Lisette was blowing kisses to the cheering audience.
‘Tell me what she sang,’ Alys pleaded.
He knew the words by heart. ‘She sings to her lover, begging him not to leave her. She wants him to lie in her embrace until daylight.’
‘That’s beautiful.’
‘You may tell Lisette so for she wrote both the words and tune,’ he replied, and watched Alys’s blue eyes widen with amazement. ‘Shall we go and speak with her?’
‘We can’t.’ She laughed. ‘She’d recognise you.’
‘Then I shall summon her to my hall so you may speak with her yourself,’ he whispered.
Delight shone in her eyes, but then her adorable face saddened for an instant. He was getting used to seeing all manner of emotions flit like wind-hastened clouds across her face. Hell take it! Was she wondering if he had lain with Lisette?
Mercifully she was distracted. In front of the cheering crowd, Ponç, wearing a pilgrim hat of straw adorned with daisies, was heaving himself up on top of a trestle. Richart had heard him sing before. A lugubrious fellow with a saucy humour.
‘Tonight,’ the fruity voice announced, ‘I shall sing you “While I Salute Love”, a serious work that has taken me no longer than a paternoster to complete.’ The gap-toothed grin at his audience could not have been more wicked.
While I salute Love
I have reservations.
For the mistress I now worship
May start a-nagging,
With her jaw a-waggling,
All day and all night,
So instead I’ll love a shepherdess
Baaaa Baa!
Ponç pranced on the spot, pretending to herd sheep.
Have my way with her!
Baaaa Baa!
An outrageous thrust of hips.
Upon the green sward,
Baaaa Baa!
And maybe widen her girdle
Through the summer.
Baaaa Baa, BAA!
Ponç gestured to the audience to join in the chorus and there were moos and cockadoodles as well.
‘Is the singer saying he has got a shepherdess with child and he doesn’t care?’ Alys whispered afterwards, frowning.
‘Yes, you are doing well to grasp that,’ Richart answered. He did not want to sound superior. Mind, with all the obscene gestures only a blind abbot would have missed the gist. ‘And I seem to remember there is usually a third verse about having a little lamb in spring,’ he teased, and his hand slid over her belly and he watched her skin blush prettily.
He just wanted to be alone with her. ‘I think someone may have recognised me,’ he murmured. ‘Besides, Henri’s watchdogs have come in. Let us move on.’
They swiftly retraced their steps up the street and this time he led her through a passageway into a courtyard lit by candles and lanterns. He knew the place well from his youth though it had changed landlords several times and the young vines now had stout heartwood and covered most of the lattice. There were two long trestles. One was already occupied by a party of friends, who had been drinking a while judging by the empty platters and bursts of laughter. The other was unoccupied, save for three drinkers at one end.
Alys’s glance asked him if there was sufficient distance for them to be private. He nodded, seated her furthest from the others and slid onto the bench opposite her, careful to lean his left elbow on the table, keeping his hand up to hide his face. It pleased him to see Alys impressed that he could disguise his voice as he ordered the tapster to bring ale and sweetmeats.
Her eyes were beautiful in the candlelight, the centres dark and large. She was happy. It flowed out of her. If only he could set this gemlike moment into a ring, he thought as he raised the leather jack of cider to her. He could no longer imagine her being a royal whore. Nor believe it, either. Perhaps it was because the servant girl who had fled John’s embrace still shone uncannily through her.
‘Sometimes,’ she murmured, sliding her hand forward to touch his, ‘we have to forget who we are and live for the moment.’
He nodded, but with all his responsibilities, he felt like some giant turtle whose heavy shell was melded to its flesh.
Across from him, Alys sighed happily. ‘This is a land where women have much more freedom. I have never seen a female troubadour before. You are a fortunate people. So much music and such lightness of heart.’
Perhaps too light-hearted, he thought. Enjoying the pleasures of life for too long could blind you to the possibility that your world could end.
