by Tamara Leigh
She slid her hand from his. “Oh, do imagine, Sir Oliver. It makes for interesting thoughts which might otherwise be…” She shrugged. “…boring.” Another smile, but this one did not fool Durand.
The knight was misbehaving as much as she—if not more—and though it was not likely the lady knew her would-be suitor was wed, it was obvious she did not care to be looked upon in such a manner. One redeeming quality, Durand supposed.
Sir Oliver’s brow rumpled slightly, as if he was unsure of whether or not to be offended, but then she laughed, softly this time, and his forehead smoothed.
The lady turned forward again, set her gaze upon Durand, and inclined her head. “Sir Durand.”
He barely contained his surprise. In the next instant, he berated himself. Of course she knew him, just as he ought to know her. In his defense, he had not had a chance to look near upon her earlier. Other matters had been more pressing—reaching her ahead of the count’s men, snatching her from atop her horse, keeping them both from landing beneath his destrier’s hooves. And when he could have become familiar with her countenance, he had not been inclined to do so, allowing her to shield her face beneath her hood. Too, there was a marked incongruity between their first encounter when she had been quiet far beyond the usual reach of a woman’s tongue—excepting screams and shrieks—and this encounter when her tongue exceeded the reach of any woman he had known.
Still, you are a Wulfen-trained knight, Durand Marshal, he silently berated. Was not judicious observation one of your earliest lessons? You have been most negligent.
The lady smiled at the other knights. Then, with a rustle of unsullied skirts that evidenced her journey across Henry’s lands had been planned well enough to allow for a change of clothes, she stepped forward—somewhat stiffly, as was to be expected considering the means by which she had dismounted his destrier.
The knights on either side of him moved apart, and she halted before Durand. Though she stood several inches shorter, she was no small thing, but neither was she of an ungainly height. And just as she was generously endowed above, her hips were well defined past a relatively slender waist.
Tilting her head to the side, she considered his bruised and scratched face. “I should apologize.”
He did not expect that. Though her resistance to his attempt to rescue her had irked him, he understood she could not have known he spoke true in claiming he was King Henry’s man.
He summoned a practiced smile, the intent of which was to appear genial, but not enough to encourage affection to which many of the queen’s ladies were partial. “As should I,” he said. Of course, in a manner, he had already done so. After tossing her free of his destrier’s hooves, he had expressed the hope she would forgive him.
The lady raised her eyebrows.
He raised his.
When some moments passed with neither voicing remorse and dozens of curious eyes making themselves felt, she laughed, and the sound that rolled off her tongue and past the small gap between her front teeth did not ring true. Had it before? Had he been too distant to detect the false note? Or was this laughter exclusive to him? Of course, if not the latter and her mirth was forced, it was understandable if one took into account how sore she must be from her landing on the frozen ground.
Her laughter ended on a sigh that sustained the bow of her mouth while relaxing the corners. “It seems we are at an impasse, Sir Durand.”
“You make it sound adversarial.”
She put her head to the side. “Pray tell, what would you call it?”
He shifted his weight. Never had he met a lady so outspoken, albeit in a most playful manner—
Deceptively playful. This woman whom he had wrested from atop her horse might be the same in physical form, but she was not the same in spirit. She had much too quickly come about. But he would banter with her—and, perhaps, discover what game she played.
“What would I call it rather than an impasse?” He shrugged. “Perhaps ’tis more a matter of one offense canceling out another.”
Her lips softly pursed. “I rather like that, Sir Durand.” There was a glint in her eyes that some might call mischievous but seemed to him too hard and sharp.
She pressed her shoulders back, winced as if pained, and clasped her hands at her waist—the left, he noted, fit with a wedding band. “I assume,” she said, “you now have a name with which to credit the mark I bestowed upon you.”
That which she had earlier refused him. “You assume wrong, my lady. Unlike Sir Oliver, I have not had time to inquire after one who laughs too often and loud. I have been with the king these past hours.”
She searched his face with the intensity of one looking for lies. “Then it falls to me to provide a name.” She gave a slight dip. “You may call—”
“The queen,” murmured the men and women in the hall.
Those who were not facing the stairs, including Durand, turned to receive her royal personage with bows and curtsies.
Trailed by two of her ladies, Eleanor smiled and waved to indicate the occupants of the hall should return to their conversations. When her gaze settled on Durand, she did not falter over the face he presented, only frowned and adjusted her course.
Aware of those around him dispersing, though he yet felt the nameless woman at his back, Durand bowed a second time when Eleanor halted before him.
After a quiet word to the ladies accompanying her and their subsequent departure, she said, “I am pleased you are returned to us, Sir Durand, and wroth with my lord husband for not consulting me ere dispatching you to Rouen.”
He had known she would not like it, but though he numbered among her personal guard, he had once numbered among Henry’s knights and, from time to time, the latter yet called upon him. “I am sorry if it proved an inconvenience, your Majesty.”
“It did, as Henry well knows.” She took a step nearer, surveyed the damage to his face. “This looks fairly recent.”
