The Spanish caravan was a long one, but eventually the last steel- and leather-laden mule and the last curious pikeman plodded past. The setting sun caught the dust of their passing as it hung in the air, shimmering in the slanting light like gold. In the distance she could hear the lowing of cattle being driven back to some village for the night. The grass suddenly felt damp through the blue velvet of the dead courtier's surcoat, and she shivered.
She heard the faint scrape of de Jarnac's prick spurs as he swung out of the saddle and stalked up to her, but she kept her gaze fixed on the now empty road. She could not bring herself to look at him.
A long black shadow fell across her. “Stand up,” he said.
Her head tipped back almost of its own accord until she found herself staring up into his darkly handsome face. The devil must look like this, she thought, when he's come to collect the soul of a sinner. His eyes were the strange iridescent green of some enchanted forest well, mysterious and unholy.
She could not move.
She saw two white, angry lines bracket his mouth as his lips tightened. “I told you, lordling, that I don't like being lied to. Yet you seem to have done little else since we met.”
Lordling. Whatever the men from Châteauhaut had said, it obviously hadn't been enough to enable de Jarnac to guess her sex. Attica let out her breath in a long sigh as the largest part of her fear broke away—then flooded back, tenfold, when his hand closed around her arm and hauled her up until her face was within inches of his. “Tell me again why you want to go to Laval,” he said, his lips curling away from his teeth. “Only make sure I believe it this time.”
Attica stared into that dark, disturbing face and swallowed hard. “I told you the truth.”
Still holding her arm, he wrapped his other hand around her neck, tight enough that she could feel her own pulse beating against his palm. “Think again.”
She fought desperately to keep a sob from shuddering her body. She was brutally aware of the killing strength of those hard fingers holding her throat. His man's body seemed to tower over her, big and powerful and dangerous. She sucked in a half-hitched breath, filling her nostrils with the scent of dust and wind-tossed grass and him.
“Would you die, then, to protect the fair name of your lady?” De Jarnac's mouth slanted into a smile that was pure meanness. “An impressive display of chivalric virtue, lord-ling, but foolish.”
Attica licked her dry lips. “What do you mean?” Her voice came out husky. “What did those men say?”
“Only that the future viscomtesse de Salers is traveling with an insufficient escort.”
“That is all?”
“It was enough.” De Jarnac's gaze swept over her, and she was surprised to see a gleam of what might have been amusement warming the shadowed depths of his disconcerting eyes. “I had you pegged for a traitorous cleric, lordling, but obviously I was mistaken. It seems you had seduction, not treason, on your conscience.” He let go of Attica's neck to cuff her hard on the shoulder. “The next time you decide to run off with your lord's betrothed, don't involve me.”
Attica staggered back beneath the blow. Then, realizing what he must think, she sprang quickly to catch his arm when he would have turned away. “You are wrong. The future viscomtesse de Salers does not flee her betrothal.”
De Jarnac swung to face her again. Something that was not amusement glittered now in the icy depths of his hard eyes, and she wished she had simply kept her mouth shut and let him think what he would think. “No?” He took a step toward her. “Then why did you fear what those men might have to say to me? And don't try to deny it,” he added, when Attica opened her mouth to do just that, “because I saw the worry in your eyes when I rode up to you after I spoke with them. You feared what I might learn from them the same way you feared they might recognize your horse. Your horse, mind you, but not you.”
He leaned into her until it seemed that his broad shoulders filled the sky. “So tell me, my little lordling, if you are not assisting her to escape her betrothal, then what the devil have you to do with the future viscomtesse de Salers?”
“She is my sister,” said Attica with a gasp. “My half sister. Stephen's sister.” She was blathering now, desperate to think of a name to call, well, herself. If only she hadn't told de Jarnac that her name—as a base-born son of the house of d'Alérion—was Atticus, she could have named the future viscomtesse de Salers as Attica d'Alérion. If he—
“Your sister,” said de Jarnac.
