by Sara Bennett
“Well?”
Jean-Paul studied Baldessare a moment, taking in the other man’s obvious hunger for news of Henry’s pain. He was twitching with impatience, but Jean-Paul made him wait. It was a form of torture, and added to his enjoyment.
“Henry is frightened, and so he should be. He pretends to be brave, of course, but that is his way. He would never run at once—that, too, is his way. Perhaps he will sneak off in the dead of the night, and leave the lady to fend for herself? But he is beaten, my lord, you can be sure of that. I have convinced him that we mean what we say.”
Baldessare smiled a most unpleasant smile. “Good. Very good. Let him quiver with terror. I want him to suffer as I have suffered. And I want him to know who is responsible for his downfall.”
Jean-Paul nodded sympathetically, but he was secretly amused. As he had suffered? Did Baldessare have any conception of what real suffering was? He didn’t think so. Baldessare was no different from all the other greedy Norman barons who believed they had a right to take that which belonged to others. Baldessare would have made a fine Viking, rampaging and marauding throughout the country, stealing anything shiny he liked the look of and slaughtering those who stood in his way.
Jean-Paul despised him.
He had used Baldessare to punish Henry, though Baldessare believed he was using Jean-Paul. Baldessare did not particularly like the fact that Jean-Paul had given Henry a choice—he did not understand that the choice was part of Jean-Paul’s torture. It was a game. He wanted Henry to believe that it was within his power to decide his fate. But the truth was, Henry was trapped. Whatever path he now took would end in misery. If he chose to go back to court, leave Jenova to Baldessare, then he would suffer. If he chose to stay here, and the truth became known, he would suffer for that, too.
Jean-Paul smiled a satisfied smile. Whichever way Henry turned, he would be blocked, and as he sought a way out he would become more and more frightened and desperate. Until he realized it was a trap and he was caught firmly in it. With no escape.
Baldessare, who had been watching him, looked away uneasily. For so brutal a man, the baron was very squeamish when it came to his chaplain’s ruined face. Jean-Paul found enjoyment in that, too. Baldessare’s squeamishness gave him more power, more control. Oh yes, the baron might think he was in charge of the situation, but Jean-Paul knew differently.
“Oh, he will suffer, my lord. You may be certain of that.”
“And he will hand Lady Jenova over to me? To save himself? That is what you said would happen?”
Sacrificing Jenova, thought Jean-Paul, was what Baldessare would have done in Henry’s position. He would not understand self-sacrifice; it was beyond his limited imagination. “Undoubtedly,” he lied in a soothing voice. “He will abandon the woman he loves to save himself. Why would he not?”
But perhaps Baldessare heard a hint of the scorn he felt in Jean-Paul’s voice, because now his eyes narrowed in suspicion and warning. “I hope you do not mean to deny me Lady Jenova. I have decided she will be mine, and I want her, willing or not.”
“Do not worry, my lord. Even if Henry balks at using his skills of persuasion to send the lady into your arms, even if he proves difficult, I have someone else to fall back upon. A friend within Gunlinghorn’s walls. Not the groom who spies for you, but someone else, someone close to the family. So you see, my lord, you will have the lady, one way or another.”
“A friend?”
Jean-Paul could see this was news to Baldessare, and that it didn’t particularly please him. But Baldessare could do and think as he liked, that was not Jean-Paul’s concern. It was Henry he cared about, and as long as Henry was punished, then Jean-Paul would be content.
Beau Henri.
Jean-Paul had suffered for him. Oui, many times he had tried to spare Henry from Thearoux’s wrath. Many times he had brought him water and food when he was locked up and beaten. And many times he had hidden the fact that Henry did not do as he was told. What had Henry done in return? Jean-Paul had been left, abandoned in a burned-out shell. Le château de Nuit had been the only home he had ever known, and he had belonged there.
Jean-Paul clenched his fists, hard, and tried to calm himself. This was not the time to grow angry. Sometimes, when he was angry, he lost control of himself. He thought of Henry’s face, as he had stood on the wharf. He had changed, grown older, but he would still have known him anywhere. Henry, as handsome as ever, his eyes that strange violet-blue. Henry, turning white with shock when Jean-Paul had laid his future before him.
