by Brit Darby
She took a deep breath and prepared herself for what was to come. The leader of the King’s men looked surprised to see William Marshal, but nodded grudgingly at the old knight, while two soldiers moved to flank her on either side. Alianor regarded them coolly as they freed her from William’s hold.
“You know why we are here, milady,” the captain of the guard said, his manner terse.
“Because your King cannot keep his royal stag in his trews.”
Several of the nuns tittered at Alianor’s retort. Even William’s scowl eased and he looked hard-pressed to bite back a smile, but the captain did not look at all amused. “Those words are treasonous, Lady Coventry.”
“What words?” Mother Clare interjected, her manner, as always, calm and serene. “I heard nothing, did you, sisters?”
The nuns all shook their heads. The captain glowered at Alianor. “By the order of His Majesty King John of England, Lord of Ireland, you are hereby remanded into the custody of the Crown, Lady Coventry.”
“I would ask under what convenient charges, but I do not wish to strain your mind any further,” Alianor said. “I shall depart with you peacefully, sir. Let us not disturb God’s haven and these good nuns any longer.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. He sensed she mocked him, but in truth, he was not so bright a man he realized how. He motioned to his men and said gruffly, “Secure her.” Her arms were seized roughly on both sides and Alianor flinched at the cruel, unnecessary restraint — the point to humiliate her. She kept her head high, hoping she spoiled the captain’s pleasure in his task.
“Faith, what can one small woman do against six great men?” William Marshal rumbled in his deep voice. “Truly, Lady Coventry, you are reckoned a dangerous felon indeed to warrant these precautions.”
Alianor glimpsed a twinkle in his eyes. The nuns surrounding them laughed at his remark, which only seemed to infuriate the captain more. He turned an alarming shade of puce. “Silence, or you’ll all be charged with conspiring against the Crown.”
William shook his head and said in the voice of reason, “There is no need to distress these good women further, Vernold. They have but offered succor to those in need, as our Lord commands.”
As a devout man, William’s disapproving look implied he knew where the captain’s soul was headed given his actions. He stepped back to allow them passage, but Alianor knew he ached to fight despite the odds, for the pleasure of it as much as pure honor.
“In my day, ladies were treated courteously in any circumstance,” William said.
The captain scowled, angry at being humiliated before his men yet mindful of the great man who chastised him. “It is by the direct order of the King himself, Marshal. It would be best if you do not interfere in matters that do not concern you.”
“It concerns me whenever I see a lady being abused,” William responded frostily, and all the men, save the captain, glanced down in shame at his rebuke. He turned to her and said, “You know I would spare you public humiliation, Madame, were it in my power. But, alas, I can only offer my sincere apology on behalf of all of us relics who have not forgotten the laws of chivalry and honor.” He bowed low, his respect for her shown in every word and action.
Alianor nodded and hoped her gaze upon William conveyed the warmth and gratitude she could not say in words.
As she was led through the halls by the soldiers, the nuns whispered words of encouragement and bits of prayer. When Captain Vernold brushed past the abbess, Mother Clare said, “May God have mercy on your soul.” She spoke to him, not Alianor.
Flustered, Vernold pushed one of his men out of the way and grabbed Alianor’s arm himself. It seemed he could not escape Cill Dara quick enough.
THE JOURNEY FROM LEINSTER to Meath did not last long enough. Alianor expected to be hauled before the King upon arrival at de Lacy’s keep, but instead she was placed in one of the holding cells at Fountainhall and left to cool her heels. As a room appointed for noble prisoners, it was a step above a dungeon; nonetheless, she did not mistake the message it conveyed.
Alianor knew the King made it a point to express his anger by having her thrown directly into prison. She waited there for three full days before she was summoned. Unkempt and shivering from the cold of the unheated cell, with wrists bound before her, Alianor was granted royal audience. Despite her outrage, she curtsied before the man in the great hall. Yet she refused to display fear or dejection, and looked up when King John spoke.
“Lady Coventry. We hear tale you have behaved in a most irksome manner here in Ireland.”
