Kissing the Bride

by Sara Bennett

  And he would never learn why.

  Mayhap she could get a message to him, through the groom, as she had before? But they would know. Jean-Paul and her father would be watching, now that they no longer trusted her. A message wasn’t worth a beating. And it wasn’t worth dying for.

  A tear ran down her cheek.

  She had been so happy as she’d ridden home. She had even begun to think that maybe she had a future. And now it was all gone, all destroyed. She was back to being what she had always been, something to use, something whose feelings were never taken into account. Whose feelings simply did not matter.

  “Rhona, are you there?”

  It was Alfric. He tapped upon her door, his voice whispery so as not to be overheard. Had he been told to stay away? Obviously he did not want his father to know he was there, but it was brave of him to have come at all, and Rhona knew Alfric was not very brave when it came to facing up to Baldessare.

  “Yes, I am here,” she called softly, but she did not get up.

  There was a pause, and then his voice came out in a rush. “Rhona, I am afraid. I-I-I know you will s-save us both, but I am still very afraid.”

  Save them both. She must have been insane to think such a thing. She was alone against the combined evil of her father and Jean-Paul.

  “I am resting, Alfric. I will talk with you later.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated, knowing something was wrong, but helpless to ease her pain. Finally, his steps retreated. Rhona lay down and closed her eyes, and pretended she wasn’t there.

  Chapter 20

  In his dream Henry could hardly see where he was going. At first he had thought he was at Gunlinghorn, but the shadows were so deep and the passages twisted and turned. He was soon lost.

  It was night, but there were no torches upon the walls, although there was an old smell of ashes. He stumbled along, hands outstretched, trying to see his way. There was no light, none at all. Nothing to tell him whether or not he was going in the right or the wrong direction.

  Jenova. He needed to speak to Jenova, but he had to find her first. She had rejected him again. He had meant to keep persisting until he had worn her down, but he did not think he could bear that. He had his pride, after all, and she was slicing it to pieces with her kind, sad smile.

  He had meant to tell her, today in her solar, that he was happier at Gunlinghorn than he had ever been before, anywhere in his life. He had meant to tell her that he felt part of a family for perhaps the first time in his whole life. The abandoned boy, shunted from relative to relative, never belonging to anyone. He had always been afraid to give too much of himself, in case it was taken from him. But now the need was greater than the fear.

  Jenova was his life. If he left her behind, if he left Raf and Gunlinghorn, he would feel like that abandoned child all over again.

  He had meant to tell her all these things, but somehow the moment had slipped away from him. Faced with the reality of her, the possibility of rejection, he had been too much a coward to speak the words. She would ask him all the questions he so feared. And turn away from him, the disgust plain on her face.

  Henry didn’t think he could stay and see that.

  He was only a man, after all, not a saint.

  Beau Henri.

  Henry stilled, his outstretched hand touching stone, roughly cut and crumbling stone. Beyond him, in the darkness, he could hear breathing. He wasn’t alone.

  There was a smell. A mixture of despair and terror, pain and misery. He knew them all. He knew that smell.

  That was when he realized he was back in le château de Nuit.

  He woke with a sob.

  Jean-Paul had been waiting, standing like a shadow in the woods beyond the meadows, only his breath to betray him. Gunlinghorn Castle rose bulkily against the sky, dark apart from the occasional flicker of torchlight from the patrolling watch. There seemed more on guard than usual, as if they were preparing for a possible enemy attack.

  He smiled to himself.

  They thought the danger would come from outside Gunlinghorn. The truth was, it was already lodged safely within.

  A figure was approaching on foot, its cloak flapping behind, an inner agitation causing jerky movements. And fear. Jean-Paul recognized the emotion instantly—in his youth, he had seen many people running through fear. It had been his job to catch them and bring them back; his and Henry’s.

  “You are late,” he said and moved out into the figure’s path.

  It jumped and gasped and clutched its chest. “Oh, you frightened me! I did not see you—”

  “Have you news?”

