"What about the local people? You were destroying their property, their means of sustenance. Didn't they object?"
"Of course." He dragged his fingers through his hair. "They screamed and wept as we razed their villages. Five shires in northern England are barren and desolate to this day."
"How could you have...I mean, didn't you feel bad about—"
"I was consumed with remorse," he said quietly. "But my king ordered it done, and so I did it."
"Yes," she murmured, comprehension dawning. He'd sworn an oath of obedience to William, and he did not take oaths lightly.
"If we sinned in what we did," he said, fetching a leather pouch from the deck and tying it around his waist, "our punishment came during the march back to York. 'Twas a bitter winter that year, and we had to travel on foot through steep mountain passes. Some of the men lost their toes and fingers. Many of them took ill. My closest friend, Hugh, died in my arms."
"I'm surprised you didn't ask to be dismissed from the king's service after that."
"I'm a soldier," he said, sitting to pull on his boots. "Luke warned me when I embarked on this life that I might have to follow orders that didn't sit easy with me. 'Tis a hard life, but there's a certain freedom in it. I'm responsible only to myself and my liege—and, of course, to God. I've no estate to maintain, no villeins depending on me for their livelihoods, no wife and children to be responsible for. William tried to release me again last year, after our campaign against Malcom king of Scots, but I turned him down."
"There was a time when you craved the land you now turn your back on. 'Twas the very reason you put in with William in the first place."
Looking up, he met her gaze. "I changed my mind," he said tonelessly. Before she could summon a response, he stood, wincing, and made his way down the weathered board that served as a sort of makeshift gangplank between the boat and the riverbank. "I can visit Hauekleah whenever I'm on leave. 'Tis adequate to satisfy my rare urges to envelop myself in the noisy bosom of family life." Kneeling by the river, he cupped his hands in the water, filled his mouth and spat it out.
Lifting her skirts, Nicki stepped cautiously onto the dilapidated board. "Is that what you'll do during this six-month leave the king has imposed on you? Spend it at Hauekleah?"
"I imagine so." Turning, he saw her inching her way down the steep incline, but he made no move to assist her. There was a time when he would have rushed to offer his hand. His gallant streak had been part of the youthful charm that had stolen her heart that summer in Périgeaux.
"I'll stay with Luke and Faithe," he said, rising and drying his hands on his chausses, "while I petition the king to allow me to come back earlier."
"Even as a boy, you were fiercely dedicated to soldiering. I always knew you would never give it up, not for—" Not for me. That's what she'd been about to say. Instead she said, "'Twas a consuming passion with you."
"It was," he said quietly. "Now, it's...just a way of life." Spearing her with a look that made her shiver, he said, "It's all I've got anymore."
She couldn't mistake his hostility as he turned abruptly and squatted down by the river to splash water onto his face. It seemed he blamed her for the lonely and unsatisfying course his life had taken. True, she might have tried harder to discourage him that summer in Périgeaux, knowing they had no future together. But she'd been young, and she'd adored him; how could she have been expected to turn him away? And, too, considering his knightly vocation, he knew as well as she the futility of pursuing her.
Perhaps she'd been unwise in coming here. Given their history, she should be avoiding him, not seeking him out; had experience taught her nothing? She decided to broach the subject she had come here to discuss, and then leave. "Milo woke me up in the middle of the night. He asked me if I might have any idea why you...why you might hate me."
He stilled, crouched down with his back to her. After a long moment he stood and turned to face her, lifting his shirt to dry his face. "What did you tell him?"
He could have denied any animosity toward her, but he didn't. That stung in light of her feelings for him, which had lingered tenaciously all these years. How he would laugh at her if he knew! Straightening her back, she said, "I told him that nine years ago in Périgeaux, you'd...wanted me to become your mistress. And that I'd refused."
Incredulous anger flashed in his eyes. "That can't honestly be how you remember it."
Her gaze dropped to the muddy riverbank. "I know there was more to it. But I didn't think it wise to share...everything with Milo. Just the basic facts of what—"
"Facts?"
