Aye, tomorrow. Surely it could wait until then, though she could not fathom her reluctance. Surely the Raven had known she meant to do it.
“Is it so?” His eyes narrowed. “Avoi, two can play at this game.”
“What game is that?”
“Alienore, my sheltered innocent! He’s told me outright—the man has no shame. He intends to add you to his list of conquests. And when I scorned him for thinking you’d submit to his tawdry advances, he offered me a wager.”
“A wager?” A seed of coldness sprouted within her.
“He wagered he’d have you in his bed. Of course I declined to wager against a lady’s good name. Yet nothing I said could dissuade him.”
That cold seed broke open and flowered into fury—and a maddening sense of disappointment.
“I—I see,” she said faintly.
She’d been a fool to think the Raven’s interest was almost honorable, if the king himself commanded it. To hear instead all her worst suspicions confirmed, she seethed with righteous wrath. How she burned to hunt down that villain in whatever den of depravity he wallowed and vent her outrage upon his head!
“I should never have told you, ma chère, but I feared the knave was worming his way into your affections. Forgive me?”
“Of course.” She fixed him with unwavering eyes. “I am grateful to you for telling me.”
He captured her hands in his sword-hardened grip. Though he was a tall man, he needed barely to look down to meet her gaze.
“You know what they call you, Alienore—all those spurned suitors? The snow maiden, the ice queen. Idiots, every man of them.”
“I have no spurned suitors, Your Grace.” Seeking freedom, her hands stirred in his. “What would I bring to any marriage, with my inheritance in dispute?”
“Ever the diplomat,” he chided. “You may lower your shield of words for me. I’ll protect you.”
“You are kind.” Uncomfortable, she lowered her gaze to their locked hands, her pale fingers trapped in his sunburned paws.
She’d guarded against such intimacies all her life, from the day she’d seen the ruin a woman’s passions had caused Marguerite and all those who loved her. The day her mother died, a victim of her own carnality, Alienore had sworn she would never give way to those treacherous passions herself.
“I would be more than kind, Alienore.”
A man’s passion, God save me—precisely the situation I prayed to avoid.
“Your Grace,” she whispered. “Pray do not do this.”
“I can no longer keep silent!” Agitation spiked as he slid a muscled arm around her waist and drew her against his hard body. “Don’t you know I’m mad with love for you?”
Love? She all but snorted. Perhaps he desired her—Richard of Aquitaine desired everything in skirts, for an hour at least. For a dangerous moment she almost said it out loud. Instead, she fumbled for tact.
“This is an . . . honor . . . I had not looked for. I—You are betrothed to the princess of France—”
“Alys of France is a child. She is a crude vessel of beaten bronze, while you are the Holy Grail, holding the very waters of life! And I am a desert wanderer who longs to immerse himself in you—”
“Jesus wept, Richard!” Her temper slipped. She was an earl’s daughter, not some wine girl to be wooed with silly love talk. “Are you mad, or merely drunk?”
“I am drunk with love.”
Straining against his hot grip, she pushed against his chest—to no avail. “I protest being handled so intimately. Release me!”
“That chilly facade is cracking, chérie.” His wine-scented breath washed over her. “I may be your king one day. What harm can there be in a kiss?”
Behind him Remus barked, almost drowning out the brisk rap on her door. Relief and panic warred as she struggled to push the prince away.
“Richard, there is someone—”
“Ignore it,” he breathed, eyes clouded with lust. “Your future king commands it.”
Remus launched toward the door. Desperate to escape this absurd dilemma, she called, “Enter!”
Majestically the door sailed open to admit Eleanor of Aquitaine, resplendent in crimson velvet over cloth of gold. To Alienore’s profound gratitude, her sovereign was unescorted. The fewer eyes to witness this ridiculous tableau, the fewer tongues would wag later.
“Madam, you are most welcome.” Pushing free of Richard’s startled arms, Alienore sank to a curtsy, her spine rigid.
“It seems so.” Gliding inside, the queen swept the door closed. She stroked Remus as the wolf sniffed her skirts, and lifted her eyebrows toward Richard. “Carissime, I must say I had not anticipated finding you here.”
