“You may find that difficult—Allah help us both.”
Chapter Twelve
Shrouded in cobwebs, the chamber made a better crypt than a chapel. The fusty smell of mildew lingered in corners no servant had aired, so suddenly had the queen arrived.
A tiny island of candlelight burned in a vast sea of darkness. The Queen of England knelt at prayer, her slender back straight as an honest intention. But her head was bowed—too heavy a weight for the fragile neck. By that tiny clue, Alienore sensed her sovereign’s despair.
Unwilling to intrude, she hovered near the door, shutting out the impersonal eyes of the Plantagenet guards. Indeed, she welcomed privacy for her own unruly emotions: the sharp spear of her queen’s betrayal, set against a sneaking sense of guilt. If she had not abandoned Eleanor, could she have counseled the queen to stay?
“Your Grace.” Alienore fell to her knees. “God and Saint Swithun uphold you.”
“It would take nothing short of a miracle to uphold me now. But our cause is not lost.” Green lightning flashed in the queen’s eyes. “For my sons remain at liberty. Soon or late, their army shall restore me.”
“Madam, do not speak such words, even to yourself! Your enemies would construe them as treason.”
The queen crossed the chamber in a rustle of blazoned brocade. Bending gracefully, she clasped Alienore’s hands and raised her. “I did not grant this audience to speak of my plight, but of yours.”
Within Alienore, the bubble of guilt swelled and burst. A sob clawed from her throat. Kneeling again, she kissed the signet ring of Aquitaine.
“Your Grace, my plight is nothing that cannot be made right. I am here for your comfort. We must pray—”
The queen’s hands tightened in warning as the door scraped inward. The hammer of recognition whelmed her heart.
The Raven filled the doorway like a dark angel, draped in the black wings of his surcoat. When he bowed, inky hair slithered around his grim features.
“Ah, Lord Raven.” The queen smiled. “We appreciate your swift response to our summons.”
Suspicion tingled through Alienore as he joined this private audience, turning to keep both doors in sight—as if he suspected assassins, even here.
The door boomed closed. The candles fluttered in their sconces like fading hopes.
Glaring at him, Alienore dashed away her tears and rose. Could she not even beg her sovereign’s forgiveness without his involvement? Oh, she was still angry—blindingly angry, stung by the bee of wounded pride and the ache of her lacerated heart.
This man had unclothed her . . . touched her . . . in ways no other man had ever dared. And she’d responded, flamed to blazing life. Even loved him, for a heartbeat.
“Avoi.” The queen’s eyes lingered on her struggling features. “Sir Guy informs me you are bound for the king in Normandy.”
Alienore knew how damning that must look. “’Tis not as it appears—”
“Is it not?” the queen said mildly. “And what say you, Lord Raven?”
“I fixed my course long ago,” he rasped. “I say it’s over late to change it.”
“You speak more truly than you know. You may find Henry to be less favorably disposed—shall we say, less predictable—than you expect. Before you beard that lion in his den, I am resolved to defend Alienore from scandal.”
Unlooked-for hope reared up, warring with bitter irony. The queen had not defended her loyal chancellor, but she would act now for the guilty fugitive who’d abandoned her?
The Raven studied Eleanor of Aquitaine as a man studies a strange dog, ready to defend himself if it seemed likely to bite him.
The queen glided to the window, tinged with the ruddy light of sunset. “Sir Guy has explained the circumstances in which he . . . found you.”
Alienore burned with humiliation. Her disgrace was common knowledge—she must accustom herself to it. But her shame would save her from pious Ponce when he ran her to ground. “Your Grace, I shall not make excuses for my abominable conduct. I made full confession to the priest, who gave me penance—”
“By good Saint Thibault!” Wearily, the queen bowed her head against the glass. “Did you think I would reproach you?”
“How can you not? I reproach myself hourly for this debacle.”
The Raven’s face tightened, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
“Oh, Alienore,” the queen sighed. “Normally I would rejoice to see that icy heart of yours melted by ardor. You might say it restores my faith in the frailty of human nature. However, this public scandal has cost you dearly.”