Certain she had been fully apprised of the incursion on her husband’s lands and had granted the one behind him an audience hours earlier, he stepped aside to reveal the woman and said, “A small cost for delivering the lady out of Count Verielle’s hands.”
“Small?” Eleanor’s eyebrows peaked. “’Tis good you are not as vain as some men, Sir Durand.” She looked to the woman and said with a note of censure, “Ah, here is the one of whom my ladies carry tale of making mischief among our men.”
Durand frowned. Had the two not spoken upon the lady’s arrival?
The woman stepped forward and executed a slow, deep curtsy, the effort of which Durand suspected was more a reflection of her aches than deference. “Your Majesty, I thank you for allowing Sir Amos to speak in my stead. Blessedly, I am recovered now.”
“Recovered, indeed.” Eleanor motioned for her to straighten. “I understand your company is much sought after.”
The woman smiled, this time not broadly enough to display teeth. “I do like to laugh, Your Majesty.”
“I remember well your penchant for laughter, though methinks you were all of ten and five when last we met and the habit was yet acceptable for one so young. That would be…ten years ago.”
If the lady was shamed by the mild rebuke, her color did not reflect it. However, her tone was all respect when she said, “Be assured, Your Majesty, henceforth I shall endeavor to temper such displays of joy.”
“Then you shall be welcome at my court, Lady Beatrix.”
Durand jerked at hearing the woman’s name. Over the years, he had encountered other ladies who bore the name that always moved his memory to one of petite form and golden tresses, but never had there seemed a poorer fit.
“I thank you, Your Majesty,” said the woman of good height, curvaceous form, and dark tresses. “I do not wish to sound impertinent, but if you are agreeable, I would prefer to be called that by which I am better known—Lady Beata.”
It still did not sit well with Durand, but it was better than the other name.
The
queen’s quiet drew his regard to her, and he saw she had narrowed her lids at the lady. Just when it seemed Eleanor’s silence might grow into one of grave disapproval, she said, “I believe there is another name by which you are even better known. One that speaks more to the devilry you scatter about my hall.”
Durand shifted his regard to the lady, but her gaze was fixed on Eleanor—not defiantly, although a show of deference would not be amiss.
“So there is,” she said. “But, alas, that name has been woefully altered this past year.”
The queen’s face softened perceptively. “My belated condolences.”
“I thank you, Your Majesty.”
Irritated by the riddle batted between the two women, Durand ground his teeth.
The queen gave a curt nod. “Lady Beata it is—as your lord husband called you, hmm?”
A widow, then.
“So he did, Your Majesty.”
“We shall talk further, Lady Beata, but now I must relieve you of Sir Durand’s company.”
“Of course.” The woman glanced at him and dipped her chin.
As Durand fell into step alongside the queen, she said, “You, my gallant monk, are not in this moment, are you?”
He did not like her to call him that, but he hid his aversion more easily than when she did so in the presence of others. “I do feel as if elsewhere, Your Majesty—as though you and the lady purposely seek to mire me in confusion.”
She did not speak again until he saw her into a chair before the fire. Peering up at him where he stood with his back to the hearth, near enough their conversation would not carry, she said, “Tell me, what do you think of Lady Beatrix?”
A pity she did not use the woman’s preferred name outside of her company, Durand reflected. “I know too little of the woman to think anything of her.”
“Be it so, you know of her.”
“Certes, I do not, Your Majesty. Until you spoke her name, I had none by which to call her.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows rose.
He inclined his head. “Her man, Sir Amos, refused to divulge her identity when we aborted Count Verielle’s attack. Neither did the lady speak it, for not a word passed her lips in my hearing until this eve.”
Laughter parted Eleanor’s lips. “Not a word out of that one?” She shook her head. “Another curiosity to ponder alongside her flight and the count’s reason for attempting to abduct her.”
“May I inquire as to Sir Amos’s account of their journey?”
“He told that, as the lady is now widowed, he has been charged with escorting her home to England so she might care for her sire in his dotage. As for Count Verielle’s men giving chase, Sir Amos suggested they may have been acting of their own accord in hopes of attaining the lady’s purse.” She smiled thinly. “There is much more to it, I think you would agree.”
“I would, Your Majesty.”
Eleanor’s brow grew lined. “One such as Verielle cannot fancy himself in love, though ’tis true many a man is enamored with the lady—”
“Truly?” Durand was not in the habit of interrupting her, but this surprised him. Fascinated was one thing, enamored quite another.
“You are astonished.” Eleanor gifted him a brilliant smile. “Ah, but I have yet to remedy your ignorance of the lady.”
Reminded of her belief he must know of her, he waited.
“Though I wager much of France has heard of her, most know Lady Beatrix as The Vestal Wife—now The Vestal Widow.”
Durand stared. He had heard of Conrad Fauvel’s bride who was said to be forty years younger than her husband and who, it was rumored, served the old man in the capacity of a daughter rather than a bedmate. And yet this daughter, having no need to attract a husband, had been indulged, in some ways as if she were a son—ever at the count’s side regardless of the topic under discussion and allowed to offer her thoughts and opinions on matters best left to men. Thus, the girl had grown into a woman whom other women said was far too comfortable in the company of men. And she had certainly demonstrated that this evening.