“Would you believe we were discussing our alliance with the Count of Flanders?” With a grin, Richard bowed over his mother’s hand.
“If indeed you were, with a woman of Alienore’s beauty, you must have ice water running through your veins in place of hot young blood.” The queen’s cat green eyes glinted. “Alienore, my dear, be at ease. Your secret amour is safe with me.”
Alienore cast an aggrieved look at Richard, who grinned back amiably.
“Madam, allow me to arrange—”
“Stay, my dear.” The queen lifted a slender hand. “I have not descended upon you at this hour for pleasure. I am sorely troubled by a matter of grave importance.”
“Indeed?” A prickle of premonition crawled down her nape.
“Privy chancellor, I require your aid.”
“Of course,” Alienore said, her stomach sinking. Already she walked a tightrope between king and queen. On either side, the threat of treason yawned. A misstep would cost her inheritance, or her life. But she was Eleanor’s sworn servant, not a fair-weather friend.
“I am yours to command as ever, Your Grace.”
Smiling, the queen caressed her cheek. “You are a beacon of constancy on these troubled seas.”
Lounging on the table, Richard quaffed his ale. “Mother, what troubles you?”
Evidently, no matter how imperative the need for secrecy, Eleanor did not consider the matter unsuited for Richard’s ears. Of the ten children she’d borne two kings over her remarkable lifetime, this second son was her undoubted favorite. Richard would inherit Aquitaine—the land of her birth, her greatest love.
“Your Grace.” Alienore reached for her quill. “How may I serve you?”
Standing before the brazier, the queen warmed her hands. “I must send an urgent message to the King of Castile.”
“To King Alfonso? What matter could require—? Wait . . .” Alienore’s thoughts raced. “Does this concern the marriage negotiations underway between England and Castile?”
“By good Saint Thibault, you are a blessing to me, for I need not spell out my intentions in child’s words. My petite Aenor has seen her twelfth birthday and is quite prepared to make this match. Yet it seems that my husband intends to refuse Alfonso.”
“Refuse him?” Alienore stared. “When you have been planning this for years?”
Bitterly the queen smiled. “Henry will insult the King of Castile for no better reason than that I support the match. He would see another hostile kingdom bristling on Aquitaine’s doorstep.”
“But if King Henry opposes the match—”
“I merely wish to assure Castile, in secret, that this is a negotiating gambit, and so preserve the alliance until my husband alters his course.”
Alienore studied her sovereign’s lined features. Outside, the castle had fallen silent, as if the entire world had sunk into an enchanted sleep. Darkness pressed against her icerimed window. Richard was scowling into his cup, no doubt disconsolate to have his wooing interrupted.
Why should her nape prickle with this sense of looming menace? She studied her queen, those green eyes gleaming with secrets.
“My dear,” the queen murmured, “you are the only friend I dare trust with this delicate matter. You must travel to Alfonso with all haste and arrive before Henry�
�s messenger. Depardieu, we dare not lose a single day! You must ride at once.”
Alienore’s sense of danger deepened. She had performed a dozen such missions—though never to a land as distant and dangerous as war-torn Castile. Every bovate of soil from Barcelona to Gibraltar was well watered with crusader blood.
Of course she would have her sword, her escort and Remus to see her safe. Still, her instincts whispered, Be wary.
“Your Grace, ’tis a matter of state. Perhaps Sieur de la Haie or, indeed, your ambassador to the court of Castile might—”
“Nay, for they are watched.” The queen sighed. “I lied to you when I said Henry acted from spite. In fact, he has embarked upon a systematic effort to strip Aquitaine of its allies. He intends to divorce me and see me locked behind convent walls.”
“Oh, Your Grace!” Dismay for her sovereign swamped Alienore’s qualms. “You are the most powerful queen in Christendom—and he has always held you in abiding affection. He would never divorce you.”
