Of course she was too honorable not to declare her intent, even when discretion would serve better. No doubt she would appeal to Henry. He would be astonished if she didn’t. Yet he beheld her bright beauty under that glorious banner of hair, and an aching tenderness squeezed his heart like a fist.
So the Devil of Damascus claimed his bride. She quivered with tension like a drawn bow beneath his hand—but bided her time.
Let her protest to Henry, his warring sons, French Louis and the pope himself. By Allah, by Allah—I swear I will keep her.
His arm was coiled steel beneath her hand, knotted under garnet velvet. A fleeting memory stole her breath: his taut bronze skin in the firelight. She had touched him only once, but she knew she would never forget it.
Sternly she chastened her unseemly thoughts and turned to the priest. “Good Father, I trust we are permitted to make confession before Mass.”
Jervaise stiffened, breath hissing through his teeth. Belatedly she recalled his habit to shun the Mass. No doubt like any devil, he feared the wrath of God. Suddenly she wondered how many years had passed since he prayed. How many years of death and crippling hardship while he fought for whoever would pay him?
“Didn’t you confess two days ago?” he muttered. “Can’t have committed so many sins since.”
“Fie, monsieur! I will not stand before God without shriving my soul. Am I not correct to say so, Father?”
The nervous priest stammered assent, cringing from Jervaise’s grim regard. “Ah, my lady is correct, mostly correct, though I—I am given to understand the matter must proceed without delay.”
“Surely you of all men will not deny me the comfort of my faith?” she demanded, outraged.
“Well, nay,” the priest stuttered. “That is to say, there should be no objection if—”
“Let her confess, if she wants it,” Jervaise said in a voice like rusted steel. “I shall not.”
His jaw was knotted as he stared ahead, as if he confronted a mortal foe. Was that how he’d come to view his God? Beneath the roiling sea of betrayal, an unexpected current of compassion welled up.
The condition of his soul was hardly her affair. Still, she felt troubled as she followed the priest, her thoughts not lifted to God, but lingering stubbornly on the man she must marry.
What wounds festered in his soul? What bitter pain had he shown her when he called himself a devil who knew nothing of virtue? He’d flung the words like weapons, but somehow she did not think him indifferent to the state of his soul. He’d been a Christian knight; once, he must have cared desperately. What had happened to him in Outremer?
When she returned to the altar, her soul little eased by the sacrament, he had regained control as if that gaping crevasse had never cracked him wide. Resolve resonated from him as he rasped the marriage vows, face set in stone when he spoke the name of God.
When her time came to speak, she hesitated. She stood before God and perjured herself with these dutiful promises of submission, while her soul stood in violent opposition. Yet she would not have him think her fearful—or conquered. So she stood arrow straight and said what she must without wavering.
It could still be undone. Yet she could not seem to stop shaking.
When she spoke the last word, Jervaise de Vaux turned toward her. The intensity locked behind his features riveted her. She could not look away.
No doubt he is exultant. She swallowed the bitter taste of defeat. ’Tis his moment of triumph—or so he thinks.
Somehow she found her hands gripped in his. The heat of his sword-toughened palms seared her fingers.
“I know what this marriage costs you,” he said. “Your honor, your pride—your very self, aye?”
“As you say,” she whispered.
“Inshallah, you’ll find no cause to regret it.”
She lifted her chin. “Make no mistake. As long as I live I shall regret this day—until it is undone.”
His face tightened as if she’d struck him. Fleetingly, she felt ashamed for her churlish words. For the first time, her eyes faltered, lashes falling.
“My dear child,” the queen murmured, shattering the spell.
Alienore sank into a confused curtsy. But the queen embraced her, smiling as she pressed kisses against her cheeks.
“Depardieu, I must now address you as a duchess! You have risen to one of the highest titles in the realm, a rank I may say you richly deserve.”
“I deserve nothing.” Distrust and regret swirled through her as she returned the embrace stiffly. Had she betrayed Eleanor, or had Eleanor betrayed her?