She said nothing, knowing full well it would infuriate him. To deny what she had done would be a lie, to offer explanation futile, and to beg not in her character.
He stared at her with hooded eyes, the silence stretching into a long, agonizing minute. “So.” His words dripped with an icy chill. “As usual, you display no remorse for your actions.”
Alianor’s lips twitched. Remorse, indeed.
“You find this situation amusing, Lady Coventry?” His question jabbed at her like the point of a sword, the threat evident in his voice. He seethed, yet hungrily devoured her with his look. She caught his roving eyes at last and conveyed every bit of loathing she had for him in a single, piercing look. He sniffed and turned away, the first to break their matching gazes.
“Yes,” she retorted. “I suppose I do find it amusing.” She glanced about at her surroundings and casually inquired, “How is Queen Isabella, Sire? I have missed her.”
The abrubt change of subject and her attitude made the King flush, an angry red stain inching up his neck. His eyes bulged at her casual question, but his tone remained frigid. “Our Queen is well. She rests after our long journey. However, we did not bring you here to speak of her.”
“I did not expect you had.”
Alianor’s quiet reply pushed him over the edge. He gestured at her, his movements as irate as the expression on his face. “We’ll not tolerate your insolence, Lady Coventry. We are inclined to throw you into a dungeon to rot.”
She studied his face. “But you won’t. Why?”
Her question challenged his decision. He looked half-mad, a bit of spittle clinging to his bearded chin. She thought he might collapse in a fit of apoplexy, right there in the great hall.
“Hist, woman,” he warned. “Be silent or a change of heart might occur.”
“Answer but one question, Sire — to what do I owe my salvation?”
“Not what, but whom.” Quintin de Lacy stepped from a shadowed corner, smiling with satisfaction as Alianor whirled and her eyes widened with fear. She mocked the King openly and this truly surprised him, something he did not feel often. God, she was proud, divinely so.
When she walked into his hall, anger took second place to lust. Even in her disheveled state she was so damned beautiful he felt physical pain. Her soft voice stoked his loins, her haughty demeanor made him long to punish her more. Quintin wanted to nourish the fury, feed it so he could make her scream for mercy as planned. Instead, he feared he might lose its intensity to a more immediate, pressing need. His cock responded to her presence; her loathing was but an elixir to his dark lusts.
King John motioned him forward. He obliged and Alianor looked back at Lackland, her shoulders straight, head held high. The initial flash of fear was gone, as was the hatred. Quintin experienced a twinge of disappointment. He wanted to see terror in her eyes; instead he was left to study her indifferent expression.
“You owe our change of heart and mercy to Lord de Lacy,” the King snapped, as if it hurt him to say it.
“I see,” Alianor replied, revealing nothing in the two simple words.
Quintin suppressed a growl. He wanted to grab her, shake her, make her cry out. Anything but this damned serenity she reflected. It was more unsettling than her outrage.
The King cleared his throat. “Lord de Lacy has kindly agreed to forgive your imprudence prompting these unpleasant incidents. We must say, your lord is generous,
Lady Alianor. We would not be so inclined to excuse your unseemly behavior.”
“De Lacy is not my lord.”
Lackland smiled. “Not yet. That is easily rectified.”
At last Alianor glanced at Quintin, her demeanor calm, careless. “How you persist in trying to fill my late lord’s shoes, de Lacy. In truth, I cannot countenance it, for you are but the dung clinging to them.”
He gritted his teeth, and the King cackled. “It appears your sharp tongue still shreds all in your path, Lady Coventry. Either you are the bravest of ladies, or a most addle-pated one.”
Her attention returned to the King. “If I have any choice in this matter, Your Grace, I prefer your punishment to his.”
Quintin seethed. Alianor’s hatred was as obvious as his lust for her, but the woman must be mad. She was willing to face the King’s judgment and punishment, and suffer imprisonment rather than become his wife. It galled him to no end. Yet, it also caused the fire in his loins to burn so hot it was painful. Aye, he must have her, if only to break her spirit and crush it beneath his heel.