Henry had known that Jean-Paul was someone he knew, someone from his past, but he had not recognized him. But he would. Oh yes, he would. Jean-Paul wanted to save that unveiling until the end. Let Henry wait and suffer more. Let him understand just how it felt to have everything you loved taken from you. Until you were left, alone, with only your hatred for company.
Outside the door, Rhona held her breath. She had come upon the two men by accident and had stayed, lurking near the doorway, listening to their conversation. She had not realized until now that it was Jean-Paul who was Lord Henry’s enemy, and although it came as a surprise, she was not altogether shocked. She should have known—she had never trusted the disfigured priest. Although he had pretended to be her friend, she had never believed he would champion her if it were not in his own self-interest.
She wondered why he hated Lord Henry so much. Rhona could understand her father’s hatred, because she understood his vicious character, but whatever Lord Henry had done to Jean-Paul was a mystery, though one she was keen to solve. How that would help her and Alfric escape their father’s clutches she wasn’t sure, but at least this new information would be something to tell Reynard.
Today she was to meet with him.
Rhona could not believe how much she was looking forward to it. To seeing him, hearing his voice, being close to him. There was something about him that lifted her spirits, even when she was upset with him. And she was often that. He was a stranger and yet he was beginning to mean a great deal to her. Mayhap it was his manner, his confidence in himself and his future, his dreams of traveling to strange and distant lands. She wanted to go to those lands with him. She wanted to sail with him beneath the stars.
Rhona was so tired of being afraid. She was so tired of always trying to think ahead, of trying to say and do the things that would please her father and not stir up his temper. Always plotting and planning, even while she slept! She wanted to live a life where such things were unnecessary. She wanted to be happy….
She stopped and took a breath. Happy? Ridiculous! How could she ever hope to be happy? Survival was the thing. Staying alive long enough to escape her father’s grasp, to save Alfric, who depended upon her, to save herself. And yet, some days, she had the horrible sensation that she was turning into him—Baldessare. Plot and plan and scheme though she might to escape him, the very act of doing so was making her more like him. So even if she did escape, it might already be too late.
Some days it felt so hopeless.
A sob rose in her throat. Rhona choked it back. The sound she made was faint, but she froze in place, praying that no one in the room had heard her. If she was caught listening, she would be locked in her room, and then she would not see Reynard today.
And suddenly Rhona knew she could not bear that.
Seeing Reynard was the only thing that was keeping her from despair. He offered her hope, though of what she was still uncertain. Perhaps just the fact that a man like him was in the world, and interested in her, made her think she could make a better life. That she deserved something better than this….
“What was that?” Her father, his voice a low growl, like a savage dog that smells blood.
She would run. If he came toward her, she would run, and hope to reach safety before he caught her….
“It is nothing. Just a mouse.” Jean-Paul laughed softly, as if he had made a joke. “Do not worry yourself, my lord. All is in hand to see Lord Henry destroyed.
Utterly.”
There was tremendous satisfaction in his harsh voice. In her listening place, Rhona, tense and frightened, wondered what Lord Henry had ever done to warrant such terrible enmity.
“Lord Henry?”
The voice was high pitched and impatient. Clearly Raf had been calling him for a while now without response. Henry blinked and looked down with a smile, taking the boy’s hand in his own. With time such gestures had become natural, but he still had a sense of wonder when it happened. Here was a child who trusted him, liked him, smiled at him without guile. Henry couldn’t bear to think of a future when he might not have the opportunity to do something as simple as hold Raf’s hand.
“What is the matter, Raf?”
“Mama has said I may ride outside the castle gates. If you are with me.”
Raf’s eyes shone, and his cheeks were pink with excitement. Raf had been working on his mother for some time now, trying to persuade her that he should be able to ride beyond the castleyard, and that it was her duty to allow him to do manly things. Henry had enjoyed listening to them—Raf’s stubborn determination to have his way and Jenova’s stubborn determination to keep him safe. Raf had finally worn her down.