  A deep breath, a resigned huff at his bad manners. “Lady Jenova will marry none. Not even Lord Henry.”

  “Not even Henry…” Jean-Paul considered that, enjoying the idea of Henry begging Jenova to marry him and her refusing. Had he told her about his past yet? Had he shared that with her? Did he dare? Jean-Paul almost hoped he would, so that he could suffer even greater depths of despair.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Jean-Paul turned and stared at the face within the hood, considering it. “You must be very brave. If we are to give Lady Jenova and Lord Alfric the happy ending they deserve, then we must now take an action some may consider…extreme.”

  “What action?” The voice was shrill, too loud.

  “Hush!” said Jean-Paul impatiently. “Do you want the watch to hear you? It is only extreme because it is unusual, but it is necessary. Completely and entirely necessary. You trust me, don’t you?” He fingered the cross on his chest, letting the starlight catch it, reminding her of what he was.

  The head within the hood bobbed respectfully. “Of course I do, Father Jean-Paul. I know you want only what is best, as I do. Sometimes others are blind to such things, and they must be shown the way. Prodded, gently, in the right direction.”

  His own words, come back to him from another’s lips. He smiled. “That is so true, my child. Very well, I will tell you what I want you to do. Listen carefully and be brave. It will all soon be over.”

  His voice went on, softly, urgently. At first the figure gasped and shook its head, but gradually, as his words washed over it, acceptance came. By the time they parted, it was nearly dawn, but his persuasion had had its effect.

  Jean-Paul’s will would be done.

  This morning the air was chill, but the sky had lost its ominous look. Henry led Raf up the slope through the trees, turning back to smile at the boy’s flushed and excited face beneath his furry hood. Jenova and Agetha had bundled him up so much that he resembled a round bladder rather than a skinny little boy.

  “Not much farther.”

  Raf grinned back, urging his pony faster. It lumbered along behind Lamb, making hard work of the slope. Jenova had not wished to join them, although both Henry and Raf had asked her—mayhap Raf had been the more sincere of the two. They had around half a dozen men from the castle as guard, but so far Henry had not sighted a single soul besides themselves.

  It was too early and too cold.

  Last night’s dream had stayed with him, an unpleasant sensation. As if someone was standing behind him, unseen and yet with eyes fixed upon him. Henry had lain awake the rest of the night, trying to put the nightmare out of his mind, but it was as if Jean-Paul, whoever he really was, had released the past from its locked room and now he could not put it back. Flashes of memory, pictures from long-ago days, came and went in his waking mind, and he was unable to stop them.

  “Hurry up, Henry!” Raf called, and Henry looked up to see the boy racing ahead, the little fat pony’s legs a blur. They reached the top of the hill together and stopped, catching their breath, horses snorting and puffing. The guard had dropped behind, but Henry did not worry. Up here it was as if they were all alone in the world.

  Gunlinghorn was spread out before them, just as it had been the day that Jenova had brought him up here. The day that had started it all. The river was moving sluggishly, still half frozen, the woods were
dark and bare, but soon they would be green and lush. Gunlinghorn was ready to burst into life.

  “Is all of this really mine, Henry?” Raf’s voice was small, as if the thought of so much good fortune overwhelmed him.

  Henry nodded, a serious nod. “All of it, Raf.”

  Raf’s small, pale face swung slowly from side to side as he took in the hills and the vale. “’Tis very big.”

  “But you will get bigger, too, Raf. You will be a good lord, just as your mother is a good lady. And the people of Gunlinghorn love you. But always remember, love comes with a price. In return for the love of your people, you must always do your best to protect and look after them. And you must rule them wisely and well.”

  Raf nodded solemnly, but his sideways glance was anxious. “But you and Mama will help me, won’t you, Henry?”

  There was that now familiar ache in his chest. Henry ignored it. “Your Mama will always help you, Raf. And so will I. When I can. But I may not always be here, you see. The king might need me again, and I have to help him, too.”

  Raf thought about that for a moment. “You must be very important if the king needs your help,” he said at last.

