The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  “Le Mans?” Excitement and dread fluttered in her stomach. “Then Henry is far closer than we believed.”

  “’Tis surprising.” Sir Guy stumped forward to join them. “They’re naught but a nest of rebels and traitors in Maine, curse them. ’Tis a wonder Henry closes his eyes to sleep . . . if he does sleep.”

  “Even Henry must sleep.” Jervaise’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “If the roads allow, we’ll share his roof tonight.”

  “Le Mans is not so close, lad.” Sir Guy frowned. “Ye’ll founder the horses to arrive today, if Henry’s even there. He’s like to uproot his court and travel thirty miles at a moment’s notice.”

  “We’ll follow him to Outremer if we must,” Jervaise said grimly. “My lady and I have cause for haste.”

  She recalled the utter lack of triumph she’d felt when he flung himself from their chamber. Why this reluctance to see the matter concluded? Surely she did not fear the outcome. The righteous cause would triumph . . . didn’t she believe that?

  Unless it was that which she feared.

  “Indeed, monsieur, I would see this matter resolved. Let us make haste.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The great hall at Le Mans reeked of treasonous intent. Alienore’s skin prickled as she edged through the throng: the queen’s chancellor, come to the king’s court. By the warmth of their greetings to her, these elegant monseigneurs with their careful smiles betrayed their sympathies.

  Almost to the last man, these were Eleanor’s supporters. In her heart, she questioned the king’s wisdom in coming here. For he was indeed in residence.

  Beautiful and false, the hall was meant to dazzle. Stone ribs held aloft the ceiling’s crushing weight as if by witchcraft. Linen hangings deceived the eye: a lion sprawled among false trees, eyes watchful beneath a jeweled crown. The entire court quivered with awareness of its angry king.

  Jervaise had driven them at a grueling pace to reach the keep before nightfall. She might have protested, but she would not have him think her reluctant—or fearful. She’d left Remus in their chamber, and she missed the wolf’s presence. But Jervaise warded her back, his formidable height and Saracen sword sufficient to strike terror in any man’s heart. Around them, courtiers hissed with speculation.

  His nearness distracted her beyond reason, firing the reckless passion of her mother’s blood. But here in the hostile court, she dared not show it.

  Already the chamberlain had warned she could not expect an immediate audience. Days might pass before she could bribe or cozen a place in the king’s schedule. Meanwhile, she could not sleep chastely next to Jervaise in that curtained fortress of a bed. They must manage some other arrangement, if she wished to sleep at all.

  The double doors flew wide and boomed against the walls. A stir of interest rippled through the crowd. Torches leaped as a force pressed inward, parting the sea of bodies like a ship in a strong gale. She could just discern a head of flaming hair cleaving through the throng.

  Now all the great lords and ladies sank low—all that malice contained in an instant behind bowed heads and deception. Alienore too sank into her deepest curtsy. Yet she could not resist looking up, eager for her first glimpse of the legend.

  Before her, a gap opened, and Henry Plantagenet strode into view. King of England and Duke of Normandy in his own right, master of Aquitaine through his wife.

  He was nothing like she’d expected. A brawny man of middle height—shorter than she—and clad in a huntsman’s leather doublet that strained across his barrel chest. Mud clung to his boots; he wore no crown over tousled red hair. No lordly arrogance stamped his square, freckled features, but a flame of restless vigor burned in his face. Good cheer radiated like sunlight over those around him.

  Yet he wore sword and dagger to the table, like a barbarian—or a man who distrusted his companions.

  Aye, he had the brash Plantagenet charisma in full measure. He swept through the hall like a strong wind, blue eyes piercing beneath his brows.

  He is worthy of Eleanor—a great king for a great queen. A rush of pride coursed through her. As he passed, her head lifted. While she looked upon him, Henry Plantagenet turned his head and saw her.

  That penetrating gaze shafted through her like lightning. Surely he could find no fault in her appearance: deep blue over white brocade, coiled hair gleaming beneath a jeweled crespine. Proud, desperate, fearless, she met that keen appraisal without faltering.

