Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  That was his choice.

  “This is madness,” he whispered.

  “You have a week to think on it, Henri,” said Jean-Paul, and there was an intimate note in his voice that had not been there before.

  “A week?” Henry’s voice trembled with sick fury, his chest rose and fell violently. “Tell me who I have to thank for this…this insanity? Who is colluding with Baldessare to destroy Jenova and me? Damn you, tell me his name!”

  The faceless priest considered him: Henry had the sensation that he was savoring the moment. When he spoke, Henry heard again the satisfied smirk in his voice. “You have me to thank, Beau Henri. I am your worst nightmare come true. I hate you so much that I would do anything I could to harm you, and I have nothing to lose in doing it.”

  His voice wavered, grew tight with an anger that he was attempting to keep tightly reined.

  “I have watched you, Henri, and I have listened. I have waited until the moment was right. I came to England, to Lord Baldessare, for a reason; because I knew he hated you almost as much as I do. And I knew he wanted Gunlinghorn. So I suggested he order his son to wed Lady Jenova, and then I placed before her a contract I knew she would find unpalatable. I knew she would not agree to Baldessare becoming her son’s protector if Alfric died. I knew she would call upon her friend and adviser to come and help her.

  “You, Henri! I knew she would send for you. I made you come here, so that I could punish you as you deserve. It is justice, don’t you think? You see, I know how much Gunlinghorn and its lady mean to you. You feel safe here, you feel loved here. Without them you will be adrift. You will suffer. Just as I suffered when you took my home and those I loved from me. Oh yes, my Henri, I want you to suffer. As I have suffered.”

  Henry stared at him, openmouthed. Who is he? This man who hated him enough to tear his life to shreds. Again.

  But the question came too late, as did the chance to unseat him and rip the mask from his face. The priest turned the stallion around, and in a moment they were clattering away, back toward the cliffs, his cloak flying behind him.

  “What is it, my lord? What did the priest mean?”

  The urgent questions came from Reynard. His man had moved close to his side, one eye on Master Will, who was hovering curiously. Henry did not know how much time had passed. It was as if his life were running by him, out of control. The priest had spoken true; Henry felt as if he had stepped into his worst nightmare.

  Slowly, carefully, he took a deep breath, and then another. Enough. He must not allow this to prevent him from thinking straight. His intelligence, his clever mind, was his greatest asset. If he was to conquer this monster, whoever it was, and save himself and Jenova, then he must use his mind to do it.

  “Baldessare has sent me a message, Reynard. You heard what that…creature said. If I do not want my secret revealed to the whole of England, I am to leave for London in a week and abandon Lady Jenova to her fate.”

  Reynard leaned closer, his big body a bolster against the wind, his dark hair whipping about his swarthy face. “I do not understand. What is this ‘secret,’ my lord? What can be so bad that a man would think of abandoning Lady Jenova to something like Baldessare?”

  “The destruction of all I have tried to make of myself. Of all I now am. That is bad enough, Reynard. And it could happen. Aye, it could very well happen.”

  “Lord Henry—”

  “I should never have come here. If I had not come to Gunlinghorn, Jenova’s fate would not now rest in my hands.”

  “But, my lord, you came because Lady Jenova was planning to wed Lord Alfric. If you had not come, the wedding would probably have gone ahead, and then she would still be trapped in this maze. At least now you have been forewarned of what Baldessare means to do. You can stop him. You can tell her. You can arm yourself against your foe.”

  That was true enough, to a point. But how did one arm oneself against a foe that had no face?

  And what of this choice that lay before him? Henry knew he could not return to London and see her destroyed, just to save himself. It was impossible, and it was not an option, despite what would become of him if he stayed. If he hurt Jenova, he might as well throw himself into the sea right now.

  The priest knew that. It was part of his game. He had given Henry a choice that was in fact no choice at all….

  “My lord?” Reynard’s hand was warm against his shoulder. “Tell me what it means. What hold does Baldessare and this priest have over you? Is the answer at le château de Nuit?”