  Henry couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve learned I am not as important as I thought I was. The king can always find other men to help him if I am not there.” But where will I find another Gunlinghorn? How will I ever restore myself with Jenova when I have let her down so badly? “Are you ready to go back now?”

  Raf ignored the question, set upon a quest of his own, and Henry knew from experience that Raf would have his answers. “Mama will be sad if you go. She has smiled much while you are here. You make her laugh, Henry. You would not…” But he hesitated, doubtful.

  “Ask your question, Raf. I will answer it if I can.”

  Raf nodded and took a breath. “You would not think to take us with you when you go, would you, Henry?”

  Those green eyes, so like Jenova’s, looked directly into his. Henry had the urge to promise the boy anything, just to make him smile, but he held it back. He had learned enough over the past weeks in the child’s company to know it was not kind to promise things he could not provide. Much as he wanted to say yes, Henry well knew that Jenova would say no.

  “Your Mama will not want to come, Raf, and you are too young to go alone. When you are older, though, I will be pleased to have you come and stay with me whenever you wish.”

  Raf frowned in thought, and then he shook his head. “I could not come without Mama,” he said at last. “But I do thank you, Henry, for your kind offer.”

  Henry grinned. “My pleasure, Raf.”

  He did not tell the boy that there would come a time when he would be more than happy to leave his mother here at Gunlinghorn and spread his wings. The boy’s love and devotion did him credit, much of it due to Jenova, Henry was sure. He wondered what sort of man he might have been if he had had a loving mother, if she had not left him to the care of strangers….

  “Lord Henry!”

  The shout startled him, and he drew his sword before he realized it was Reynard, riding to meet him. The big man came up to them, bowing his head to the boy and following it up with a smile.

  “Master Raf, you are looking very fine.”

  “My pony is old, but he is determined,” Raf replied. “One day I will have a stallion like Lamb, but not yet.”

  “No, you are wise to wait. Lamb can be a handful some days, even for me.” Reynard turned to Henry, and the good humor dropped away from his rugged face. “I am off to Uther’s Tower.”

  Henry moved closer, lowering his voice so that the boy could not overhear. “Bring her back if you can, Reynard. I think you are right. She is not safe where she is. I have decided I will ask Jenova’s permission to send for Lord Radulf’s men. He has an army to the west. If I have to leave…well, Baldessare’s greed might overcome his fear of the king, but he would be a fool to fight the King’s Sword.”

  Reynard nodded his agreement. “Send for them anyway, my lord. Lady Jenova need not know until they are here, and then she will hardly turn them away.”

  Henry laughed. “Aye, I will take your advice, my friend. Very well. Go and keep your meeting. Master Raf and I are ready for home, eh, Raf?”

  “Aye.” Raf smiled and then gave a little shiver.

  The boy was cold. What was he thinking to keep him sitting here so long? Henry urged Lamb down the hillside, carefully, keeping an eye on Raf at his side. The pony was favoring one of his forelegs, but only slightly. The boy was cold, his beloved pony injured, well done, Henry! He gave a grimace. Pray God it didn’t get any worse.

  Before long the gates of Gunlinghorn were before them, and once inside, Henry lifted Raf down from his now badly limping pony. “There, go inside and warm yourself. Your mother will not be very happy with me if you have caught cold.”

  Raf, looking a little flushed, retorted that he had so many clothes on he was hot, not cold. But Henry could see the worry in his face when he looked upon his faithful mount.

  “He may have bruised himself. I don’t think it’s serious,” Henry said, nodding to the pony. “If you like, we could put a poultice on that leg. I will show you how.”

  Raf seemed happy with the offer, and some of the concern left his eyes.

  “Then go and do what you must, and then come back to the stables. I’ll be waiting.”

  When he had gone, Henry led Lamb back to his stall, while the groom took the pony. He tried to spend time with the big horse every day, and often brushed him and spoke with him. Sometimes he swore that Lamb understood every word he said and was far more sympathetic than most people.