  Henry’s gaze tracked to Jervaise, magnificent as a sultan with his ink black mane pouring down. Recognition sparked between the two, though the king’s pace never slackened. Henry’s eyes narrowed before he turned away, bounding onto the dais with a young man’s exuberance.

  “Friends, at your ease!” he cried in Norman French, his hoarse voice booming. “Your king is starving! Let’s not delay the feast.”

  He flung himself into his chair. Silver horns trumpeted, summoning the guests to their places.

  “Be careful.” Jervaise’s warm breath brushed her ear. “They’ll know we’re Henry’s allies, once we take our place.”

  Aye, tonight he announced his own identity to that bowstring-taut assembly. No longer the disgraced knight, but the infidel Duke of Ormonde.

  She took her place at the high table, facing the ranks of hostile diners. He slid into a chair beside her, one step closer to the throne.

  Every shadowed alcove could conceal an enemy. They sat near enough to the king, and his favor, to make them targets for an assassin’s bolt. But Alienore was not an earl’s daughter for naught.

  Calmly she held out her hands to the page, who poured scented water over her fingers into the silver laver. The butler decanted a torrent of burgundy into her goblet.

  From the lower hall, a cold spear of scrutiny sliced through her. She searched the tables—and saw him. Almost hidden in the painted forest, an enemy lurked. Still as a stalking beast, with infinite patience, he waited for her.

  “Nay, it cannot be,” she whispered. “He would not leave my brother’s side for all the gold in Outremer.”

  Jervaise glanced toward her, his mouth twisting. “Should’ve come sooner, as I told you. Sir Bors of Bedingfield’s beaten you to Henry.”

  The man has not changed. A shiver chased down her spine. Save to become more unnerving, if that is possible.

  Framed by pale hair cropped straight across his brow, Bors of Bedingfield possessed a strong-boned countenance that made the ladies sigh. Roman nose, rugged jaw scraped clean of whiskers, deep-set eyes green as poison. He froze her blood with his smile of recognition. A superstitious fear crawled over her scalp like an insect.

  Courteous, he inclined his head—as though he’d forgotten their acrimonious parting, when she’d flung defiance in his face.

  Well, she need not acknowledge him. He was no more than a jumped-up carpet knight, and she newly made a duchess. She turned away, dismissing him. Jervaise met those viridian eyes straight on and bared his teeth in a wolfish smile.

  “So he has come.” She beckoned for a slice of smoked sturgeon. She had already tired of Lenten fare, though the king’s table boasted the best of it. “You knew him in Outremer, I recall?”

  “Knew of him.” With his dagger, Jervaise speared a slice of whale. “Now the cogs of his brain are spinning. He’ll wonder why you befriend an infidel.”

  “I find that doubtful.” Her words came stiffly, fueled by cold fury. These two had conspired to trap her into marriage. “I have wedded the infidel duke, as both of you intended.”

  “Jervaise de Vaux was naught but a name to him. Bors knew the Raven, not the lord he wrote to arrange your marriage.”

  She had always seen the two as allies, pooling all their wits to overcome her. “How could you manage the marriage contract without meeting him? My brother leaves his affairs entirely to Bors.”

  “Thank your king.” Jervaise drank from their shared goblet, the press of his lower lip against the rim a distraction. With difficulty, she focused on h
is words. “I was with Henry when Ponce had his accident. Benedict offered you to Ormonde’s heir. But the heirship was contested, aye?”

  “As well it might be,” she said tartly, “with the devi l’s brood of brothers you have described and not one a product of the marriage bed.”

  “Aye, well. Henry told me of another claimant. One of my half brothers petitioned for the duchy . . . but Henry didn’t know him. Offered Ormonde—and you—to me.”

  Her heart sank. She should have asked these questions sooner. She had been so angry and hurt by Jervaise’s betrayal, she had not been thinking clearly. Henry would not easily undo a match he himself had arranged. How could she persuade him?

  Strategies swirled through her head as she scanned the table, gleaming with a king’s ransom in silver and gold. Restless with the confinement of his chair, Henry paced, gnawing a heel of bread and tossing remarks to his courtiers. Looking resigned, his seneschal and chamberlain puffed at his heels.