The Raven gripped the curved dagger at his belt. “I’ll make amends for that.”
Alienore shot him a wrathful look. “I want nothing from you.”
“Voire, monsieur!” the queen exclaimed. “You shall have your hands full with her. Even so, I rely upon you to keep your word . . . this time. I do not view lightly this shaming of my virtuous lady. You cannot restore her virtue by slaughtering any man who dares question it. Normandy is not Damascus, Lord Raven. Your usual tactics are sadly unsuited to any civilized land.”
A chill radiated from him. “I’m aware of that.”
“Indeed, I can think of nothing that may repair the damage you have wrought . . . but wait.”
An instant before her fate was sealed, Alienore knew what the queen would say. A bolt of stunned disbelief smote her, so she could not speak. The queen met her horrified gaze with something like compassion.
“Monsieur, it is our will that you marry my privy chancellor, Lady Alienore of Lyonstone, to restore her good name and honor.”
Alienore was strangling on the bitter bile that rose from her stomach. Emotion knotted her innards like colic. Past all caution or restraint, a shout burst from her lungs.
“Nay, I will not marry him!”
Before her queen’s astonished glance, she mustered an army of words to defend herself. She must order a legion of logical objections Eleanor’s rational mind would accept.
“Your Grace, think what you are saying. I, an earl’s daughter, to marry this . . . this villain, this wretch? There is no name black enough to call him.”
The queen elevated her eyebrows. “It is our will.”
“Nay!” She strove to master her tone. “I—I cannot marry him. I care nothing for my tattered reputation. I care nothing for . . . dishonor. Why, better even Ponce than—”
“Alienore.” The Raven’s fists clenched at his side.
Blinded by fury, she turned on him. If she saw triumph gleaming in his eyes, she would kill him where he stood. What a coup this would be for him, far better than any wager!
Yet his eyes were grim as ashes. “For you, of all women, to claim you care nothing for honor.”
Swiftly she turned away. Aye, once she’d prized honor beyond everything. But for one misguided moment, she had trusted her heart instead.
“Alienore.” He addressed her stiff-held back. “When we were found and you . . . compromised, I would’ve offered marriage. By the Prophet, this very morn I said—but it was futile. You wouldn’t hear me—”
“Futile?” She whirled to face him, so angry she could barely form the words. “’Tis utterly impossible. If for no other reason than who you are and who I am! How should I marry a wastrel who claims not even a Christian name?”
“Depardieu,” the queen sighed.
Startled, Alienore swung toward her. In her fury, she had almost forgotten the royal presence.
“I would never sanction such a match as she describes for an earl’s daughter,” the queen said, “no matter the circumstance. Monsieur, I fear you have played out your game. You had better reveal who you are.”
Alienore stared from one to the other. So the queen had known him. And why should it surprise her? As she watched him, scar blazing white against sun-bronzed skin, the rat of suspicion nibbled at her mind.
“Aye, pray tell.” Her words echoed, as if from far away. “If truth is a word whose meaning you know. What man are you?”
“Belike that would have been never,” she said coldly.
Her blood pounded against her temples, the ominous tightening that preceded a megrim.
“Half my life, I hid my name.” White-knuckled, he gripped his dagger. “In its place, men gave me another—one all the world knew. Then I won the duchy—”
A strangled blurt of sound slipped past her lips. His bitter mouth twisted.
“Lady.” He grimaced as if the words soured his tongue. “I’m the Duc d’Ormonde.”
“Ponce,” she whispered. But how could this be? She’d seen Ponce in England, if only from a distance. The coil of tension around her temples clenched tighter. God save me, I swooned into his arms like a serving wench! I even fancied I loved him—
“Not Ponce.” His eyes hooded. “Ponce is dead, these four months past.”
“Dead?” Her mind reeled.
“Dead of a broken neck when he plunged down your manor stairs. Dead and buried, but not mourned.” He smiled without humor. “With no heir from his loins, his bastard brother was ennobled.”
“But who—?” She could not seem to grasp it.