  “What do you know of that place?” Henry turned, his voice sharp and suspicious. For a moment he wondered whether even Reynard, whom he thought loyal, was part of this plot against him.

  “My lord, I will tell you all I know, I swear it. But first I would ask that you answer.”

  Henry gave him a wild stare. Confusion overwhelmed him; he felt lost. His usually quick mind was fogged with terror. He had just begun to realize how much Jenova and Gunlinghorn meant to him, and now he would lose all. He had always feared this would happen, always dreaded it; there was almost a sort of light-headed relief in his fears being finally realized.

  “I have a dark secret, Reynard,” he said at last, in a voice dulled by pain. “I did not think there was anyone left to tell it, but Baldessare, it seems, has found someone. The priest, whoever he is, says he knows. That name he called me, Beau Henri. It is a name from my boyhood that I had hoped forgotten. Now he wants to hold my secret over me like a hangman’s noose, until I am forced to do as he wishes. And if I do not…then the noose will tighten.”

  “Tell me this, my lord: Have you done aught wrong? Why are you so afraid of them telling, if you have not done wrong?”

  He had done wrong, that was the problem, but he was not about to be specific. His wrongdoing was not for Reynard’s ears, although he could tell him a little….

  “Le château de Nuit belonged to King William’s uncle. His name was Count Thearoux, and the king has fond memories of him. Long ago, after I had fought with William at Hastings, and he had rewarded me and become my friend, he spoke to me of Thearoux. He told me the story of Thearoux’s death—all false, but I did not tell him so. He told me that one day he would discover the killer of his favorite uncle and see him punished. And all the time, as I sat there, listening and nodding, it was I. I was the one he was seeking.”

  “You?” Reynard frowned. “But—”

  “I was there when Thearoux died. He was evil, Reynard. A detestable man. He was not the jolly uncle the king believed him to be. There was a fire…. I remember little of that night—but if someone wanted to point their finger at me, how could I cry innocent? One thing is certain, the king will never look at me as his friend again when he knows…that I was there. Probably he will not publicly punish me, probably he will say that he understands my version of events—after all, he would not want to look like a fool for having me as his friend all this time. But the fact will remain that I did not tell him the truth ten years ago. I kept silent. And that alone will make me guilty of disloyalty in his eyes.”

  It was not all strictly true, but true enough for Reynard to understand his predicament.

  “So you will lose your favored position?”

  “Aye. Everything will fall down about me. Everything I thought I had achieved will be destroyed.”

  “Unless you leave Lady Jenova and return to London in a week.”

  Henry laughed a bitter laugh. “I will not leave her. The priest says he knows me, and if that is true, then he knows that I will stay and protect Jenova, no matter what. Our faceless Jean-Paul does not need to soil his hands; I will be tightening the noose about my own throat.”

  Henry had thought that Reynard would press him for more detail, ask him questions he did not want to answer. Force him to relive memories he did not know if he could face. But Reynard did not; he stood in thoughtful silence, as if considering the situation from all angles. It occurred to Henry that Reynard might be just the kind of man he
needed at a time like this. Intelligent and strong, and with a hefty dash of cunning.

  “There is something I must tell you.” Reynard was watching him, and his face was very grave. “I had planned to tell you anyway, when I had a little more to say, but now it seems all the more…pressing. Lady Rhona approached me….”

  He went on speaking. The tale was a surprising one, but Reynard told it simply and with the occasional note of dry humor that had Henry smiling despite the seriousness of the situation. It was true that Reynard had taken much upon himself, but Henry could not fault him, and he believed him. Henry had dealt with many men, and he recognized an honest one. Reynard was on his side, and just as well. If they were to defeat Baldessare, they would need a pair of eyes and ears at Hilldown Castle.

  “So, it seemed wise to agree to spy for Lady Rhona. At least then I would know what was happening. While she is using me, my lord, I will be using her.”