Attica made herself hold his gaze. “Yes.”
“And you expect me to believe that tale? Let me tell you something, lordling. Every time you have something to hide, your face goes blank. You might think you deceive me, but you may as well turn red and stutter, for all the good it does you.”
“She is my sister,” Attica insisted, determined to brazen the lie out. “Her name is Elise, and she is betrothed to Fulk the Fat.” Once, Attica had had a sister called Elise. A pretty little child with sparkling gray eyes and a merry laugh. She had died at the age of five from the flux.
De Jarnac gave a startled bark of laughter. “Fulk the Fat? Fulk the Fat?”
“Yes,” said Attica, the word coming out as an angry hiss.
“What kind of a father would betroth his daughter to a man named Fulk the Fat?”
Attica felt her skin grow warm. “The alliance is very valuable to the d'Alérions.”
“It must be,” said de Jarnac, his gaze flicking over her oddly. “And your sister must be a very dutiful daughter to agree to it. How old is she?”
“Nineteen.”
De Jarnac grunted. “Ah. I see. Not dutiful, then, but just plain ugly if your father still has her on his hands at that age.”
“She is not ugly,” said Attica indignantly. “She was betrothed as a child to Ivor of Chauvigny. But he took the Cross before she was old enough to marry, and died just last year in Antioch.”
De Jarnac grinned. “Not ugly?”
“No.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “All right. What does she look like?”
“She is tall. With light brown hair. And brown eyes,” Attica added, hoping she wasn't saying too much.
He stared at her, his gaze so hard and flat, she decided she must have imagined that brief moment of amusement. “Well, at least you're not lying about that,” he said.
He moved then, so swiftly she saw only the blur of his hand as he reached for the sword that hung against his lean left hip. The blade came out of its scabbard with a practiced hiss. Polished steel flashed in the sun as he brought the sword up until it pointed at her breast.
She stood transfixed by the sight of death held steadily only inches from her heart. The blade was double-edged, at least three feet long, and inlaid with a peculiar inscription of what looked like Saracen writing. Red and gold leather wrapped the grip, which ended in a heavy ball-shaped pommel made of a rock crystal that seemed to glow and pulse in de Jarnac's hand as if he had snared the lightning from the sky and harnessed it to his deadly sword.
As she watched, his wrist flexed and the tip pressed against her breast. A peculiar, half-strangled hiccup escaped from her throat before she could swallow it.
The sword was not as finely pointed as a dagger, for this was a battle weapon, made for cutting and thrusting more than piercing. But it was sharp enough to dig into her skin painfully every time her chest lifted on another breath. Sharp enough to slice through flesh and sinew and take her life, should he simply lean his weight into it.
She raised her gaze, slowly, from that cold, deadly length of steel to the dangerous man who held it.
“Now,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl that somehow managed to sound as lethal as a crossbow bolt whispering through the air. “You, my finely feathered young friend, are going to tell me why not only Stephen d'Alérion's bastard half brother but also his beautiful nineteen-year-old sister are chasing each other down the road to Laval.”
The pressure of the blade against her
chest increased. Attica stopped breathing.
“And before you open your mouth,” continued de Jarnac, “you are going to remember that like the Spring of Saint Ide, I can tell when you are being less than truthful. And I don't like being patronized with falsehoods.”
She stared up into his stark, harsh-featured face, at the flaring line of his high cheekbones and the ruthless slant of his mouth. She wondered what he would do to her if she did tell him the truth.
A man like Damion de Jarnac, his loyalty belonged to whoever bought his sword. The dynastic squabbles of the house of Anjou probably interested him not at all, she thought—unless, of course, he had reason to hate Henry. Or unless his sympathies lay with Richard or Philip. In which case he would surely kill her, she thought with despair, to keep her silent.
Yet if she refused to speak, he would kill her anyway.
Attica's heart thumped painfully in her chest. She would have to tell him the truth, she decided—or at least part of the truth. She saw his eyes narrow suddenly in a decisive way that sent shivers curling up her spine. She opened her mouth. But nothing came out.