"You can't deny that you tried to...that we almost—"
"And you can't deny that it was more than mere lust that drove me."
"Don't you understand, Alex?" She forced herself to meet his eyes. "It doesn't matter what drove you. The fact is, you knew you were leaving to join William."
"And that meant I couldn't fall in love?" He took a step toward her; she took a step back. "I loved you, Nicki. You knew how I felt. I told you."
"I know."
"I asked you to run away with me, for God's sake!" he exclaimed, his hands fisted, a cord bulging on his neck.
"I know," she said softly, "but you never asked me to marry you."
He stared at her, a hint of what looked like self-doubt eroding his expression of outrage. That he was so clearly taken aback made Nicki almost pity him. How deluded he'd been. "I..." He raked his hair off his face, but it fell right back. "I wasn't in any position..."
"You wanted me to be your leman," she said, with as even a temper as she could muster. "You wanted to keep me tucked away in some nunnery until you found yourself between battles and came to call—"
"You're twisting things around," he said, but there was a note of uncertainty in tone, and he seemed to have a hard time meeting her gaze. It was as if he were struggling to remember all that had transpired, all he'd claimed and offered and promised, during their last, eventful encounter. "The convent was supposed to be a temporary refuge until I earned some property of my own."
"You weren't in a position to marry me," she said, quoting his own words back at him, "but you wanted me to run away with you." She shook her head solemnly. "Mama was right. You could offer me naught but shame."
He spun around, grinding his fists against his temples. "Damn, I wish my head would stop pounding, so I could think."
"You wanted me to be your whore." She chanced a step toward him. "Milo wanted me to be his wife."
"Milo wanted Peverell!" he thundered, whirling around.
"Who are you to judge him?" she demanded, her own voice rising in righteous anger. "You, who were willing to ruin my life just to possess me."
"Christ, Nicki, you knew me." His eyes glittered with sincerity. "Do you think I had it in me to be that inhuman, that coldly calculating? I was too young for any of that. I loved you. I wanted you. 'Twas that simple."
"Perhaps so," she conceded, seeking forbearance and understanding within herself. "But you wanted the soldier's life, too. Didn't you know you couldn't have both? Your brother offered you counsel on everything else. He must have told you this."
He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose. She barely heard his whispered, "Aye."
"Regardless of your intentions," she said, "if I'd left with you, 'twould have been a nightmare, especially for me. You would have led me into a life of disgrace...clandestine meetings when you could manage it, long months of loneliness in between. You would have grown weary of the secrecy, the complications, my unhappiness. When it all became too much, you would have been compelled to discard me. I don't think I could have borne that."
"I bore it when you discarded me." Alex's voice seethed with a bitterness cultivated over nine long years. "Or don't you recall having done so?"
"I..." She remembered how wretched she'd felt during Peter's announcement of her betrothal to Milo, how she'd wanted to run to Alex and throw her arms around him and weep and scream and explain and.
..
"I was the one who was tossed aside, Nicki. You led me on for weeks, letting me lose my heart to you, letting me think you cared, when all the while you had your sights set on Milo. You were using me to make him jealous. I was but the bait for the trap you laid—"
"Trap! How can you—"
"And it worked. Congratulations," he said nastily. "I hope you're happy with the quarry you snagged." Stalking past her, he climbed back up to the boat and grabbed the leather flask. When he stepped back onto the improvised gangplank, his foot slipped and he stumbled, the flask falling to the ground as he regained his bearings. He rubbed his eyes with trembling fingers, his face pale as chalk.
She retrieved the flask and handed it to him when he got to the ground. Sympathy for him warred with hurt that he could think so ill of her. "If this is what's become of you," she said, "I daresay I'm no worse off with Milo than I would have been with you."
He wheeled on her, advancing with swift steps that forced her back against the hull of the longship. She tried to push him away, but he threw the flask aside and seized her hands in a painful grasp. "Don't compare me to that withered old hen." His gaze lingered on her body as he moved closer. "You wouldn't want to goad me into demonstrating how wrong you are."