  Despite his relaxed manner, Henry could see Reynard was nervous. He had set himself up for a fall, and if Henry was of a mind to, he could shout betrayal and have him punished or dismissed. But Henry knew a good thing when he saw it; he trusted Reynard, and he was desperate for some lever to use to turn this situation to his advantage.

  “Using her in more ways than one, aye,” Henry agreed quietly. He met the other man’s dark eyes. “You have done well, Reynard. I have no bone to pick with you on this matter.”

  Reynard blinked with relief. “I thank you, Lord Henry. I will not fail you.” Then, with a thoughtful frown, he added, “But would the king really allow Lord Baldessare to force Lady Jenova into marriage with him? She is a favorite with him; surely he would never turn away from such a blatant disregard of his wishes? Lord Baldessare must know he would be punished when King William set foot once more in England?”

  “Baldessare probably believes I will smooth things over with the king in my own self-interest. They could hold this threat over me for the rest of my life—have me dangling like a puppet on their strings.” Henry shook his head, thrusting such a nightmare away. “Aye, the king will not be pleased if he finds Baldessare has taken Jenova against her will, but then again he may see little point in making a fuss if the deed is already done and Baldessare leads him to believe Jenova is well pleased with the arrangement. He may doubt, but if there are other more important matters requiring his attention when he comes home again, matters that could see the fall of his kingdom…” Henry shrugged. “It is likely the king may find himself putting down a rebellion, and he will have no time to deal with Baldessare.”

  “Aye, I see the dilemma.”

  “It will not happen, Reynard,” Henry said quietly, and his blue eyes were very blue as he looked at the other man. “I will not let it happen. Baldessare and his priest can say what they like; I am not leaving Gunlinghorn undefended.”

  Reynard nodded, and a flicker of anticipation mingled with excitement in his own dark gaze. Reynard, thought Henry with an inner smile, liked a fight.

  “When do you meet with Lady Rhona again?” Henry asked, moving ahead.

  “In two days’ time, at the Black Dog.”

  “Try and find out from her who this priest really is—the name Jean-Paul means nothing to me. And why he hates me so much that he has joined forces with Baldessare in order to destroy me. He is someone from le château de Nuit, I know it. But who…who?…”

  “The castle of Night,” Reynard echoed. “It sounds grim.”

  “Just a name, Reynard. Names cannot hurt us.” But people can, Henry thought bleakly.

  “And what will I tell Rhona, my lord? She will be expecting something in return.”

  Henry considered. “Tell her I am preparing to go home to London. Let her think her father has won. It should ensure she is more eager to speak to you.”

  “Aye, I will do as you ask. Will you explain to Lady Jenova what is happening?”

  Henry didn’t want to. His hope was that he could sort out this problem and have it solved before Jenova learned anything about it. Then she would never have to know. “Leave Lady Jenova to me, Reynard.”

  “As you wish, Lord Henry.”

  Reynard’s footsteps gritted across the sand on the wharf, and Henry was alone. Alone with the cold, gray ocean. He let his eyes sweep over the wide horizon, narrowing them against the sting of the salty wind. Pray God that soon they would have this matter resolved and Jenova would be safe. And so would his secret.

  He closed his eyes and pictured her, her calm beauty in the great hall, her wild beauty in his arms. He had discovered of late that if he did not look at her often, a hollow would open up within him. A sense of loss. He needed to see her. He needed to hold her.

  When Jenova gazed at him she had a certain look in her eyes, a certain expression on her face. She looked at Henry and saw a man who was handsome and strong and honorable, a man she trusted and looked up to. The illusion kept him alive. He had not known it before, but he knew it now. Jenova’s vision of him was all he had.

  If she learned of his shadowy past, she would want him gone. Henry knew that. She would not tolerate him near her when she heard of the things he had done. He felt frozen inside just thinking of the expression on her face, the look in her green eyes. He could not bear it, and yet if he left now she would be in grave danger. He was damned either way.