“Mama, I have told him!”
Henry looked up and found Jenova approaching them down the length of the great hall.
For a moment he simply watched, enjoying the vision. Her dark blue skirts swirled about her, the bejeweled girdle resting upon the swell of her hips, the pale fur decorating the hem and sleeves and neckline shining silver in the candlelight. She had a gold circlet holding her veil in place, a red stone shining at its center. She looked like a queen. His queen. With her green eyes fixed upon him and her pink lips curled in a faint smile, she was everything he had ever wanted.
That was when Henry accepted that he would do anything for her. Give up anything, become anything, just to keep her safe.
Even if it meant he could never see her again.
“I will look after him,” Henry said now, nodding down at Raf, who was dancing anxiously up and down, still clinging to his hand.
“I know you will.” She smiled as she said it, but her eyes were gentle and warm, as though she believed in him. God help her, thought Henry bitterly and looked away.
“We can ride up the hill,” Raf was saying. “The one above Gunlinghorn that looks down upon all my lands.”
“So that you can see how much you will have to look after when you are grown?” Henry teased.
“I am grown now,” Raf replied, looking seriously displeased that Henry should suggest otherwise.
Jenova laughed, and Henry’s eyes twinkled—until it occurred to him that they probably looked just like two proud parents.
“You will grow bigger than this,” Jenova said, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s head. “Taller than me, if I am not mistaken.”
Raf stilled, thinking about that. “Taller than Lord Henry?” he asked, eyeing Henry speculatively. “Will I be taller than Lord Henry?”
“Possibly,” Henry said. “You will be your father’s son, and he was as tall as Lord Radulf.”
Raf’s eyes seemed to glaze over with the vision that conjured. “Tall as the King’s Sword,” he whispered, as if the thought of equaling the size of this legendary warrior was hardly to be borne.
“Aye, you will be your father’s son,” Henry assured him, and laughed as Raf, spying Agetha, took to his heels, shouting, “One day I will be as tall as the King’s Sword!”
Jenova’s hand closed on Henry’s arm, her slender fingers warm. He looked down at them, feeling himself tense, beginning to harden. Jesu, had he no self-control left where she was concerned?
“Not quite like his father, I pray,” Jenova said quietly, her face turning sad as she looked after her son.
Instantly Henry was ashamed of his carnal thoughts. She was remembering Mortred’s betrayal, of course she was. Jenova had loved her husband, and to learn he had not been the man she’d thought him had struck her deep. She would find it hard to trust again. And that was just as well, because one way or another Henry would betray her, too. It was inevitable.
“Raf is also your son,” he reminded her levelly, ignoring the urge to take her fingers in his. “He will be a fine man. If…when the king calls him to court, I will make certain that he does not become corrupted.”
Jenova glanced at him sharply, and her hand fell away from his arm. “Will you? You think you will still be at court then, Henry? In…oh, ten years’ time?”
He knew what she was really asking. He could not answer her; he did not know. “Where else would I be?” he asked politely, but his eyes weren’t smiling, and he saw her own narrow, a flicker of pain in the green before she looked away.
“Where else indeed?” she said brightly, as if it didn’t matter to her at all. Mayhap it didn’t, mayhap she would be glad to see him go. Only if he went, she would be at Baldessare’s mercy. She just didn’t know it yet.
“Jenova.” He hesitated, wondering if he should even ask his questions—there was so little time. A week, the priest had said. A week to save himself, to redeem himself, to make all well again. It wasn’t long enough.
“Henry? What is it?” There was anxiety in her voice now, their discord forgotten. “What is the matter? I know there is something wrong, and I won’t be fooled by your pretending otherwise.”
Tell me! Jenova’s eyes were saying, but Henry did not believe she meant that he should tell her everything. Still, he found himself speaking, the words tumbling out.
“I met Baldessare’s priest when I was at Gunlinghorn Harbor. He wore a…a mask over his face.”