  Today he was more concerned with Raf’s pony. Henry had always had a way with animals, apart from that early run-in with the destrier. It was something else he could teach Raf before he left.

  Reynard was right. He would send for Radulf’s army now, and at least stay until they came. If he could not persuade his stubborn lady to marry him, then at least he would know she was safe. He would feel better then.

  But not happier.

  “I am already too hot!”

  Raf stuck out his lip mulishly, on the verge of rebellion. Agetha clicked her tongue impatiently but gave in. She folded the warm cloak over her arm and took Raf’s hand in hers.

  “Very well, then, but you might need it later. Come on, or we will be late.”

  “Late for what?” Raf demanded. “Lord Henry is expecting me in the stables. My pony has a bruised foreleg.” But, still, he went with her, used to obedience where Agetha was concerned. They hurried down the stairs and through the storerooms and the wine cellars, the smell of grain and wine and salted food heavy in the gloomy, dry air. A cat sprang out of the darkness, trapping a mouse. There was a horrid squeaking, and Raf pulled at Agetha’s hand.

  “’Tis Raven! Raven has caught a mouse for her babies’ supper!”

  “Hush, Master Raf.”

  “But I promised Gertrude I’d show her and—”

  “Come with me!”

  Raf gave up and let her tug him along. He was tired from the ride on his pony and confused as to where he was going. Agetha had said something about a friend and that she would explain it all in a moment. He felt he should ask her more, but he knew her and trusted her, and although sometimes she was impatient, she was also kind. Well, most of the time.

  There was a door. Agetha drew the bolt and tugged at it, pulling it open with a gasp. More stairs, down into the darkness. Someone had lit a torch, and Agetha took it from its sconce and held it up to show the way. It was a tunnel, and at any other time Raf would have been excited, but now the damp shadows made him nervous. Then at last another door, and Raf realized that this door led out through the wall of the castle. They had passed through a tunnel between the keep and the wall, and now they were outside.

  “Agetha!” he gasped, but he had no time for more. She was pulling him down a slope and into a tangle of bushes, almost running, as if she was afraid of being seen by one
of the guards above. When he looked back over his shoulder, Raf could see that they were at the back of the castle, where it looked over the river. Usually the water was enough to deter would-be invaders.

  The tangle of bushes gave way to marshes, and Raf saw a boat tucked away there. Agetha lifted him into it and then climbed in herself, using the oars to row them along, under the shelter of the bank.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, but his voice was small. By now Raf realized that there was something very wrong. Agetha should not have had him out here. He’d known, but he had trusted her. He was beginning to think that had been a mistake.

  “Nearly there,” she panted. Her face was red, and perspiration ran down it. She was not used to rowing, he thought smugly. He hoped her arms were aching. And then the boat ran into the bank and Agetha climbed stiffly over the side and pulled it up a little, so that it would not float away. She reached in and half carried, half dragged Raf to the shore.

  “Ouch!” he complained. “I want to go home!”

  “Well, you cannot,” she retorted breathlessly. “Not until your mother sees sense.”

  He did not understand. As he made to answer, he heard a sound and turned, just as Agetha gave a cry of relief. There were men in the trees. Not Gunlinghorn men. Men he had never seen before in his life.

  “Who are you?” he asked them imperiously, though his knees were shaking.

  “I am Jean-Paul,” one of them said, and Raf saw with a shock that the man had no face, just a smooth piece of cloth over his head with holes for the eyes and mouth.

  Raf stumbled back, into Agetha’s skirts, and she gripped his shoulder. Her fingers hurt, but even in his own fear he understood that it was because she was frightened, too. And then Jean-Paul came to take him and he could think no more.

  Chapter 21

  Jenova listened as her steward took her through an inventory of Gunlinghorn Castle. It was almost time for the evening meal, the day was waning, and they were seated in a small alcove off the great hall. They had been dealing with the important matter of what food stores they already had, and what would be needed for the year ahead. Jenova’s head was swimming with figures, from the number of dried apples still edible, to the amount of sour wine still to be drunk.