  Who was his enemy? Who was the faceless priest?

  He did not know, but he knew of any number of persons it could be. It was just that he had believed them all dead. Thearoux, that monster. Could it be him? And the others, their faces hidden in the past, their memories pushed aside in order for Henry to continue living. The burden had been just too great, and to survive he had had to try and forget. At times he actually did forget, sometimes for days and weeks at a time.

  He had been more resilient than he thought. More resilient than his friend Souris.

  The Mouse.

  The memory felt stiff and rusty, like chain mail not kept properly oiled and cleaned. Souris slipped from the creaky shadows in Henry’s mind, his pale narrow face and sharp nose, the brown hair flopping over his brow, and his eyes full of glee. Souris, the Mouse, his only friend in a world where survival depended upon doing unspeakable things. But Souris had died with Thearoux, on that long-ago night, when the fire had burned le château de Nuit to the ground. Burned it to ashes, and with it the screams and sorrows of all those who had dwelt within it, and all the wretched souls they had stolen.

  As far as Henry knew, he had been the only soul to escape.

  Then who was it? Who?

  Henry squeezed his hands into fists. He must find out. Not just for Jenova, but for himself. For the sake of his own sanity, he must know the truth!

  And Jenova?

  Even before this happened, Henry had not wanted to leave Jenova. He had wanted to stay here with her at Gunlinghorn. Whatever life he had built for himself in London was nothing to him, not compared to what he could have here. He had been pretending otherwise, but now the charade was at an end. This was his home, this was where his family resided. This was where he had placed his heart in safekeeping.

  His enemy, whoever he was, had known this even before Henry. Had known exactly what would cause him the most anguish.

  And now he was using it to destroy him.

  Chapter 16

  Jenova stood in her stillroom, surrounded by her herbs and potions, the silence a balm to her wounded heart. She had asked Henry to stay and he had refused. He had held her tenderly as she’d wept and he’d kissed the tears from her cheeks, and yet he had refused her.

  She must move on from this, she must accept and live for the moment. And yet it was so painful….

  Jenova took a shaky breath, pushing away her sadness. And then she did something she often did when she was low or sad; she remembered a moment from her past. A time, long ago, in Normandy, when she and Henry had been close. He had been a strikingly handsome boy, with his blue eyes and perfect features, and his smile a little crooked and a little wi
cked, even then.

  Jenova smiled now, remembering. He had asked her if she had ever been kissed, and she had told him no, a little shyly, a little coyly. Henry had taken her hand in his, his fingers strong and warm, and they had walked in the meadows, braving the bees that supped upon the flowers there.

  After a time, he had kissed her. Gently and tenderly, innocently. They had lain in the grass and kissed for a long time, and Jenova still remembered the blue sky above and the white clouds gliding past. If she closed her eyes now, the scent of those flowers came back to her and the feel of Henry’s lips on hers and his arms about her innocent girl’s body.

  When they’d returned to the keep, her mother had been angry, her eyes searching them as if she’d thought to find some sign of sin upon them. Jenova had been upset and hurt by her mistrust, but more by the fact that her mother had not understood how special those moments had been. There was no sin, surely, in holding a boy you loved, and who loved you?

  Henry had left shortly afterward, off to yet another distant relative who did not know him and probably did not want him.

  For a time, Jenova’s heart had felt broken, but it had healed. They had met again, some years later, and she had looked at him in wonder, hardly believing she had ever thought they were destined to spend their lives together. He’d been a handsome, charming courtier, and he had not been for her.

  But she had not understood that beneath that intoxicating exterior the old Henry had remained—he was still there. He had been waiting for her all this time, and she wanted to take him into the meadow again, hand in hand, and kiss him beneath a blue sky. And love him, as she had loved him long ago.

  Jenova bowed her head. There must be some way in which to bring them both a happy ending! She would find it, she would…. She must.