“Jean-Paul? His face is badly damaged. A fire, I think. The skin is scarred and puckered…awful. He wears the mask when he goes out so as not to frighten people. Why was he down at Gunlinghorn Harbor?”
Now, there was a question, Henry thought, but it was not one he intended to answer. At least, not honestly, and not now. He imagined her face changing as he told her the story, imagined her eyes growing cold, her skin pale with disgust. No, he could not tell her—he was not brave enough.
“He is no fool,” she went on, seeming not to notice his silence. “Jean-Paul, I mean. He is a clever and educated man. ’Tis a cruel thing to say, but he seems wasted upon the Baldessares. He would have made a fine cardinal, except…” She pulled a face, catching Henry’s gaze. “I do not trust him. There is something there that he hides well. He tries so hard to pretend he has no feelings; even when people slight him because of his face, he shrugs it off. But you just know that, inside, he is like a boiling pot, bubbling and seething.”
“You describe him very well, sweeting.”
“Why did you ask, Henry? What did he say to you? Tell me, I want to know.”
Tell me…
“He asked if I would…persuade you to marry Alfric.” No need to frighten her yet with talk of a bridegroom like Baldessare. “I said that decision was yours alone.”
Jenova’s eyebrows rose, her smooth brow creasing. “I am surprised. I did not think such a matter as my marriage to Alfric would concern him.”
“Is his whole face ruined? I mean—”
“You mean, what did he look like before he was disfigured? A sweet face, I think. Not so much handsome as appealing. Pale eyes and long lashes—one of his eyes is still so, the other one is blind. I do not know how old he is, ’tis difficult to tell.”
Henry nodded. She had just described several of his companions at le château de Nuit. And yet in his heart, deep, deep in his heart, he already knew who he was. The he who could hate him enough, who was patient enough, cruel enough, to do this thing to him. Betrayal, that was what was at the heart of Jean-Paul’s game.
Henry’s betrayal.
“Stay away from the priest,” he said with quiet urgency. “Do not be alone with him, Jenova, and do not let Raf near him. I do not like him. He is dangerous.”
Jenova eyed him uneasily. “Of course I will be careful, Henry, although I k
now I am perfectly safe here, on Gunlinghorn land. You would…you would tell me, if there was anything more, wouldn’t you, Henry? You know you can trust me, don’t you?”
Henry smiled into her eyes, but his heart was bleak. Trust her? Jesu, if only he could believe she could make all right again! But he feared even Jenova did not have that power.
Jenova wanted to force him to tell her what was in his mind. Something had happened, something more than his meeting with Jean-Paul. He was acting oddly, as if he were looking inward even as he smiled and chatted and lathed her with his famous charm. She knew him too well to be easily deceived—didn’t he know that? Whatever it was, it was clear Henry did not want to share it with her.
Why had he spoken of court again? Even though it had been in the context of helping Raf, something for which she should be grateful, the mere mention of it had soured her joy. She didn’t want him to go. She had half thought, hoped, that he had changed his mind.
She had learned from Mortred how painful it was to give oneself wholly to a man. She must try and keep her distance. And her heart in one piece.
Then why was it already feeling like it was too late?
“Jenova?”
He was watching her, his eyes so very compelling. Something in her own eyes must have betrayed her, for he caught her fingers in his and squeezed them tightly, as if for comfort. The moment stretched out. “Jenova,” he murmured again, his low voice skimming her skin and her senses. And suddenly she was intensely aware of his body, his warmth, the scent of him. Desire flooded through her, quickening her breath, heating her blood.
Just like that, she was ready for him.
“Henry,” she breathed, and looked into eyes blazing with ardor.
His face was rigid with his need of her. He stepped closer, and his warm breath stirred her veil. “I want you,” he said, his lips almost touching her skin. “Now.”
She laughed, as if she had drunk too much wine. “Now? Before my entire household?”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if only just realizing they had an audience. “Go to your solar,” he said, as softly as before. “Go now. Make some excuse. I will follow.”