  How would it be to see her sovereigns together—Henry and Eleanor—during the glorious decades of their accord? Once they had loved, or so the troubadours sang. But all that love had turned to hate.

  Inevitably, her thoughts shifted to the man beside her. They had begun with hatred, she and Jervaise. Could they ever come to love?

  As she stared at the king’s broad back, Henry pivoted. Now the man swept down on them like a force of nature, stocky frame filling the serving aisle.

  “Jervaise, my old friend!” Coming up behind them, Henry gave his shoulder a hearty buffet. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you treated like the nobleman you are.”

  “Hope your faith is not misplaced, Your Grace.” The Raven bowed.

  “I’ve already trusted you with my safety, aye?” the king said fondly. “It’s fitting to trust you with my realm. Your duchy’s my first line of defense against that rascal Philip of Flanders if he looks south to Normandy.”

  Jervaise stilled. “We didn’t think it likely. If that’s changed, my place is in Ormonde.”

  “Who can say what that greedy devil will do?” The king stood so close she could feel him, but she would not twist around. The arrangement was awkward; a king’s place was on his throne, not roaming about the hall. She should curtsy, but others had not done so. Was it a familiarity he nurtured or a contempt he despised?

  Henry’s voice lowered as he leaned close. Alienore squeezed against the table to avoid being pressed squarely against the royal person.

  “We must station you with care, Jervaise. My sources say Philip looks to England. He and French Louis would like nothing better than to draw me out and thin my defenses there, hey? They’ll press the Scots to drive south—but here. It’s tedious talk for a lady’s ears.”

  This was her cue at last. “Your Grace, pray do not allow me to constrain you. The security of your realm concerns us all.”

  “Spoken like a loyal Englishwoman,” the king said dryly, for he must have noted her Saxon accent. “God knows I’ve few enough of those to be grateful for every one.”

  She lifted her eyes—her unwavering stare too direct for a woman—and met his gaze. Even in repose, he was restless, shifting from foot to foot as nervous servers squeezed past. She saw Richard of Aquitaine’s good looks in his father’s strong features, Richard’s confidence in his powerful frame . . . Richard’s hot ardor in his flame-bright eyes.

  She struggled to maintain composure. This overt appraisal of a virile man for a woman—from a swaggering lad like Richard, it merely irritated her. Coming from Richard’s father and her king, it disconcerted in an entirely different way.

  “It’s I who should be grateful.” Jervaise captured her arm with a casual caress that heated her blood. “I present you my wife.”

  For the first time, she felt thankful for the title—and this politic reminder of her wedded state.

  Henry threw back his head and roared with laughter. “What, the Lyonstone wench? God’s eyes, man, I did better by you than either of us realized, hey? Christ, when I think of your reluctance!”

  A spark of anger flared within her. Pride kept her spine straight and her head unbowed.

  “I am Alienore of Lyonstone,” she said coolly. “Theobold’s daughter, Your Grace—who died a hero’s death, taking the cross in your name.”

  Henry sobered and crossed himself. “He was a brave man—I recall him well. We are grateful for his sacrifice.”

  Gravely she inclined her head.

  “By God, you put me in mind of your father. Alienore, was it?” Henry frowned. “Not a name that brings joy to my heart these days. And loyal to my wife, I’m told. My counselors speak ill of you, madam.”

  Another woman would have quailed. Alienore lifted her chin.

  “I was honored to serve the queen and proud to do so. But I relinquished the post when I married. Otherwise I would not have forsaken her or allowed her to be led astray.”

  “God’s eyes, an honest woman!” The king’s eyes crinkled, deepening the lines that rayed outward. “A rarity at this court, believe me. Eleanor must be devastated to lose you, not that it grieves me. As for your allegiance . . . well. You’re Ormonde’s bride, so your loyalties should be his, hey? For his sake, I’d give Saladin himself a second chance.”

  Caution tiptoed across her skin. She knew his tolerance would last no longer than her first misstep.

  “Now or ever, Your Grace, I shall not betray your trust. You have the word of a Lyonstone for that.”

  “You’re not pleased by this fellow I’ve given you, are you, my proud lady?”