“He loved me once, when I was young and beautiful.” Eleanor smiled, her expression bittersweet. “But Henry is eleven years younger than I—a man in the very prime of life. Now he has his English mistress, the fair Rosamund, for love. I must deal in fact rather than fiction, no matter how . . . unpalatable those facts may be.”
Alienore floundered in an ugly tide of memory. Marguerite had feared Theobold would divorce her, merely on suspicion of infidelity. But in the end he had only ignored her as she languished, until she died of heartbreak.
“Madam, I will . . . undertake the matter, if no other counselor will suit. Whom shall I trust for escort?”
“Aquitaine’s best fighting men shall protect you. I have asked Lord Raven to attend to the matter personally.”
Alienore’s head snapped up. Richard leaped up, cursing.
“Nay, Mother, not him! Send some other knight. Send her so-called champion, Thierry de Beaumont—”
“The Raven is the most formidable knight in Poitiers,” the queen said coolly. “While Thierry de Beaumont is a child with a pretty sword—I am sorry, Alienore, but that is the truth. A monarch cannot allow personal feelings to interfere with sound judgment, Richard.”
“Mon Dieu, don’t you know the Raven is a spy for my father!”
“I have known that since the day he arrived.” Eleanor of Aquitaine stared him down. “It relieves me that you have finally discovered it as well. Ridding Poitiers of his watchful eye will further serve our purpose. The Raven will know nothing of where she goes, or why, until it is far too late to warn Henry.”
Alienore cleared her throat, and drew two pairs of angry eyes.
“Madam, I am your servant, but . . . I would prefer some other escort. The Raven is no man of yours, and I fear his intentions may not be—honorable.”
“Aye!” Richard cried. “He’ll rape her in her bed. Look what befell her cousin!”
“Enough,” the queen said. “I have made my decision and need not justify it to anyone. The Raven will lead this party, and I have instructed him to that effect. Alienore will meet him near the postern gate at Matins with a sealed missive for Castile’s eyes alone.”
For the first time, Alienore felt a surge of anger toward the queen who had sheltered her. Still, though this missive came perilously near treason, she could never deny Eleanor in her hour of need.
Besides, ’tis a family matter, not truly an affair of state.
Yet this decision to entrust the Raven with her safety, despite his reputation, infuriated her. She struggled to swallow down her wrath.
“Your Grace, it shall be as you say.”
“There’s my good and faithful girl.” Ignoring Richard, the queen clasped Alienore’s cold hands. “I shall not forget your loyalty, my dear. When my time comes, I shall personally sign the writ of seisin that confirms your inheritance. This I swear by good Saint Thibault. Trust in me.”
“I trust in you as I trust in God.” Unfortunately, she had little choice. Eleanor had become her only port in the tempest that swirled around her.
By placing her under the Raven’s uncertain protection on this mission some men would call treason, she hoped the queen had not thrown her to the wolves . . . or the Plantagenet lions.
Chapter Six
The scene was like a hellish inferno, a page torn from the volume of memory the Raven would have closed forever—if he could. Bloody torchlight flared on the curtain wall and flung a ragged cloak of shadows over the bailey. Fog roiled against ice-rimmed flagstones, making the footing treacherous, as he led Lucifer toward the postern gate.
Poitiers, not Damascus, damn it. He forced clenched muscles to relax.
A secret mission of the utmost urgency, the queen’s message said. By the Prophet, this business was utter madness. The postern guard, the stable lads, any early-risen lover stealing from his lady’s boudoir, could glimpse them. A single careless word would alert the queen’s enemies and loose Henry’s bloodhounds on their heels.
Still, he couldn’t turn down this double opportunity: to woo Alienore and serve his king.
A flurry of panic erupted among the horses as a streak of white fur loped across the bailey. Behind the wolf, a tall woman strode through the billowing fog, steel flashing at her belt. Briefly he glimpsed a pale oval face crowned by wheat gold hair, before she raised her hood.
Even without the wolf, he would have known her anywhere. Alienore.
When Lucifer’s restless hooves struck sparks against the flagstones, her head swiveled toward them.
“My lady.” The Raven sketched a bow. “Another chance to serve you.”