The landlord arrived with a platter of figs, flavoured with rose-water and scattered with slithers of candied peel. He recognised Richart and raised a tsk-tsk eyebrow at his homespun companion, but, anticipating he would be well rewarded, murmured a deferential ‘Enjoy’ and left them.
Alys laughed. ‘He thinks you are stooping low. I am dismissed as unworthy.’
‘Wait until he recognises you two days hence.’
At least she did not ask if he had brought other women here, but maybe she was thinking that, or else it was the thought of the imminent wedding festivities that sobered her. Well, it certainly sobered him.
‘Will you forgive me if I ask you something?’ she whispered, leaning forward. ‘You have never explained about the woman in the tower. I should like to understand. Why will you not ask a ransom?’
He did not want to talk about L’Aiguille, but Alys had a right to know.
‘Because she encouraged her men to rape Sibylla, my youngest sister, my virgin youngest sister.’
He read the shock in Alys’s face. ‘Oh, forgive me, I should not have asked.’
‘They would have cut her throat afterwards, but L’Aiguille let her live. She is now a nun.’ He could see Alys understood. ‘That’s why I will not ransom that bloody she-monster. She was my bargaining piece with John. The d’Athée family are high in his favour, more loyal to him than all his barons and he’s probably borrowed money off them as well. They want their sister back.’
‘That was shrewd, then.’
‘I try to plan ahead, anticipate the moves on the board.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
He shrugged. And sometimes he could prejudge, let other men’s mischief slide beneath his guard. ‘Easy to tell if a woman’s a whore as you undress her,’ Jaufré had quipped. ‘I’ll wager Alys won’t need the candle blown out.’
‘Is there any news from Jaufré?’ Again, her uncanny way of reading his thoughts! ‘I believe you do not like him much, or am I wrong?’
‘Are you thinking of becoming my wife or my confessor?’ he answered. She was probing too much. Not that he blamed her.
‘Your pardon, I did not mean—’
He settled his hand over hers. ‘I know.’
For a while, although nothing was said between them, it was a comfortable peace. Eventually she looked up at him, drew a fingertip across the sugar lingering on her lips and smiled. ‘Everyone’s gone.’
‘Looks like it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. Rats were feasting on the abandoned platters.
‘Is it close to curfew? Are we likely to be arrested by the watch?’
‘I hope so. You realise this adventure is purely to test the efficiency of my wardens.’
‘Oh, that’s why you agreed, is it?’
‘Of course.’ But it was the last thing he needed. Henri’s men might have lost the scent, but if Uncle Seguinus was fanning tales of Richart’s strange behaviour, being arrested by his own watch would add to the fire. Yes, he must definitely lighten his purse on the way out. But for a little longer, why care? He set his hat upon the bench beside him. The shadows favoured confidences, but he drew the candle closer so he might see her better.
‘Can you play an instrument?’ she asked.
He needed to look sheepish. ‘Now why would a noble lord need that talent?’ he teased.
‘Because this is Mirascon and music is in your people’s souls.’
He smiled and did not answer but scuffed her
palm fondly with his thumb. ‘I have something I should confess.’
‘Does it deserve penance?’ she asked. ‘I only give nice ones.’
With a deep breath, he withdrew his fingers and sat back. ‘When I was in England visiting King John at Corfe Castle …’ Oh, he had all her attention, but …
‘Go on.’
Per Crist! He felt like a green esquire charging at a quintain; saying it wrong could unhorse him with a mighty slap, ruin everything. ‘Well,’ he muttered, staring down into the depths of his tankard, ‘I don’t know if you ever visited Corfe when you lived in England. It’s a soaring castle, built on a steep hilltop. Toss a beaker over the ramparts from the upper bailey, and it would keep rolling down to the drawbridge.’ He looked up, found her watching him, her lips a straight line of concern. Lips he intended kissing later. ‘Oh, Alys.’