  She restrained the impulse to pour upon her monarch’s head the torrent of angry grievance that festered in her heart.

  “Your Grace, this is not the appropriate time to burden you with my affairs. You are weary—and, no doubt, hungry.” Her eyes flickered toward his vacant chair. “I would welcome an opportunity to address the matter privately, if it please you.”

  Jervaise scowled into his wine, but said nothing.

  “You wish to discuss Lyonstone business?” Considering, the king rocked on his heels. “It’s a popular topic, madam. Your brother sent an envoy here for the same purpose. Should I hear the two of you together?”

  Apparently Sir Bors, whatever his business, had not yet gained the royal ear. Or perhaps Henry said it to test her.

  “For reasons I do not comprehend,” she said, “my brother trusts an insignificant knight of doubtful repute to manage his affairs. You will understand, Your Grace, that I cannot discuss intimate matters before him.”

  “You don’t object?” he asked Jervaise. “She’ll exclude you as well, hey?”

  She would not lower herself by begging. Yet Jervaise could always read her, one of his talents that vexed her the most.

  He exhaled through his nostrils. “She’ll find no solace ‘til she wins your ear. I’ll not oppose it.”

  So he would adhere to the terms of their bargain. She had misjudged him—as she misjudged everyone, it seemed. Jervaise’s bitter eyes locked with hers and he lifted their goblet in mocking salute.

  Henry hoisted his eyebrows. “In that case, madam, I’ll instruct the reeve who maintains my schedule. You’ll be sent for, so be ready.”

  Sensing the precise moment when the king’s regard shifted, his seneschal slipped forward to murmur in his ear. Jerking a nod, Henry Plantagenet strode energetically through the hall. Around him courtiers floundered with surprise, some rising while others did not.

  Alienore burned to ask Jervaise why he had not opposed her private audience. Was he truly so confident?

  But she was weary of forever quarreling with him. Within days, this misalliance of a marriage would be dissolved. By her faith, why was she bleak at the prospect?

  Chapter Sixteen

  A thousand pardons, good lady. Are you the Duchesse d’Ormonde?”

  Alienore glanced at the liveried page. Did the king summon her already? She searched the crowded hall for Jervaise, but he was nowhere to be found.


  God’s mercy, she felt exposed among this throng of hostile traitors—naked without Jervaise’s warding presence. She hoped she had not grown craven, to cleave to male protection like any weak-willed woman.

  Proudly her chin came up. “I am the Duchesse d’Ormonde. Have you a message?”

  “You are summoned by . . . a certain gentleman.” The boy bowed. “You are to follow me, if you please.”

  Evading her attempt to detain him, the lad slipped into the crowd. Eyebrows lifting, she waded after him and strained to keep him within view in this colorful sea of damask and velvet. Without success, she searched for Sir Guy. It would comfort her to find a loyal man in this treacherous crowd—one man whom Henry’s ruthless scorched-earth policy against the rebels had not mortally offended. But she could not spy Sir Guy’s balding pate among the bobbing heads around her.

  Waves of heat rose from the close-pressed courtiers. The odors of sweat and stale perfume made her belly churn. A niggling unease fluttered in her stomach.

  She almost lost the boy when he ducked between two pillars. Then his small hand darted out, pulling her into the dark corridor.

  “Wait!” She hurried after him past a row of curtained alcoves. The nape of her neck prickled.

  You are being foolish. Worse, you are become fearful. What danger would threaten you in the king’s own court?

  “This way, madam.” The page held aside a spill of dusty velvet.

  Inside, candles burned like flaming eyes in a dark cave. A broad-shouldered figure stood before the casement, gray moonlight streaming over a powerful physique. A dry aroma fired her nerves: the bitter essence of thyme and wormwood.

  Breath hissed between her teeth as her long-knife flashed free in her fist.

  The candles bled light over rugged features under a fringe of ice blond hair. Thin lips parted in a smile of welcome.

  “How good of you to join me, dear lady.”

  Instantly she fell back, on guard, searching for hidden assailants. She saw no one and nothing, save him—yet he was threat enough. The throwing knives sheathed in his boots glinted as he glided forward.