“Well,” the King said, stroking his sparse beard, “I suppose we must rethink our decision, as Marshal advised us.”
Quintin tore his gaze from Alianor and looked angrily at Lackland. “Sire! You promised she would be mine. It was our agreement.”
The King ignored him and he waved impatiently to his guards. “Take Lady Coventry back to her cell.”
Both men watched as Alianor was led away. Quintin noticed the lust shining in the King’s eyes as he stared after her. Aye, the old bastard still wanted her for himself. Fuming, he debated how he might handle the delicate negotiations. First, he tried to ease over the tense situation by reminding Lackland of his loyalty.
“If it please my liege, I must remind Your Majesty I have done everything asked of me; I have held up my part of the bargain. I’ve raised taxes on my lands to your benefit.” He heard no objections, and continued. “I harassed de Braose and I routed de Courcy, asking nothing in turn but the privilege of this woman’s hand in marriage. What more must I do to make Alianor my wife, Sire?”
Lackland continued stroking his beard, doubtless still ruminating upon the fair Alianor. “’Twas your own foolishness which caused the loss of Lady Coventry in the first place — you all but handed her and the bride’s price over to Caomhánach.”
Quintin was inclined to argue, for this miserly monarch had not sent enough men to guard the procession, but he held his tongue. He wanted Alianor, and annoying Lackland would not accomplish his goal.
“We have but one more request of you, de Lacy.”
Swallowing his pride, Quintin replied, “Name it, Sire, and it shall be yours.”
The gleam lighting the King’s eyes forewarned him he would not like the request. “You will wed here at Fountainhall, in two day’s time. But we will enjoy your bridal night in your stead.”
The blood drained from Quintin’s face. Sweet Christos, the King was serious. He was claiming the droit du seigneur of an underling. The old cock intended to enjoy what was a husband’s right to take.
He struggled to reply with coherent words, rather than a string of curses. “I cannot …” he began, and started again, choking on the words. “Agreed, Sire. I ask only you depart my bed at dawn’s light the next morn.”
Lackland nodded, still distracted. Quintin did not have to wonder why. Already His Majesty anticipated with relish the ravishment of his bride.
Chapter Twenty-six
LIAM HAD BEEN IN town only a day when he saw the banns posted on the street. Alianor was nearby. On Saturday she and Lord de Lacy would be wed at Fountainhall.
He tore the copy of the banns he read from the post as the words burned his mind like a hot brand laid to flesh. Despair wiggled in between the fire — he was too late to speak up for her and to help in any way. Alianor was in an impossible situation, and he could not blame her for capitulating in the end. Few other women would have had the stamina or courage to endure as long as she had.
Still, the thought of her going to de Lacy sickened him, and the realization she was lost to him hurt like a physical blow. How had she managed to placate the King and de Lacy? This question caused the breath in his lungs to freeze; the possible answers tortured his mind.
An abrupt, searing anger destroyed all other thought, save the hard resolve claiming him. Alianor had been naïve to think she could save everyone with her sacrifice. And he played the fool to chase after her, to pursue a dream doomed before it began.
Liam crumpled the notice and tossed it aside. How he wished he could rid himself of the memories as easy, and of the feelings plaguing him. With a frustrated growl he strode down the crowded street but, a minute later, he turned back to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the wrinkles out, his finger traced the letters of her name. A bittersweet ache slammed through him, and he tucked the notice inside his tunic, where it lay close to his heart.
The banns announced a feast and tournament at Fountainhall to celebrate the wedding. Alianor would be there. His heartbeat quickened at the notion. With grim resolve, he banished the reckless thought, pushing it from his mind. Only to have it creep back again. How could he bear losing her?
Brutal images clamored in his head, and he feared he might lose his senses. Never had he felt so lost, so forlorn. Liam recalled the tale of Leanhaun Shee, the faery mistress who seeks the love of men — if they refuse, she becomes their slave — if they consent, they are hers. When had he become sweet Alianor’s slave? Someone bumped him, drawing his mind from his pain as the milling throng engulfed him in anonymity — ah, if only the safety in numbers might also serve to keep forbidden dreams at bay.