She watched, wide-eyed, as his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his fingers long and powerful, his leather gloves worn and bloodstained from past killings. The movement caused the rock crystal that formed the blade's pommel to catch the rays of the setting sun. It flashed in her eyes, as brutal and raw as the promise of death she read in his face. “No, please,” she whispered. “I'll tell you. I'll tell you.”
His jaw tightened. “Then tell me.” The sword point never wavered.
She sucked in a half hitching breath that lifted her chest and pressed the sword's tip into her flesh deep enough to draw blood. “Several days ago, a—a man rode into Châteauhaut-sur-Vilaine. A man from the court of Philip of France.” Her voice came out thin and scratchy, hardly her own voice at all, as if all of her fear had lodged in her throat and was strangling her.
“What was his name?” de Jarnac demanded when she paused.
She lifted her chin in a probably pitiful gesture of defiance. “I can't breathe with your sword digging into me.”
The edges of his lips tightened. He curled his wrist a fraction, and the pressure of the blade eased—but only slightly. “What was his name?”
“Olivier de Harcourt.” She studied his face. “Why? Do you know him?”
“I know of him.” Neither his features nor his voice betrayed his reaction to what she was saying. He was obviously much better at maintaining a mask than she was. “Go on.”
She swallowed, but the knot of fear remained tight in her chest. “He had a high fever and died in great pain. Near the end, he did not know where he was. He … said things.”
“What things?”
The slanting rays of the dying sun cast a strange, fiery-red light across the knight's fierce, strong features, making him look like some kind of demon, sprung from the fires of hell. She felt the urge to make the sign of the cross, although she didn't dare move a finger. “He said that Philip and Richard attend the conference at La Ferté-Bernard in bad faith. That they do not intend to try to seek peace but will launch an attack when the conference ends.”
She waited, tense, her heart pounding hard enough to make her feel almost physically sick. The silence stretched out, became unbearable. “You don't believe me,” she said incredulously.
He shook his head. “I didn't say that. What else?”
“He said something about someone named Guido and a seventh note, but it didn't make sense.”
“A seventh note?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised by the gleam of interest in the shadowed depths of his eyes. “Does it mean anything?”
He didn't answer her. She watched his jaw harden, and decided she must have imagined that brief flicker of reaction. “How do you know all this?” he demanded. “Were you at Châteauhaut when de Harcourt died?”
For a moment, the question confused her. Then she realized he still did not know who she really was. “Oh. Oh no. My sister—Elise—told me. For it fell to Elise to nurse the man, you see. Yvette—the viscomtesse de Salers—has a great fear of illness and death.”
By now the sun had disappeared behind the rise, taking the light and warmth of the day with it. She became aware of the wind, gusting cool and sweet around them. As she watched, the shadows on de Jarnac's face darkened and he tightened his grip on his sword, lifting it just enough to make her heart skip a beat. “I am not an excessively tolerant man, lordling, and you are definitely trying my patience with this tale of yours. Tell me quick, now. Where is your sister?”
“At—at Pierreforte l’abbaye.” Attica closed and unclosed her fists against her thighs in a spasmatic, unconscious gesture. Until she'd had to mention Elise again, she'd been able to tell the truth, essentially. Now she was going to have to start lying. Again. And she didn't need de Jarnac to tell her she wasn't very good at it.
“I was on my way to—” To where? Attica thought frantically. She remembered de Jarnac's words, I had you pegged as a traitorous cleric, and continued in a rush,“— to Paris. To study at the university. I had stopped at Pierreforte for a few days to visit Elise at Châteauhaut and—and to rest my horse. So when de Harcourt died, Elise came to me at the abbey. She told me what she'd learned, and we decided that I should carry word of it to our uncle in Laval, so that he might warn Stephen. I—I had to take Elise's chestnut, you see, because my own horse was a bit lame.”