“You shall keep the gown and jewels as gifts from your loving queen.” Eleanor looked into her troubled features and sighed. “Although I suspect you are unlikely to believe me, I wish you happy in your marriage, child.”
“Grant thanks for your kind wishes.”
The queen glanced at Jervaise as he accepted Sir Guy’s gruff felicitations with a wry smile. “He is not so great a misalliance for a woman such as you. Jervaise de Vaux is cunning, resourceful—one of the most feared knights of the entire Crusade. A strong man to defend your lands, despite his dark and difficult past.”
“Difficult? The man is the devil himself.”
“He is devil driven, that much is certain.” The queen sighed. “Voire, the two of you may find yourselves well suited in the end.”
“Formidable he may be, but he knows nothing of honor or virtue.” Alienore threw a bitter glance at his towering back, cloaked in that sheet of midnight hair. “How can we be well matched?”
Thoughtfully, the queen studied him. “Ormonde’s honor and virtue are well hidden—especially from himself—but I do not believe they are lost. Perhaps, with your assistance, he will find them.”
A sudden image assailed her: the Raven’s powerful body stretched over broken ice, straining to hold Remus above the deadly water.
At least she had not married a coward. Once he had saved her, whatever his reasons. But if her plan succeeded, she would never return the favor.
The thought dropped like a stone in her belly, spreading bleakness in its wake.
Chapter Thirteen
The abbey at Tours left a great deal to be desired. Alienore would gladly have ridden through the night to avoid it . . . and what awaited her there. But her husband controlled her choices now.
God save me from my wedding night. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. Her qualms had intensified as they thundered north toward the king’s court. They’d left Eleanor of Aquitaine to meet her fate. Now Sir Guy and his Plantagenet soldiers provided escort for the Duc d’Ormonde.
Alienore grimaced as she sat, arms wrapped around her knees, on a flat rock above the abbey brook. Cherry blossoms perfumed the air with haunting sweetness. She vastly preferred this damp rock to the noisome hole of the abbot’s chamber, whose dubious comfort he’d offered them.
The thought of that chamber, and the bridal bed that waited, made her seethe with agitation. Marriage vows or nay, she would not yield the fortress of her person. She knew enough of Church law—had made it her business to know—to recognize no marriage could be binding unless it was consummated. She would use that leverage with the king.
A twig snapped, loud in the twilight. She glanced toward Remus. Mud flew from churning forelegs as the wolf dug vigorously.
Suddenly Jervaise de Vaux towered over her, a curtain of hair framing his shuttered eyes. Her dove gray mantle lay over his arm.
“Can’t blame you for preferring clean air to that verminous abbey,” he said. “I envy Vulgrin his place.”
His mute Saracen squire had arrived and would sleep in the stable, where he could keep an eye on their expensive horses. Certainly he would sleep more comfortably than she.
Jervaise draped the mantle over her shoulders and hovered behind her like a half-remembered dream. Her nerves tightened. He must be thinking of it, just as she was—that unavoidable moment when they were alone in the bridal chamber.
She broke
the silence that thrummed between them. “You need not fear for my safety, with Remus here. I shall retire in due course.”
“So I’m dismissed, like any court lackey.”
Startled, she turned toward him. Conflicting urges churned within: her customary shield of courtesy, set against the powerful sting of betrayal.
“Unlike you, I have no talent for pretense.” She layered her voice with steel. “You trapped me in this arrangement against my will . . . at least for now. I see no reason to pretend ’tis by choice.”
He circled the rock and sat beside her—too close, but she would not give ground. She stared straight ahead, his restless heat licking against her skin.
He too stared into the dusk. “You’ll petition Henry to undo the marriage.”
Aye, and why am I reluctant to admit it?
“You’ll know Henry is in poor standing with Rome.” He stretched his legs, bound in leather chausses, and studied his boots. “This business of Becket’s murder—though by all accounts Henry’s men bungled it—has offended your pope.”
