The Mistress Of Normandy (16 page)

With a swift motion he clasped her wrists in his two hands. His eyes glinted fiercely. “You can lie to yourself, but the heart doesn’t lie. You may claim I played stud to your mare, but I know better. I’ve seen your face ablaze with rapture, felt your legs wrapped hard around me, heard endearments spill from your lips—”

“Only because I didn’t want you to know my real reason for trysting with you.”

His fine, mobile mouth suddenly hardened. He released her, turned away, and yanked on his smallclothes and undertunic. “And did you,” he said over his shoulder, “achieve what you set out for? Are you carrying my babe?”

She kept her face impassive, her voice even. “I do not know. But I wonder if any budding life could have survived the perils you’ve foisted upon me in the past two days.”

The hiss of his indrawn breath sounded like an arrow slashing through the air. “What of your foolish climb down the tower?” he shot back.

She turned toward the wall. It should have felt good to hurt him as he’d hurt her. Yet a cold well of emptiness opened in the pit of her belly—and a rattle of nothingness echoed where her heart used to be.

Eleven

H
is tabard flapping around his torso, Rand crossed the yard of Le Crotoy and headed for the barracks. The wave of unseasonable heat that had baked Picardy gave way to a swift bluster of chilly air from the north.

A curlew wheeled overhead, greeted the morn with a plaintive cry, then beat its wings toward the sea. Idly he watched the curlew battle the wind. He had not eaten. His stomach was clenched in knots. Lianna’s resentment ran as deep and strong as a dangerous tide, straight to his heart. She was convinced he’d duped her from the first, and she had tried to convince him that she’d done the same in using him to produce an heir for Bois-Long.

An ambitious monarch divided them. Loyalty to King Henry compelled Rand to secure and hold Bois-Long for England; her loyalty to mad Charles obliged her to retain the château for France. Setting his jaw, he vowed to win her back. All of her.

Today his goals were twofold: he had to set about wresting Bois-Long from Mondragon and Gaucourt and he had to prove to Lianna that their love was mightier than political disputes. The former he hoped to accomplish within a fortnight. The latter could take weeks, months, even years.

He’d left her sleeping—or more likely feigning sleep in order to avoid him. Simon and Batsford were stationed outside her chamber. The window had been shuttered. He’d told his men to permit her the run of the keep but cautioned them not to allow her out of their sight.

Just as he reached the barracks, one of his men-at-arms came hurrying through the main gate.

“Good morrow, Dylan,” Rand said. Seeing anxiety in the Welshman’s dark, pointed features, he asked, “You’ve seen something?”

Dylan nodded. The arrows in his baldric bobbed. “Gaucourt’s men. The woods beyond the town fester with them.”

No doubt the Frenchmen had seen Burgundy leaving Le Crotoy with all his men. “The walls of Le Crotoy have never been breached.” Rand eyed the row of cannon on the battlements. “Go get something to eat. I’ll send Piers Atwood to relieve you.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Dylan shouldered his longbow and started toward the hall.

Rand made for the steps to the barracks. A feminine giggle issued from behind a sheaf of wheat straw in the stables beneath the raised soldiers’ quarters.

“Jack,” he called out. “I would speak with you.”

He heard a high-pitched gasp, a masculine oath; then Jack and Minette emerged from the stables. Jack fumbled with the laces of his trews while Minette finished stuffing her bosom into the bodice of her homespun blouse. “What’s this?” she asked in her nasal, peasant French. “
La baronne
has released you from her bed so early? I’ve heard it said blue blood is cold. Now I know it must be true.”

Battling annoyance and ignoring Minette’s nearness, Rand forced a laugh. “Speak not of what you know not.”

“La barbe,”
she swore. “You are handsome as the sun,
mon sire
.”

Jack chased her off with a none-too-gentle slap to the backside. “Later, my little bird,” he said in mangled French. “I’ll make you forget my master’s pretty face.”

“You won’t be here to scratch her itch,” said Rand.

“I want you and Dylan to go to Eu. I mean to engage our friends there to help us take Bois-Long.”

Jack started to laugh; then he bit back his mirth when he saw Rand wasn’t smiling. “You be in earnest, my lord.”

“Aye.”

“But the men of Eu are farmers, fishermen. Not fighters. And they are French.”

“They are men whose homes have been plundered by French brigands, whose women have been raped by knights.”

Understanding dawned on Jack’s gamin face. “And,” the scutifer said, “they are beholden to you for succoring the town after that raid. You armed them with Welsh longbows.”

“Exactly.” Gaucourt’s knights might be the ones who raided them. The people of Eu will not turn away from the opportunity to take captives, to charge ransoms.”