IT WAS HER WEDDING day. Alianor tried to pray for guidance, but her mind protested, and she could not take refuge in comforting thoughts. She did not have the unwavering faith Camber did, and it seemed God had turned his back on her. He abandoned her to the King and de Lacy — men who would never stop in their quests to destroy her. It was blasphemous, she knew, thinking dark thoughts, but despair clung and refused to let her go.
Instead, she prayed God watch over her brother and protect him. Camber had done nothing since he took the cowl except devote his life to God, wholly and without reserve. Surely, if her own sins prompted God’s anger, he would not forfeit a kind-hearted soul on her account. She asked nothing for herself, only mercy for Camber.
Having made her peace, Alianor was ready to face the day. It was no ordinary day, unlike the two she had passed in dreary solitude. The King had not sent her to prison after all, and released her from the cell in Fountainhall. Still, she was watched. The King’s men guarded her door or dogged her every step.
Alianor had no choice save accepting her lot. Today de Lacy would become her husband, and tonight … the thought left unfinished, a foreboding omen of what was to come chilled her. She did not harbor foolish notions he had truly forgotten or forgiven her actions.
The scar marring his face was a constant reminder of their first meeting. She should have killed him then, she knew this now. Her mistake was as certain as her knowledge he would most likely kill her tonight.
After she broke her fast, the women arrived in her chamber. Queen Isabella sent her own personal maidservant, Lilith, and several of her ladies to assist the reluctant bride prepare for her wedding.
The women helped Alianor bathe and get ready for the ceremony, though the mood in the room remained subdued, even strained. While she sat before the hearth to dry her hair, her gown and undergarments were laid out for all to admire. All save Alianor.
The Queen’s other gift was a beautiful and generous gesture, but the fact of what it represented made Alianor shudder when she glanced upon it. The tawny-colored gown was made of the finest linen, long and full, with a low round neck. It laced down the back with silken ribbons, a train of heavy folds falling behind.
Open down the front, a sapphire brooch fastened the bodice. The girdle sparkled with sapphires also, and was worn high r
ound the waist in front, crossed at the back, and was brought forward low on the hips. The silken embroidered ends were tied together and hung down the front to the hem of the gown.
As the women oohed and aahed over her wedding raiment, Alianor stared into the fire. Instead of the joy a bride should feel, a sinking sensation of doom haunted her. She wondered if she would even survive her bridal night.
It mattered not; as Lady de Lacy she could expect nothing but misery and suffering. Death was preferable. If only she could find the strength of heart to die well.
Yes, she thought, raising her chin and squaring her shoulders. She must not show her fear; it would not do to give her tormentor the satisfaction. She would walk to de Lacy’s altar of doom as coolly as she had faced the King.
“Milady,” said Lilith, gently tugging at her sleeve. “’Tis near dawn, we must finish your toilette.”
Alianor nodded and rose. She stood stiff as a quintain of wood and straw whilst the women prepared her for the ceremony. When Alianor did not respond to their mirth or compliments, their chatter faded, her silence unnerving them.
Her hair was combed out and rubbed with silk for added shine. They bound it into two plaits with silken ribbon matching her gown, and coiled the plaits around her head. A linen wimple covered her throat, tucked into her dress.
Lilith placed a linen veil over her head, and secured it with a sapphire circlet. The remaining women scurried about, adding the final touches to her wardrobe. As a fur-trimmed cloak settled about her shoulders, they heard a scratching at the door. Lilith answered it and turned to her. “Milady, Lord de Lacy awaits his bride.”
“I am ready.”
As Alianor departed, one of the ladies handed her a psalter, which she gently set aside as she left the room. She was beyond holy comfort now.
A PAIR OF SOLDIERS waited for Alianor outside her chamber door. She arched an eyebrow. “What, only two?”