“As told,” Eleanor said, “you know of her.”
“I do.”
“And are you among those who approve or disapprove?”
“I have no cause to feel one way or the other about the lady.”
The long gaze with which she held him was unsettling, but then she shrugged. “If the count did send his men to capture her, what do you think he intended?”
Durand knew it was possible Verielle’s interest was fleshly, but such talk was something with which he was not comfortable. “I cannot say, Your Majesty.”
“Of course you can. You just do not wish to.”
Hoping for an end to his audience with her, he smiled tightly.
She gave a soft snort. “Oh, be of use, Sir Durand.”
As he waited her out, he steeled himself for what was to come.
“As you know,” she said, “a man does not have to be in love to desire a woman.”
And there it was. Though his center coiled tight, still he held.
She dropped her head against the chair back and raised her gaze toward the ceiling. “But if not lust, what? Vengeance? Did she wrong the count in some way? Possible. Although her far too easy behavior attracts many a man, it repels others, especially those who believe a woman’s worth is limited to keeping a household, filling his bed, and birthing children.” After a long silence, she mused, “Were she an heiress, the abduction attempt would make sense—that Count Verielle sought to force her to marriage to gain her fortune.”
Durand knew Eleanor could relate to that. Following annulment of her marriage to King Louis nine years past, she had once more become the most eligible woman in all of France. Thus, during her return to her vast lands in Poitou, she had been forced to outrun the Count of Blois who had sought to make her his wife. Knowing she would need a protector, she had taken the initiative to secure a husband of her own choosing and wed Henry Plantagenet who would later make good his claim to the English throne.
“Alas, the lady is not an heiress,” Eleanor murmured, then lowered her chin, looked about the hall, and narrowed her lids.
Durand followed her gaze to the one whose name hung far better on another. The woman walked alongside her man, Sir Amos, whose head was bent near hers as if to catch whispered words. Moments later, the two stepped into an alcove where torchlight ventured only far enough to reveal it was occupied.
“At least, as far as we know, she is not an heiress,” the queen added.
Durand looked back around, and the gleam in her eyes tempted him to pity The Vestal Wife—now Widow—who was likely unprepared for the depth of Eleanor’s interest.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed the excerpt of the sixth book in the AGE OF FAITH series. Look for Sir Durand’s tale in 2017.
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EXCERPT
LADY EVER AFTER
A clean-read rewrite of Unforgotten,
published by HarperCollins, 1997
From Tamara Leigh, USA Today best-selling author of the acclaimed Dreamspell, comes another medieval time travel romance set during the 15th century Wars of the Roses conflict.
Lady Catherine Algernon, dreaming of her death at the hands of traitors, is stunned when a handsome stranger from the twenty-first century saves her life just as her nightmare is about to come true. Look for Lady Ever After in Fall 2016.
PROLOGUE
Northern England, May 1464
She had seen her death. Though the dream had come to her every eve this past a sennight, that from which she now awakened had been this-worldly—so real she momentarily considered this was the dream.
Chemise damp with the sweat of fear, Catherine turned onto her stomach, reached beneath the bed, and patted a hand over the floorboards until her fingers found the hilt.
“There you are,” she whispered. “There.” She started to dra
w her hand back but could not.
Every night before attempting a few hours of sleep, and each time she came up out of the dream to find the dark still upon her, she felt for the dagger to reassure herself it could be brought to hand. This night was different, the living, breathing memory of her death demanding more than reassurance.
She curled her fingers around the hilt and dropped onto her back. Clasping the sheathed blade to her breast, she stared at the ceiling. But try though she did to resist the dream, fatigue once more thrust her into that world.
Her enemies were upon her. Before, behind, and beside her. Every one of them faceless, though she need not see their coarse jaws, gleaming eyes, and grinning mouths to know them for traitors.
The stench of their bodies making her swallow hard, crude taunts stirring the fine hairs across her body, she held. Though her defense of the gatehouse would be for naught, never would she surrender. Thus, she must be felled, and the warrior who broke from the others believed he was the one to do it.
Straining beneath the weight of a sword whose point sought to be more intimate with the floor than the air, Catherine added her left hand to the hilt and hefted the weapon as the man drew near enough that he appeared faceless no more—whiskered jaw, leering eyes, moldering teeth.
Moved by fear of a strength that allowed her to sweep the blade high, she sliced through his sword arm.
The long silence of disbelief. The roar of pain and anger. The sword clattering to the floor. The savage warrior coming for her.
Catherine stumbled back against the portcullis winch and tried to raise her sword again, but too late. Ever too late.
The devil wrenched the weapon from her, and without a pittance of hesitation, turned it on her.
She could never remember his face upon awakening. But now she saw clearly his contorted features as he drove the blade through her, barked triumphantly, and lurched back, brandishing steel whose silver was terrifyingly more beautiful varnished in crimson.