Jack’s face fell. “How does a peasant make a captive of a trained knight?”

“How did our king win Shrewsbury when he was but a princeling of sixteen summers?”

Jack slapped his thigh. “With bows and arrows, by God, not lances and shields.”

“Aye. You and Dylan will train them.” He paused. “Speak not of my intent. Simply say you mean to see them well prepared if brigands should strike again.”

Jack looked relieved. “It is best coming from you.”

“Have them ready to march inside a fortnight.”

“You ask much of me, my lord.”

“You have much to offer, Jack.”

“Dylan and I will leave today.”

“Watch your back. Gaucourt’s men are all around.”

* * *

Lianna glared at Rand from her chair by the hearth in the
grande salle.
The late-afternoon sun shimmered cold light over his golden hair, his smiling face. She wished her hammering heart would remember that this man was English, and her enemy.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. The scent of sea breezes clung to him. The rest of her nearly forgot, too.

“How are you, my sweet?” he asked.

The frown she sent him was anything but sweet. “You forced me into a marriage I protest, you hold me against my will, you keep me guarded by your lackeys, and you ask me how I fare?” She gave a dry, bitter laugh and slid a malevolent look at Simon and Batsford, who were playing at backgammon nearby.

Rand sank to one knee before her, took her hands in his. Her pulse leaped; she avoided his eyes.

Lowering his voice, he said, “A foolish question, considering your state of mind.” She tried to yank her hands away. He tightened his hold. “King Henry is coming to Normandy. With or without Bois-Long, he will dominate France and take the crown he rightfully claims. Your castle—our children—will reap the rewards of an English monarchy.”

She suppressed a shiver. Her uncle had described Henry as a driven man who dealt swiftly and ruthlessly with those who defied him. What if Rand were correct? What if Henry did win France? Her stomach fluttered. How would a Frenchwoman fare under English rule? Whose subject would her child be?

“You ask too much of me,” she stated. “I will not open my home to the English usurper.”

His eyes hardened. The chilly look seemed strange on a face that had always been soft with love for her. “Yet you would open it to a usurping Frenchman.”

She looked down at their entwined fingers, the bands of new gold. An idea niggled at her. The laws of entail might allow Gervais to inherit the property Lazare had gained through marriage. “I shall perish of boredom here,” she snapped, turning the subject and extracting her hands.

He stroked her cheek, then let his hand trail to her neck and lower, poised over her breast until she ached for him to touch her there. He said, “We’ll be back at Bois-Long soon.”

Her head jerked up. “How?” she asked. “You’ve but a handful of men.”

He started to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Aye, she thought, if we kept secrets from each other before, we keep new ones now. Angry at the yearning of her body, she pushed his hand away.

“I thought you wanted to get home,” he said at length.

“I do, I... The spring planting must be supervised. ’Tis nigh time to sow the hemp and flax.” She tapped her chin. “The shearing must be done....”

He touched her again, stroking her shoulder. He was relentless in exerting his power over her. “I’ll get you home.”

She tried to ignore the tender promise in his words and the sensual thrill of his caress. “Aye,” she said, “no doubt you’re eager to settle yourself, to make traitors of my people.”

“Our people. I would see us as husband and wife, working together—”

“I shall only work against you.”

“Then you work against yourself, as well.” He brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. Unconsciously she leaned toward him, hungry and resentful of that hunger. His lips drew closer, a whisper from hers.

“My lord!” An oversized man called Darby Green clattered into the hall. “’Tis Piers Atwood. He’s come back from patrol, and he’s been wounded by gunshot.”

“Is it grave?”

“No, the ball only grazed his leg.”

“Is the bridge drawn up?”

“I’m not sure. There was such confusion.”

“Shall I come, my lord?” asked Father Batsford.

“I’ll send for you if I need you.” Rand jumped to his feet. “Look well to my wife,” he said; then he and Green hurried out.

Lianna, too, stood. Wounded by gunshot. She turned the idea over in her mind, wondering... Of course. The gunner could only be Chiang. Chiang, whom she could trust above all others.

She approached Simon and Batsford, who sat glaring at each other across their game board. “I weary of sitting. I’m going out for a walk in the bailey.”

Wordlessly the men followed her from the hall.

* * *

Two hours later, Rand stepped from the barracks. Duchess Margaret, trained in the healing arts, had cleaned and bound the leg wound and pronounced that Piers would mend nicely.

Yet Rand felt grim. The men of Gaucourt overran the countryside. Doubtless Burgundy’s absence had emboldened them to act aggressively. Darby Green descended the stone steps behind Rand. His tunic, emblazoned with the Longwood crest, fluttered in a chilly gust of wind.