“It offends all good Christians.” Her eyebrows drew together. “The pope has rightly canonized Thomas Becket. Often I have wondered if Eleanor’s disaffection with Henry sprang from that moment, when his knights cut down the holy bishop as he prayed.”
But that was Eleanor’s business. She would not share it with this infidel . . . this crusader who’d turned his back on God.
“Becket opposed his king. Never wise.” Gold eyes glittered beneath his lashes. “Whoever ordered the killing blow, the bishop died for it. Even if Henry heeds your plea, there’s little he can do ‘til the rift with Rome’s repaired.”
“I will petition Rome myself if I must! Between my brother’s pandering, your greed and the queen’s malice, I have been ill served in this affair.”
“Don’t forget your own passion.” His gaze slid down her body. “Once you wanted me. Have you forgotten?”
Heat pooled between her thighs. “You twist my actions to serve your purpose. Passion played no part in what occurred that night.”
His eyes smoldered. “Never known you for a liar.”
“I am no liar! If you would say so, you have never known me at all.”
“Oh, I know you, Alienore.” Scarred features intent, he studied her. “Well enough to know you’ll make the finest duchess Ormonde ever had. Pity you’re matched with a man like me.”
Bitterness laced his words and halted her angry torrent of accusation. Once, he would have been worth knowing. Once, before a sojourn in hell destroyed him.
Unwillingly, she asked, “How does a duke’s son come to be a mercenary, anyway? You learned the knightly arts in a noble court, or I am much mistaken.”
He bent to knock mud from his boots, a curtain of hair sliding forward to cloak his features. “That tale’s long to tell.”
Stubbornly she waited for it. After all, he was her husband—if only for a short while. Did she not have the right to ask?
He glanced up at her silence, eyebrows lifting. “Come in to the fire, then. I’ll spin you a story you won’t have heard.”
Guarded, she backed away. “I would have the truth or nothing.”
“The truth then.”
He offered his arm. She felt loath to take it, unwilling to retire to their bed, but she could hardly remain outside all night.
When she whistled for Remus, the wolf bounded over. Resigning herself to the mud that would coat her mantle, she braced herself. Instead, the wolf galloped straight to Jervaise and launched against him, planting massive fore-paws against the knight’s chest.
An unaccustomed grin creased his face as Jervaise scrubbed his ruff. At last he pushed the wolf gently down and rubbed dirty hands against his chausses.
“I’m no fit escort for a lady now.”
An unexpected gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Had Remus chosen to greet me, I’d be no fit lady for your escort. Pray do not trouble yourself.”
He cast a strange look at her laughing face. Something like wistfulness surfaced and sank in his features. His expression caught her like a net, and her smile faded as she stared up at him. God save her, he was beautiful—savage and proud and deadly. Those lines of hardship and disillusionment merely enhanced the sensual appeal that made the ladies swoon in Poitiers.
She wondered how that mane of hair would feel spilling between her fingers. How the narrow planes of his face would feel if she traced them.
“Come inside,” he urged.
Disconcerted, she accepted his arm, his knotted bicep swelling under her fingers. They strolled through the orchard as Remus frisked around them.
“Hugh de Vaux sired a devi l’s dozen of bastards—like father, like sons.” Jervaise scowled as if the words tasted sour on his tongue. “Gave us all a knight’s training. Mine was at Mortain, on the Norman coast. I was determined to make good.”
“Mortain—was that your mother’s place?”
“My mother was a Saracen slave girl Hugh brought back from Jerusalem,” he said roughly. “Yasmin.”
Bastard to a Norman duke and his heathen concubine. She nearly recoiled, before her conscience smote her. A man’s birth did not define him—so Raoul always said. But had she ever truly believed it?
“She was a gentle soul. Loved her son and heeded the pillars of Islam.” His face was hard as he strode along. “I strove to please her and please my distant sire. Make them both proud. I was knighted at fourteen.”
“Truly?” Surprised, she glanced up. “’Tis early for it.”