A mocking hand swept over his travel-stained form. “Jervaise de Vaux.”
So he had not lied about his name, at least. But Ponce was dead—the reformed drunkard, the repentant lecher, the fate she’d dreaded these many months? Why, in God’s name, had Raoul never written?
Hope sparked within a sea of despair. “But . . . if you are not Ponce, you are not bound by the precontract of marriage signed without my consent. You are not required to assume his obligations—”
“Nay, not required.” His harsh voice gentled. “I committed to it full willing. Beyond willing—I desired it.”
Desired it, but he did not say he desired her. For he’d chosen her sight unseen, had he not? He’d schemed for her before he ever came to Poitiers.
“You desired my fortune, do you mean?” Proudly her head lifted, lightning pain flickering at the edge of vision. “Let us call the thing what it is, at least. Not desire, but sheer avarice.”
His scarred face tightened. “I’ve never been wealthy. Now I’m more beggar than duke. My esteemed half brother ran the duchy into the ground. Pity he found his piety only after he lost his fortune.”
Pain speared through her skull and split her thoughts. “So you require a fortune—my fortune, the revenues from my Wishing Stone lands.”
“Aye.” She almost fancied an apology in his expression, but his words dispelled it, spoken brutally as if he flogged her—or himself—with the truth.
“I need the dowry your brother will pour in my coffers. I must have it.” Absolute conviction burned in his eyes. “If you want naught to do with me afterward, I’ll not force you.”
Had she actually expected him to deny it, to reveal somehow the nobility she’d fancied he possessed? If so, she was a fool thrice over.
Ponce d’Ormonde was dead. But like the many-headed hydra, the monster had sprouted a greater threat in his place. The infidel duke called the Devil of Damascus would make her the worst husband she could possibly imagine.
In mute entreaty, she turned to the queen. Eleanor watched her with sympathy and understanding, but also with resolve.
“Your Grace—”
“My dear child, this is the only course you left yourself when you fled my keeping.”
Jesus wept, was this motivated by revenge? Was this how the queen punished her? The queen she loved could never be so heartless.
Relentlessly the royal decree rang through her throbbing skull.
“I have sent for a priest. At Prime on the morrow, my beloved godchild, Lady Alienore of Lyonstone, shall become the Duchesse d’Ormonde. I intend to witness the ceremony myself, so that none may question it.”
With an ironic smile, the queen turned to Jervaise. “So you see, monseigneur, I have kept my promise to you, even when you betrayed yours to me. I trust you will not forget my benevolence when you claim your lands on my husband’s border.”
Dully the bell tolled, a muffled clang that summoned the faithful to prayer. The sullen red of dawn shimmered in a gray mist of rain.
The whole world weeps for me.
Alienore had passed the night writhing in the hell of an agonizing megrim while faithful Nesta bathed her brow with cool cloths soaked in lavender. The wolf had lain across her feet, a distant comfort, whining with distress.
Heartsick, she felt the crushing tension ease its grip on her skull before dawn. She had sunk into exhausted sleep, Nesta dozing facedown across her knees, when the queen’s messenger arrived.
Eleanor sent one of her own gowns for the ceremony. Tall and slender as the queen herself, Alienore stood rigid while Nesta laced her into it: ice blue damask crusted with pearls, draped over samite worth half a kingdom. Beneath a silver chaplet, her hair rippled free to her waist. Nothing she wore was her own, except the swirling moonstone of her mother’s wishing ring.
She stared hollow eyed into the polished plate. In her white-faced image, the light of battle kindled until her eyes burned like stars.
“Are ye well, milady?” Nesta ventured.
“I am betrayed on all sides, cornered like a rabbit, my reputation in shreds.” Alienore’s chin came up. “I may have lost this battle, but I have not yielded the war.”
In the corridor, a familiar figure stumped forward.
“I’ll give ye my arm to the altar, lass,” Sir Guy said gruffly, “if ye’ll have it. It’s what Theobold would want.”