Sensing he needed kindness, she reached out for his hand. That pleased him. With a deep breath, he pulled himself back to his discourse. ‘While Tibaut and I were at Corfe, we saw this servant girl throw herself off the ramparts. The king was drunk, trying to fumble her, but she gave him an almighty shove and then she jumped.’ He felt her hand tremble beneath his. ‘Wait, there’s more! We thought she had died of a broken neck, except she was too quick-witted for that, and we found out later that she’d grasped a builder’s rope. Anyway, she fled the castle, but the king let loose his dogs and the bloody beasts tore her to pieces.’
Alys’s eyes were awash with tears. ‘You saw her jump?’
‘Yes, I did and I feel guilt. It was partly because the king snared me looking at her earlier in the great hall.’
‘My lord, you cannot, must not blame yourself any longer.’ Such sweet compassion shone in her eyes. ‘All Christendom knows that a king cannot be gainsayed and I’m sure you had no wish to jeopardise your alliance.’
He nodded. ‘I don’t see how I could have intervened in time. Tib thought she was taunting the king up on the ramparts, but that was not how I saw it.’
‘Were that girl alive and sitting here now, I’m sure she would give you absolution. It is King John who should bear the guilt.’
‘No, you don’t quite understand, Alys. I’m not sure how to explain. I keep seeing the girl. She’s haunting me.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I saw her in the marketplace at Bordeaux not long after we disembarked. I’d swear on saints’ bones it was her and yet my reason tells me otherwise. The trouble is, Alys, I see her every time I look at you. You have her form, her colouring, her height, the way she held her shoulders. She is haunting me through you and …’
Per Crist! Alys was looking round-eyed, shocked, pale, even more like the doomed servant. She must be putting the pieces together.
‘I suppose you think me mad?’
A deep sigh and then she murmured, ‘It explains a great deal.’
Hell, does it?
‘But this won’t do, my lord. I … I might begin to think you only like me for my resemblance to this wench.’ Brave Alys, she was trying to make light of it, tease him. But had she hit upon the truth?
She was reading the hesitation in his face. Oh, he was an ass, handling this like a cack-handed oaf! No wonder she was biting her lip and looking at him with such anguish.
He was tempted to say: I want to spend my life with you, to lay my heart at your feet. Saints protect him, he was falling in love!
‘I didn’t want to deceive you, Alys.’
‘You deceive me?’ Such sadness filled her lovely face and she slid her fingers away from his. Then she rallied. ‘Do you know the name of your ghostly mistress?’
The question astonished him. ‘The maidservant’s name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Adela.’
The candle stub revealed the glaze of tears before she turned her face away.
Damn his stupidity! Had he been wrong to make confession? ‘I’m so sorry, Alys.’
He could not blame her for her silence. ‘Listen,’ he blustered, ‘about this morning and then tonight in the bailey, I apologise that I scared you. I was trying to stop her haunting me.’
She did not answer. Only a lonely cricket rasped in the impasse between them. ‘Alys, I am not mad if that’s what you think.’
More silence.
‘Curse it! I am not like some beast that fornicates without feeling. I have friends who find great affection in their marriages. I would do so, too, and that is why I want to be honest with you.’
At last she was looking at him again. The shimmer of tears was gone. ‘This morning on the ramparts, my lord, you told me that you believe Alys comes with a tarnished honour.’
This, too, caught him off his guard.
‘Well … well, ma domna, my wits tell me otherwise. I see before me a lady of great heart and courage.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered and he could see she was once more close to tears. Did she think he was just being fulsome, ladling out flattery as compensation now she knew about the servant wench? It was hard to know with women. Then she disarmed him utterly. ‘What if I was truly Adela?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be marrying her, would I?’ He shifted, uneasy. ‘She doesn’t exist anymore, Alys, but we do.’
‘But are you going to keep seeing her in me?’
That was a fair question, but could he answer it? ‘It is as if she has put some curse on me.’
‘But why would she do that? I wouldn’t have if I’d been her.’
That made sense. He pulled a wry face. ‘Sounds like I’ve been a daft fool, then.’
‘No, my lord, merely honest.’ Now her hands reached out. ‘What is it you truly want?’