She rammed her heel down hard on his instep. He spat out a ripe oath as he released her. "I daresay you're right about that," she said, moving aside to put some distance between them.
He pressed his forehead to the hull of the boat. "Nicki, I'm..." He shook his head. "That was..." He sighed. "Go away, Nicki. 'Twas ill-advised, your coming here."
Her heart ached, remembering those long, enchanted afternoons in their cave. She mourned for the boy who'd shyly taken her hand the day they'd discovered their haven, and held it in the dark while a secret awareness passed between them, heady and exhilarating. He'd been so young, so fervent, so eager—not just for her, but for his future and the glorious battles that would shape it. Now, by his own admission, soldiering was simply all he had anymore.
"You've changed, Alex," she said. "You were so...unsullied. Such a good, sweet boy."
"I wasn't a boy, not really, Nicki," he said quietly, turning to face her. "Not in any way that mattered. And I'm certainly not now. Nor am I particularly good and sweet." Wearily he reached down and picked the flask up off the ground. "Go away."
"Why were you and Milo talking about me, Alex?"
He blinked at her. "We..." He shrugged carelessly, but consternation darkened his eyes. "I don't know. He happened to mention you. I don't remember—"
"Hear me well, Alex. I don't like being talked about. And I certainly don't want anyone to start speculating about things that happened nine years ago. If Milo or anyone else happens to mention me again, just you keep your counsel."
He shook his head scornfully. "Always looking out for your precious reputation, eh, Nicki?"
"And why not?" she asked as she turned to leave. "'Tis all I've got anymore."
* * *
Halfway through the noon meal—another lavish feast, this one provided in the Tour de Rouen's great hall rather than outdoors—Gaspar set before Alex a beaker containing something noxious.
"What the devil is this?" Alex pushed the tall goblet away, his stomach roiling. All that fortified wine had poisoned not only his head, but his stomach. He'd neither broken his fast nor partaken of the sumptuous dinner being served to the many guests staying on at the ducal palace for the days of celebration to come.
"'Tis a physick, milord," Gaspar said. "Pimpernel boiled in wine. 'Twill purge your morning head and cool the heat in your belly. My lady Nicolette instructed me to make it for you."
Alex glanced down the table to find Nicki looking at him. How stunned he'd been to be awakened this morning by her scent tickling his nostrils...roses and some elusive spicy note. He'd opened his eyes to find a face blocking the worst of the sun's scalding rays. Shielding his eyes for a better look, he'd seen her, crouching over him. Her face, despite its being cast in shadow, had been luminous as alabaster, her eyes translucent. Her diaphanous white veil, anchored by a silver circlet, billowed in the breeze from the river, giving her an angelic aspect. Nothing could have kept him from reaching for her.
And then they'd quarreled, badly. Christ, he'd all but molested her, inexcusable regardless of how much he'd drunk the night before. Given that, it astounded him that she would bother to do him this kindness. He imagined she'd ordered many such elixirs prepared for her husband through the years. Thinking of Milo made Alex wonder where he was. He hadn't seen his cousin all day.
"Alex has a morning head?" Faithe asked skeptically.
Luke, sitting next to Alex, clapped him on the back, making his gorge rise. "Overdid it last night, did you, brother? That's not like you."
"Not at all," Faithe said. "In all the years I've known you, I don't think I've once seen you truly in your cups."
It gratified Alex on some petty level for Nicki to hear this and know how wrong she was to have compared him to Milo.
"Go ahead, Sir Alex," said Gaspar, standing behind him. "Drink it. 'Twill do you good."
"I hate tonics," Alex groused, knowing he sounded like a petulant little boy. "They taste awful."
Gaspar chuckled. "This one's no worse than the taste that's already in your mouth, I'll wager."
Everyone was looking at him. Grimacing, he grabbed the beaker and swallowed the vile stuff down in a few swift gulps, then excused himself from the table and left the hall.