Attica closed her mouth and glared at the black knight, almost daring him not to believe her. The string of falsehoods she'd just unleashed almost took her breath away. The next time she went to confession, she thought in despair, she was going to find herself loaded down with such a penance that she'd be on her knees for a week saying it all.
The wind gusted against her again, hard enough this time to make her lose her balance. She staggered slightly, then straightened and faced de Jarnac, her head up, her heart quaking. “So now, Monsieur le chevalier, it is my turn to ask you a question. Will you help me to warn my brother and King Henry of this treachery? Or are you fond of the king's enemies? Will you slay me here, by the side of this road, to keep me silent?”
She waited, her knees shaking, her mouth dry. Waited for him either to lower the sword or thrust it into her heart. Instead, he said, “Why did your sister run to you with this secret? Why not to her betrothed?”
“Because she is not convinced that the viscomte and viscomtesse de Salers are as loyal to Henry as one might wish.”
All he did was grunt. Finally, she could bear his fierce, steady gaze no longer. “And what about you, Monsieur? To whom are you loyal?”
He smiled then, a brief, fierce smile that showed his teeth and never touched his eyes. “To myself,” he said, and lowered the sword.
Attica's relief was so total, the release of tension so sudden and complete, that she would have fallen if de Jarnac had not thrust home his sword and caught her by her shoulders as she sagged.
“Steady now, lad,” he said, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek. “I don't know whether you speak the truth or not, but I'm not about to ignore information such as this. I'll see your warning reaches La Ferté-Bernard.”
The firm pressure of his hands on her upper arms felt oddly comforting. She knew a strange impulse to lean into the protective warmth and strength of his big, masculine body—an absolutely absurd impulse, she thought with a wave of self-disgust, considering that he was the one who had just threatened to kill her and scared her out of her wits in the process.
She jerked out of his grasp, fury and righteous indignation rushing in to take the place of stark terror. “I thought you were going to kill me,” she screamed at him, her hands gripped into tight fists, her entire body quivering. “You scared me half to death.”
His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring wide as he leaned into her. “Did I? Well, good. Because you lied to me, my young friend, and your lies could easily have gotten me killed.” He thumped her shou
lder with one crooked finger, hard. “If I decide to risk my life, that's one thing. But I don't like other people doing it for me without my knowledge or consent. Is that understood?”
She glared up at him, a flush heating her cheeks as she realized he was right. By asking him to accompany her without telling him she might face pursuit more serious than that offered by a band of ragged routiers, she had placed him in far greater potential danger than he had bargained for. She opened her mouth to apologize to him, then thought about those hideous, heart-stopping moments she had spent staring down the length of his naked sword and changed her mind.
“So,” she said, her voice brusque. “Now you know.” She peered up at him. “Will you still accompany me to Laval?”
He swung away from her, growling a string of oaths that made her eyes widen and her jaw drop. She watched anxiously as he reached out to snatch up the Arab's reins. He stood for a moment, staring down at the leather in his hands. Then his head jerked up and he dropped the reins to spin around again so unexpectedly that she took a hasty step backward. She would have retreated farther, only his fierce gaze fastened on her, trapping her like a deer caught in the glare of a lantern.
“What else are you not telling me?” he demanded.
She stared up into his hard, accusing face and felt her breath and her wits both desert her. “N-nothing.”
When she said it, she honestly believed it to be true—in the sense he meant, at least. Surely neither the truth about her sex nor her true identity could place him in any more danger than the knowledge she had already given him.
She saw his lips twist into a half sneer that flicked her on the raw. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “I know you might find my words difficult to believe, sir knight, but I am normally a very truthful … person. I pride myself on my honesty and honor.”
“Do you indeed?” He took a step that brought him right up to her. “Well, then, let us hope for your sake that neither your honesty nor your honor are found lacking. For if that should prove to be the case, then make no mistake about this, lordling: You shall heartily rue the day our paths crossed.”
The Last Knight Page 7