Within the hood, her steel gray eyes speared through him. What the devil? He’d done her a good turn yesterday. Now she all but froze his balls with this scornful look.
“How fortunate for you,” she said coldly, sweeping past with her head high.
Dismissing me again like a bloody page. Grimly he stalked after her.
Ignoring him, she strode toward the squire who held the mare the Raven had chosen. “Where is my Galahad?”
“Too lame to be hard ridden, milady.” The squire ducked his shaggy head. “He’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
“Of course. I had forgotten.” She managed a reassuring smile for the anxious lad. “I am grateful for your good care, Luke.”
The boy reddened with pleasure—clearly besotted with her, like every other man at court.
The Raven felt irritated, for no reason he cared to explore. “We should make haste. Where’s your tiring girl?”
“Terrified of horses,” she said dryly. “I travel without servants upon the queen’s business.”
“I’m told we ride south but not why.” He tossed his reins to the squire and braced to help her mount. “Enlighten me.”
“In due time.” Ignoring his extended hand, she sprang into the saddle with a knight’s assurance. He caught a searing glimpse of her long legs, encased in boots and woolen hose, before she swept her skirts into place.
Left standing empty-handed like a lackwit, he peered sharply into her averted features. Then Lucifer sidled and rolled his eyes at the strange squire, which commanded his attention. Swishing her tail, the lady’s palfrey stood placid.
“Could you not have found me a proper rouncy?” she demanded. “This pretty-mannered mare will be eating your Lucifer’s dust all the way to Castile.”
Castile! Has the queen run mad?
“This mare’s sound winded and steady.” He kept his tone level.
Alienore responded with a skeptical snort. An unexpected grin tugged at his lips, though this was surely no time for levity. He cast an eye over her confident seat, then sprang into Lucifer’s saddle. With a practiced sweep, he freed his scimitar from his cloak.
“You’d do well to divulge our mission, lady. Else we charge blind into peril.”
“You were not my choice of escort, but the queen’s.” She prodded her drowsy palfrey. “If she did not see fit to trust you, I cannot see how I
may.”
He frowned at her obvious suspicion. Were he another man, he would have said it wounded him. But he never allowed himself an emotional response to any woman, beyond the brief sparking passion of a night’s release. He was not fool enough to break his rule for her sake.
“’Tis your safety, not Eleanor’s, at risk,” he pointed out. “Reconsider.”
“I shall think upon it.” Noncommittal, she urged her palfrey toward the gate.
His niggling unease sharpened. Something was sore amiss—had set her on guard against him. Scowling, he raked the battlements with a keen eye.
Nearby waited the man-at-arms he’d chosen to accompany them: a sturdy bearded soldier of middle years named Owain, with a steady hand and eye. Now the man bent from his saddle to instruct the porter, the queen’s silver gleaming as it changed hands.
The gate swung open, revealing the black tunnel that burrowed through the wall and a glimpse of snowy forest. Eagerly the wolf bounded into that dark maw.
Hoofbeats rang on the flagstones. A stern voice ordered, “Hold!”
Alienore pivoted the palfrey, long-knife flashing free in her fist. Alarm spurting through him, the Raven wheeled his destrier and unsheathed his scimitar with a hiss.
Behind them, a mounted figure filled the bailey, armor glinting under a surcoat rich with malachite and copper thread. Allah’s heart, he knew that horse—the half-trained beast that nearly unseated Alienore at the tourney.
“Thierry?” she said in disbelief.
On the bare edge of attack, the Raven reined in with a muttered curse.
“By my faith, monsieur!” the lady exclaimed. “What are you about?”
“Prince Richard honored me with his trust,” the boy said proudly. “As your champion, my lady, I claim the right to join your defenders on this mission.”
Damn it to hell—this was all they needed. The Raven sheathed his sword, steel rasping against leather. “It’s a foray through hostile terrain, boy, not some game of chivalry. Go back to bed.”
“Monsieur, I will not!” Thierry’s nostrils flared with outrage. “I intend to join this party with your consent or without it. I am son to the Comte de Beaumont. I do not come or go by any man’s leave.”
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