‘A loving wife, sons.’ He grinned. ‘Lots of sons. Alys, I need this alliance with John. I want this alliance with you, but the future could be bloody.’
‘Yes, I know about the crusade and the heret—’ She bit off the words. They were no longer alone. A tapster was clearing the other trestle and their candlewick was struggling against the flood of hot wax.
The great lord in Richart wanted to snarl at the man to get back inside. He wanted to take Alys in his arms, turn the cursed hourglass full again. His hands longed to worship her with their touch, here, now. Her skin would feel like silk beneath the crude cotton. The fragrant smell of her body and the headier, sensual aroma of womanly arousal would fill his breathing. Instead, he watched her rise to her feet, shake out the homely skirt. Her pretty shoulders shivered in the damp chill of late evening. Dazed, he escorted her inside, paid his dues. Outside in the street he grinned at the waiting shadows. Henri’s hounds knew their fox; they would follow at a discreet distance. As well it was so—Alys held him back and slid her arms about his neck.
‘Take me home to the castle, my dearest lord,’ she requested softly. ‘Back to your bedchamber. I want to spend tonight in your arms and whether I am Alys or Adela in your mind as you make love to me, I do not care.’
They walked back like lovers. She revelled in the feel of his possessive arm about her waist, yet within her mind she stood trembling at the top of a massive precipice. Part of her wanted to weep with sheer joy because this wonderful man had cared for the frightened servant girl. Could the reason he liked Alys be because he saw Adela in her? Was he falling in love with her? Oh, his eyes told her so, but great lords were fickle. Dare she stay upon this dangerous rocky promontory where the truth might topple her? Or be honest, tell him and jump to her death? No, she wanted one night, one golden night of lovemaking in his arms, a memory to give her courage when his soldiers placed the rope around her neck.
‘This is exceedingly sinful,’ Richart laughed, tugging her eagerly up the whirl of stairs to his bedchamber.
His menservants, playing with knucklebones in the antechamber, sprang to their feet. Their master grinned. ‘Good night to you,’ he panted, tugged Adela playfully after him and barred the door. Then he turned. ‘Is this my penance?’ he murmured, sliding his arms about her.
She nodded, and cu
rling her fingers into his hair, drew his head down so she might kiss him. Fire was burning her, a desperate hunger to feel his skin against hers, his body joined with hers, for him to be inside her.
Her lips and tongue told him what she needed and she tasted his exultation in her surrender. Impatiently, he slid an arm beneath her knees and carried her to his bed. Grabbed between his strong fingers, her kirtle gave way, ripping from neck to hem. He thrust the chemise sleeves down her arms, baring her for his enjoyment.
‘I want to see you naked, serve you.’
Her body quivered as he drew his fingertips down the peak of her breast to her thigh.
‘My beautiful bride, how much I want you.’
Now it was she who set her hands to his waist. Unclothing him, she gazed down at him with a delight as rich as his, tracing her fingers down as he had done, through the path of dark hair from chest to loins. She closed her hand about him, caressing him so that he sighed with need until he could no longer endure her mastery. He wrested her power away, bewitching her with his lips and fingers until she was pleading for him to enter her.
The love and the power, the challenge and the trust that shimmered between them, were mirrored in his green eyes, increasing with every breath, as she felt the building and building of exquisite pleasure. Her cry, as her body shuddered in release, came an instant before his gasp of triumph as he released into her.
He rolled back and lay there sated, almost purring, if great lions could purr.
‘There was a sweetness there, Alys, such as I have never known. If that did not breed a worthy son—’
Adela could not answer, she curled into the loop of his arm, feeling like Eve when Adam had just made love to her outside Paradise—guilty of being blamed for the apple but still revelling in the sensations he’d given her.
Richart was stroking her plaits. ‘Undo these, sweetheart,’ he commanded. ‘I want your hair loose.’
She slithered free, sat up and felt his fingers play upon her back as she ran her fingers through the braids and shook her hair free before she nestled once more against his chest.
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