The midday sunshine, although it stung his eyes and made his head pulse, was a refreshing change from the dimness of the keep. Moreover, he was spared the suffocating press of humanity, the only other person in the courtyard being a jongleur. Alex recognized him as the fellow who'd sung Nicki's tale of the holy Grail yesterday. He sat on a step beneath the wide stone archway that provided entrance to the ducal chapel, absently strumming his lute.
Alex slowly crossed the courtyard, shielding his eyes against the sun until he reached the cool shadows beneath the chapel arch.
"Good day, milord," greeted the jongleur as he looked up from his lute. Eyeing the coin Alex withdrew from his pouch, he asked, "Is there anything in particular you'd care to hear?"
Alex flicked the coin to the young fellow, who caught it with practiced ease and slid it into his boot. "You sang yesterday of the search for the Grail."
The jongleur brightened. "Ah. You've a good ear. 'Tis a remarkably beautiful chanson. You don't mind if I sing it sitting down, do you? I've got blisters from all this standing."
"Not at all." Alex leaned against the arch, his arms crossed, and lost himself in the tale of a holy quest in a far distant time. The jongleur was right. It was an exceedingly fine song, lyrical and moving and told for the most part with an elegant economy of words.
Nicki wrote this, he thought, as the song danced around him, entered him, transported him. Her gift with verse had always vaguely perplexed him, given his lack of learning. Now he felt not so much confused as awed. There was a kind of magic in sitting down with a quill and a horn of ink and turning a blank sheet of parchment into such a marvelous tale.
Little wonder she'd preferred Milo to him. A good, sweet boy, she'd called him. Good and sweet and pathetically ignorant.
By the time the song ended, Alex's headache had dissipated, and he no longer felt quite so woozy. Perhaps Gaspar's physick actually worked; after all he had trained as an apothecary. Or perhaps it was the tranquilizing effect of the music.
The young musician bowed and excused himself, explaining that he was expected to perform in the hall during the final course. As he left, Alex turned and discovered Milo leaning on his cane not two yards away, nursing a wineskin. How long had he been standing there?
Milo made his halting—and obviously drunken—way to the steps and lowered himself with a grunt of effort. He took a leisurely swallow of wine and said, "You wanted her nine years ago. You can have her now, with no obligations at all."
Alex turned in d
isgust and gazed out at the bright courtyard. Except for a goat that had wandered in from one of the merchant lanes surrounding the castle, prowling for food, he and his cousin were completely alone.
"Your wife doesn't want me discussing her," Alex said. "I'm just as happy to oblige."
Milo's eyes looked very dark and wide in the shadowy archway. "You've spoken to her?"
"Aye."
"You didn't tell her...what I asked of you, did you?"
"Hardly. 'Tis an unholy proposal. It sickens me."
Milo raised an eyebrow. "Since when has it made you ill to bed a beautiful woman?"
"Since the moment her husband broached the idea," Alex shot back.
"'Twould hardly have affected you so you nine years ago, would it?" Milo's gaze was too sharp, too discerning for Alex's comfort. "You wanted her then. She told me so." His eyes sparked with amusement. "Chaste young pup though you were, you tried to make her your leman. I'm impressed!"
Alex shook his head. "That's her version of it."
"You didn't want her?"
Alex rubbed the little scar on the bridge of his nose. "I didn't say that. But..." Careful, now. Don't reveal too much. Nicki is right; 'twill only make matters worse. "Wanting her...'tisn't the whole story."
Milo smiled wryly. "It never is."
Alex had been stunned at the riverbank when Nicki pointed out the implications of his not having asked her to marry him. Why hadn't he? He'd loved her, considered her spiritually united to him ever since that first day in the cave. The simple answer was that landless young knights were unmarriageable. But if he'd been willing to give up soldiering, could he have found a way to make her his wife and provide a home for her? Possibly; probably. He could have learned a trade, or become a master at arms, teaching swordplay to other young men. But he'd never once paused to consider such alternatives, hungry as he was to test his mettle in battle. What an arrogant, misguided young fool he'd been, to think he could avoid the painful choice between his two passions—Nicki and soldiering.
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