Belligerent, he glared up at her as if expecting her to protest. But she harbored no resentment against the blunt old man. He’d been a good friend to her father and a faithful servant of England, and as kind as he knew how.
She sank into her deepest curtsy. “I should be deeply honored.”
The old knight thrust out his chest and offered his arm. Together they walked forward to confront her fate.
The chapel blazed like a benediction, with ranks of glowing tapers dazzling her eyes, making the blue-mantled statue of the Virgin swim in a sea of light. A ruby sunrise poured through stained-glass windows. Massed golden flowers—the season’s first blooms—drenched the air with sweetness.
Her gaze slid past the nervous priest, past the Queen of England, kneeling in her pew.
There before the altar, like a wrathful demon, stood the Raven—Jervaise de Vaux. The infidel duke who would shortly be her husband.
Her step faltered, but Sir Guy patted her hand as if she were a child. The gesture was so like her father’s that tears pricked her eyes. Step by step, she advanced, eyes fixed on the man who waited.
For the first time, he wore other than black. Now he stood unmasked in a surcoat of deep garnet, all flame and shadow, bright belt knotted around his hips, its heavy ends swinging against his knees. A brooch gleamed at his shoulder, the leaping form of a wolf in flight—the talisman of Ormonde. Defiant, she met his gaze. For a bare instant, his Saracen features fired with emotion.
She could scarcely breathe against his dark intensity. He stared as though she brought him something he’d craved forever—yearning and regret and burning resolve all mingled.
He stared as she’d stared at the Virgin, aching with the longing to prove her worth.
He stares at me in triumph. Her stomach fluttered. And desire.
Aye, he married her for her fortune. But she knew he wanted her as well. He wanted to finish what they’d begun that night when she offered him her virtue.
No doubt this very night he would seek to claim his prize. So she understood it to be between maids and their husbands on the bridal night. Holding her resolve before her like a shield, she advanced to confront her nemesis.
He’d not darkened a church doorstep since his knighting, a lifetime ago. But oh, she was worth it—this and more.
Jervaise stood now before the God he’d renounced. Three windows large en
ough for a crossbow bolt behind him, then the yawning cave of the confessional, where an assassin could crouch. For once, he paid little heed to cunning, but stood thrumming like a drawn bowstring as his bride approached.
Alienore wore nobility like a queen. Glittering finery encased that matchless body she’d bared to him so bravely the night he betrayed her. With head high she walked, her gold and silver hair like an aura. In all that blazing beauty, the steel of battle flashed in her eyes.
No doubt she’d passed a wakeful night—the same as he. Frailty lingered in the violet skin beneath her eyes. But even this crushing setback had not weakened her tempered steel.
Sir Guy trotted beside her like a faithful watchdog. Jervaise hadn’t wanted to reveal his identity, but the old warrior had been ready to leave the nameless Raven rotting in the dungeon in Châtellerault if he’d held silent. Revealing himself had been his only option. Skeptical at first, the man had ample cause to believe him now.
But not to love him, after he’d ruined the earl’s daughter.
Sir Guy had clearly swung around to Alienore’s cause. That was one of her gifts, to inspire this blind devotion. Easy to see why even a prince had coveted her.
Yet that idiot brother of hers would have thrown her to the tender mercies of a man like Ponce, careless as a man tossing a bone to a mongrel. Allah’s blood, that marriage would have been a disaster. She’d done well to flee. He could afford to admit that now. And his brother had died—under bloody odd circumstances—before he could pursue her.
She belongs to me now. Satisfaction flooded through him. She was his, and he would keep her.
She released the old knight with a gentle word of gratitude—noble even in this to the jailer who dragged her to her fate. For her sake, Jervaise bowed low, as he would for the sultan himself. A whiff of her lavender fragrance—pure and beguiling—teased his nostrils.
She surveyed him through eyes that pierced like spears, cold and bright as courage. Then spoke in her boudoir voice, low but clear.
“Monsieur, let me speak plainly. I will utter the travesty of these marriage vows since the queen commands it. But no oath spoken under duress is binding. ’Tis fair to advise you I do not consider this matter resolved.”
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