“Hugh offered me a place. Like a fool, I was exhilarated. A chance to prove myself, I thought. It’s why I followed him on crusade.”
“What said your mother to that?”
“I stopped to see her on the way. She’d died—months before. No one troubled to tell me.”
Her heart clenched as old memories reared up. They had not seen fit to inform him, no more than Benedict had informed her when her father died. Hadn’t they thought she would want to know—that Theobold’s daughter was worth telling?
But those secrets struck to the heart of her hidden pain. She was not prepared to share them.
“I was sixteen, defending a castle near Antioch.” He bit off the words. “It’s hot, thirsty, bloody business—making war in that inferno. But we were soldiers of Christ. One night while we slept, Saracens doused our walls with Greek fire. Hugh was trapped when the gatehouse burned.”
“Nay,” she whispered, the hellish image flaring to life. God’s mercy, had Theobold died thus? “What did you do?”
“Soaked my mantle in water and wrapped it around me—forced my way in through a murder-hole. There was never love between us, but he was my father, though a damned poor one.”
“Did you . . . ?”
“Shouldn’t have bothered.” His mouth twisted. “Before I could drag him out, the burning roof crashed down on us. Hugh was pinned under a beam too massive to lift, though I near killed myself trying. When I realized, I had to decide—whether to save my own life or die with him.”
“God save us.” Too vividly she could see him, the young Jervaise, raging at God and fate as he bent double with coughing in the noxious fumes.
“I would’ve suffocated or roasted. Neither death’s an easy one. You can hear to this day what those hell-born vapors did to my lungs. So I did the only thing I could. Hugh lay writhing in the flames, screaming and cursing me for failing him. What could I do but ease his passing?”
Horror crawled through her. “Did you—?”
“Slit his throat with my own sword,” he said through clenched teeth. “My own father, Alienore . . . the man I lionized and feared and hated all my life. He bled like a pig and died cursing my name.”
Wishing she could say anything to ease his tortured soul, knowing no words could comfort him, she squeezed his arm with both hands. A lifetime of anguish beat out at her.
“You tried to save him, Jervaise, at risk of your own life. That you lived is no dishonor.
”
“It was in my mind!” He bared his teeth. “I failed him, Allah, myself—betrayed my oath and my pledge to defend him. And how they all whispered. All the filthy rumors and innuendos, saying I abandoned him from cowardice to save my own skin.”
“How could they think so?”
“I was the bastard of an infidel whore,” he said viciously. “That’s what they always called me. I was—shamed by it, by my failure. So I gave up my name and my broadsword as atonement. It’s how I came to bear a Saracen blade and the name Raven.”
To give him some respite, she retreated to safer ground. “Your half brother inherited the duchy. Did he sire no sons, after all this time?”
“Ponce’s heirs were his bastard brothers. His first duchess died without issue—some say from a broken heart. Perhaps it was a mercy. He would’ve been no easy husband in those days.”
He cast her an oblique glance. Ponce would have been her husband if she hadn’t fled.
“Did you know your brother well?”
“Nay. I was beneath his notice, like the others.”
“Others,” she said, with a thoughtful smile. “Are they much like you?”
“Devil’s spawn, the lot of those I knew. When Ponce died, they put themselves forward, each perjuring himself to malign the others. Two of them were done to death by a third—a knife in a dark alley. I was the only one the king trusted.”
“Small wonder.”
“Henry couldn’t risk another lord of uncertain allegiance who might join the rebels. He was sure of my loyalty. It’s the reason he chose me, despite Damascus.”
Aye, Damascus—where he’d earned his notoriety. Questions sprouted like wildflowers in her mind. But the abbey loomed before them. From the refectory, voices shouted and crockery clattered. The greasy odor of the fish soup they served for Lent made her stomach heave. By her faith, the place sounded more like a drinking hall than a house of God.
On the threshold, she glanced up at him. “How is it Henry feels so certain of your loyalty?”
“Saved his life once.” He shrugged. “Though it would’ve been to my advantage to let him die.”
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