“I’m going out on patrol, my lord.”

Rand put a hand on Darby’s shoulder. “Not dressed like that you aren’t.”

Darby spread his hands. “Is aught missing from my livery?”

“Find yeoman’s clothes, and a cloak to conceal your sword and bowstave.”

Darby drew himself up. His voice, thick with the accents of his native Yorkshire, rang loudly. “My lord, I am no peasant, but a knight in your service.”

“I prefer you as a live peasant rather than a dead knight. Under guise, you can move freely. Your French is good. If you’re questioned, say you hail from Flanders. Take along a sheep from the byre. There’s a ewe in season. You can say you’re taking her to St.-Valéry for breeding.”

“Aye, my lord, a handy ploy.” He hurried off.

Rand hated being hemmed in by his enemies and abandoned by his allies. He ached to share his fears with someone. He remembered his long, earnest talks with Lianna before she’d learned his true identity. Now, despite the presence of his wife and his men, he felt completely alone.

He crossed the courtyard, paused when he heard Batsford crooning in a singsong voice. Rounding the Tour Gobelin, he spied the priest at the mews. A pretty gyrfalcon perched on his wrist. Murmuring softly, he stroked her with a finger.

“What do you here, Batsford?” Rand demanded. “You’re supposed to be watching my wife.”

“Lovely woman...” Batsford’s lips bowed into a smile. “Aye, lovely,” he continued in a slurred voice. “Sweet as the Virgin herself, and ever so agreeable.”

Lianna? Sweet? Agreeable? She’d never behave so toward an Englishman, even a cleric.

“Aye,” Batsford said, “found me a flagon of Burgundy’s best calvados, and said her uncle’d not mind if I had a look at his hawks. Isn’t this a fair bird?”

Rand gripped the priest’s shoulders hard. The gyrfalcon squawked and flapped its wings. “Where is she?”

The cleric nodded at a long, low building at the opposite side of the yard. “She asked Simon to take her to the armory. I know not why a woman would be interested in weapons, but she asked so prettily...”

A dull explosion rent the air. Pivoting toward the armory, Rand began to run.

The acrid scent of burnt sulfur hung in the air, mingling with a blue-gray haze of smoke. A door leading to the outer wall hung open, its iron hinges mangled. Simon sat slumped in a corner of the armory.

Rand crossed to him. “Are you hurt?” he asked urgently.

Slowly the squire shook his head. “My ears are ringing.”

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Simon began, pushing on the heels of his hands, trying to rise, “but I didn’t know she could...”

Rand didn’t wait to hear the rest. He sprang to the forced-open door and scaled the outer wall in time to see Lianna racing across the drawbridge. His first impulse was to leap after her; then he remembered Piers and the woods choked with enemy knights. It would serve nothing to deliver himself, defenseless, into their hands.

He bellowed at Simon to fetch his sword and dagger, then sprinted across to the stables. Moments later he emerged, hauling his saddleless horse by the reins while Simon buckled on his sword. Rand leaped on Charbu’s back and shot from the castle.

* * *

Lianna ran headlong beside a canal leading from Le Crotoy. To her left lay a band of woods; beyond that the town proper. Surely Burgundy’s niece would find protection there.

Gasping, she plunged down a narrow ravine. She noted with fleeting satisfaction that the steep, rock-strewn passage couldn’t be negotiated by a mounted man. Gorse and brambles ripped at her green cotte and plucked at her braids. The ravine led to a wide, dry creek bed, a dead estuary of the canal. She followed the dusty path inland.

From the corner of her eye she spied an approaching figure. Fearfully she shot a glance over her shoulder and recognized the blue-black hair and lithe form of Chiang.

They met at a clearing beside the creek. “God be thanked,” she breathed.

Chiang grabbed her hand and began pulling her into the woods. “We must away. They are all around us.”

“Nay,” she said, hurrying along behind him. “Longwood has but ten men—nine; one’s wounded, as you well know—”

“I speak of Gervais,” Chiang said impatiently.

“Good. We must find him. Have you a horse?”

Chiang stopped and spun around, his almond-shaped eyes troubled. “Find him?”

“Of course. He’ll help me get away from the English.”

“But for what? I trust him not. Nor should you.”

“What talk is this?” she asked, laughing shortly to cover a sudden thrill of nervousness. “I have no love for Gervais, but I must depend on him to take me home.” She frowned. “You came alone, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “I thought to take you to Soissons. ’Tis your uncle’s town. You’ll be safe there.” His gaze darted here and there. He held his spare frame taut. “Come, my lady.”

“Soissons! I am going home, to secure Bois-Long.”