman who sat on the child's far side.
You can't say you don't remember me, monsieur le chevalier, continued the king's ward.
Damion shook his head, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or groan. Because the truth was, he had forgotten all about the king's ward, had forgotten that Henry had promised to reward him for his loyalty and service by giving him Rosamund of Carlyle and the rich English earldom that came with her. Everything Damion had ever wanted suddenly lay within his grasp.
But, it was no longer what he wanted.
I am better born than you are, you know, said the girl petulantly.
Damion reached for his wine and drank deeply, his eyes
meeting hers over the rim of his cup. Alas, he said with a sigh, Tis sad, but true.
Lady Ermengart says most ladies are better born than their husbands. The problem is too many ladies and not enough husbands.
Damion felt his smile fade as he reached for his cup again. So someone had already told the girl what was planned for her, and she wasn't very happy about it. Another unwilling bride to be thrust into the arms of a man more interested in her lands than her person. He almost felt sorry for her.
Rosamund fixed him with a critical stare. How old are you, anyway?
He was surprised into letting out a short bark of laughter. Last time I stopped to think about it, I was seven and twenty.
The girl sniffed, turning away to rinse her fingers daintily in the rose-scented water presented to her by a page on bended knee.
I suppose that sounds terribly old to you, doesn't it? Damion said.
She reached for the towel to dry her hands. Actually, no. I was hoping for an old man, so that I should soon be a widow. I think I should far rather be a widow than a wife.
Caught in the act of taking another drink, Damion choked.
Still, said the girl thoughtfully, you might very well die in war, or at a tournament.
Damion pulled back his lips from his teeth in a smile that was not at all charming. One can always pray, he said, then ostentatiously bowed his head as the king's chaplain began to say grace.
The smell of roasted meat drifted into the hall, mingling with the scents of smoke and dog and hot, sweating men. Another flourish of trumpets announced the arrival, amid
murmurs of appreciation, of a boar's head to the high table. As the stewards carved, other dishes appeared, the servers kept running with slices for the diners. There was a crane with rose leaves and capons in saffron; partridges with coriander and venison in broth; herring, mackerel, and cod in exotic sauces; braised leeks and onions; a seemingly endless procession of dishes that dragged on and on.
At last, the tinkling of little musical bells announced the arrival of a flat-nosed fool clad in a parti-color tunic of red and green, who capered before them as the servants began to clear the first course. Suddenly he stopped, his head tilted at a queer angle, his gap-toothed mouth pulling into a wide smile as he paused to fondle his bauble. Sire, he said, bowing with stately grace toward the king. Only he bowed so low that his nose touched the knees of his colorful hose and he staggered, raising a light chuckle from the diners. He straightened with a start, bristling with comic indignation. You mock me. You mock. But I think if everyone here knew what some of you do beneath those boards and cloths he shook his bauble at them and tssked we would all be mocking you.
A chorus of laughter went up around the room while Lady Rosamund scowled and said, I don't understand. There's no one under the tables yet except the dogs.
Swallowing his amusement, Damion turned his head and found Attica watching him, her eyes big and dark and hurting.
She had never been any good at hiding her thoughts or feelings from him. And so he knew, then, that someone must have told her about Rosamund of Carlyle, and he knew why she had been avoiding looking at him. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and kiss away her needless pain and fear. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't true,
what she was thinking, that he had no intention of taking this ill-natured child beside him to wife. That it was she, Attica, he wanted and meant to have.
But, he couldn't go to her because he was tied here, to the king's side. And the strum of a gittern told him that the first jongleur was about to perform.
The night was dark and nearly moonless, the only light the cold, silver glimmer of distant stars arcing high and indifferent above the quieting castle. Attica paused at the edge of the bailey, her face to the wind as she let the fresh air drive away the scents of roast meat and spilled wine and stale woodsmoke that seemed to cling about her still, even though it had been an hour or more since she'd left the banqueting hall.
Hugging her mantle close, she had just turned to make her way back to the women's chamber when steel-like fingers reached out of the darkness to crush her wrist in a hard grip and pull her behind the shadowy corner of the stables. She opened her mouth to scream, gasping as a roughly callused palm clamped over her face. Wild with terror, she fumbled with her free hand for her dagger and heard a familiar, amused voice say, Would you skewer me with your short blade, then, lordling?
His hold on her relaxed, and she whirled in his arms to throw herself against his chest. Mother of God, you terrified me. What are you doing here? I thought you with the king.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. And what are you doing here, wandering alone about the bailey while all the rest of the castle settles down to sleep?
Wishing you were with me, she said, lifting her face to him.
He took her mouth in a long, hot, searing kiss that ended
all too soon. I should beat you, you know. His arms tightened fiercely around her. How could you believe even for one moment that I intend to marry that spoiled child?
Huh, said Attica, remembering Lady Rosamund's petite, wraithlike figure and long, fair hair. She is pretty.
If you like your females pale and tiny and young. Very young. I don't. His lips curled up into a smile that tugged at her heart and made her feel warm inside. Especially when those females want to be widows. All Lady Rosamund could talk about at supper was the various ways in which I might die and leave her in that happy state.
Attica let out a soft laugh. She didn't.
She did.
She rested her forearms on his chest, her spine arching as she leaned back in his arms so that she could see his face better. Marriage to Rosamund would make you Earl of Carlyle.
And marriage to Fulk would make you viscomtesse de Salers someday. Why should I be tempted when you are not?
She clenched her fists in the fine cloth of his tunic, shaking him. Damion, be serious.
I am serious. I've never been more serious in my life.
She sucked in a deep breath, trying to summon up her strength and courage, because she felt so weak and ill at the thought of what she was about to say that she could barely push the words out. If I am wed to Fulk of Salers, then you must take Rosamund of Carlyle to wife.
She felt him stiffen beneath her touch, his hands coming up to tighten on her shoulders as he seized her in a sudden, almost violent grip. Why? He stared down at her, a dangerous glitter flashing in the depths of his dark eyes. So
that if I can't have you, I'll at least be able to console myself with an earldom? Is that what you're saying?
He took a step back, his arms falling away from her as a fierce, frightening hardness came over his face. You're actually thinking of going ahead with it, aren't you? You're thinking of marrying that thirteen-year-old boy.
Damion She reached for him, but he jerked out of her grasp. She brought her hands up together, pleading with him. Please try to understand. I stood before God and made a vow
A vow you were ready enough to break a few hours ago, if only Stephen or King Henry would have supported you. So what happened to change your mind?