“Why, how is this?” His mesmerizing voice tugged her like a confiding hand. “Surely the lady of Lyonstone fears no man . . . only the righteous wrath of God.”
She held her courage like a shield before her.
“I fear no man, Sir Bors, but that does not mean I am stupid. Are you here for my brother or for treachery?”
His poisonous eyes slid to the corridor. Swift as a striking serpent, he flipped a coin into the shadows in a glittering arc. Her eyes followed it by instinct, like a magic trick. The coin never struck the ground.
“You have done well for your master.” He smiled. “Bring wine for the duchess—and not that reprehensible swill served in the hall. And make certain we are not disturbed.”
For an eerie moment she thought he addressed the darkness itself. She recalled the page only when his running footfalls receded. Fear thickened like smoke in her lungs. But she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
She seized the offensive, flinging words at him like weapons.
“What think you of my husband?”
“Do you mean to ask, what think I of the impoverished butcher it has pleased the king to ennoble?” Green fire glowed in his eyes. “To speak plainly, which I know you are inclined to prefer, I think you are ill served.”
Blinking, she turned his words in her mind. His foreign accent shaded the syllables: rolling consonants and stretched vowels, neither Saxon nor Norman. She had never been certain of his origins.
“I was ill served by Benedict’s disregard for my father’s will,” she said, “but he is very young. I was ill served by my brother’s counselor, who sought his own profit. That I will attest to.”
Quietly he laughed. “My dear, I had almost forgotten your uncommon candor. I quite admire you for it—even when your barbs are launched at me.”
He gestured to the nearby table and its two chairs. “Come, be at ease. We have important business to discuss and little time.”
Her eyes followed the sweep of his hand, rings glittering: a square-shaped emerald the size of his knuckle, a round onyx whose depths swirled with darkness. Dizzy, she averted her eyes.
“I cannot imagine what business we may have in common.” Stubborn, she stayed where she was.
“Oh, come now,” he chided, fond as a boy with a beloved hound. “We have Benedict of Lyonstone and his lands—and your lands. Can we not discuss our common interests in a civilized fashion . . . for once?”
He stood with hands on the chair, ready to assist her. But she would not for anything place him behind her. Instead she circled the table, and sat in the opposite place.
A tiny crease of annoyance appeared between his eyebrows. With another thin-lipped smile, he sank into the empty chair. Turning away from the light, he angled himself so the burning candles stood behind him. The light played over the faded scars that mottled his neck and reached like pale flames toward his jaw.
“Tell me of Benedict,” she said. “How fares my brother?”
“Frankly, he has fared better.” Bors tented his fingers beneath his chin. “Your English winters are rather inhospitable. At Martinmas, your brother suffered an unfortunate relapse of his fever.”
“Fever?” Fear shafted through her. “Dear God, what fever is this?”
“Why, the fever that plagues so many veterans of the holy wars. I myself know something of plagues and fevers, as you may recall. A loving sister would thank me for the care I showed him. I mixed his potions, fed him with my own hand. Nonetheless, I confess that his prognosis for a time was . . . uncertain.”
Alienore dragged breath into her lungs. Her little brother, the bright and feckless boy she had loved. She should never have left him.
“Benedict—”
“You need not fear, dear lady. I cared for him as tenderly as I would my own son.” A brief and terrifying coldness invaded his voice. “Aye, as tenderly as that. With time, he rallied. When I departed, I left herbs and detailed instruction for his care. Your brother is too important a thread in the tapestry of events being woven in England to allow any mischance.”
She struggled to blunt the spike of panic. Benedict was all God had left her—her hotheaded, idealistic brother. She remembered him not as he returned from crusade—that distant nobleman with ice chips for eyes. Nay, in her mind he was still the blond imp with flashing mischief in his smile.
“I must go to him,” she whispered. If he died alone, it would be her fault, for abandoning him to this monster’s tender mercies. “I have been too long away.”
Bors riffled his fingers, a mannerism that snared the eye. “Indeed you may go to him, and welcome—if that unfortunate husband of yours will allow it. I rather doubt it, to judge from his manner. Clearly he covets you . . . and why should he not?”
His gaze slid over her body. “A wealthy heiress, a proud and ancient name, cold beauty that burns like winter frost. Tell me, how does the infidel find your bed?”
Heat surged into her cheeks. “Why should the man not allow me to visit my own lands? Their welfare devolves to his benefit as well as mine.”
The rings on his fingers glittered, green and swirling black. His elegant hands shuffled the air. “We would be fools, indeed, to think he’ll allow you the freedom to spread your wings. The freedom to escape him. At least, he will not allow your wealth to slip his grasp, which he covets above all else—perhaps even more than the pleasure of your bed.”
“Stop this.” Her hand slashed the air. The rhythmic play of his fingers stilled, releasing her from the odd spell. “You must think me an utter simpleton! Am I to forget the poison you poured in Benedict’s ears all last summer, when you forced this marriage down my throat? Am I to forget that you beguiled him to barter me away to an aging lecher, no matter my own wishes?”
Her voice strengthened as righteous anger poured through her. “You and Ormonde were allies. An unholy alliance crafted against me—and now I am to think you would work against that?”
The candles fluttered before her impassioned speech. Sir Bors gestured, air filling with an ashen whiff of thyme and wormwood. The dancing flames subsided, their wicks glowing blue.
“It grieves me you’d think so ill of me, dear lady.” His voice enveloped her like a kinsman’s embrace. “I do not deny I worked toward those ends that seemed best, like all men. I worked for alliance with a powerful duke—an alliance to strengthen the security of the kingdom, with Hugh d’Ormonde’s rightful heir.”
His eyes hardened. “Never did I foresee that Henry Plantagenet would take into his head this obscene notion to ennoble the most disreputable of Hugh’s bastards. I pride myself on seeing far across time and space. But this remote chance I failed to predict.”
He was lying, of course. Yet the best lies contain kernels of hidden truth. Now he echoed words Jervaise himself had spoken. She trusted neither of them.
The page reappeared, bearing a flagon and two goblets. Bowing, the lad poured a dark torrent into each. When Sir Bors sent another coin spinning across the table, the boy caught it neatly and withdrew.
Alienore cradled a goblet between her hands but dared not drink.
“Do you say, sir, you would have opposed the marriage?”
“I would have opposed this marriage.” He leaned forward. “My lady Alienore, I entrust to you now tidings of the greatest import. There is still another claimant for the ducal seat.”
An anxious fist squeezed her chest. “Another bastard, do you mean to say?”
His features stiffened, skin going white over bone.
“An elder son.” He shaped each word with precision. “Gotten by Hugh d’Ormonde—not on the wanton flesh of a slave girl, but to a highborn lady, gently reared with every privilege, who held a king’s favor.”
“Which king is this?”
“A worthy heir, descended from greatness on both sides. Given the benefits of a classical education, a soldier’s training, and every advantage. Lyonstone would benefit from such an alliance. This worthy son was propo
sed for the duchy, but Henry chose that infidel instead.”
“Henry chose a man he could trust.” Anger crackled through her—though why it should anger her to hear Jervaise maligned, she could not say.
“A fine bit of trickery on the Raven’s part, my dear. I was unaware of the years he spent worming his way into Henry’s graces. Our plans have gone awry, I confess it. But there is still time to alter the future, if you have the courage for it.”
“I remind you, Sir Bors, that we never held any plan in common.” He proposed no more than she herself claimed to want—did want: to free herself of the marriage. Why she was filled with this vast distress, pressing like a hand against her throat, she could not explain.
“An unfortunate oversight.” His fingers splayed around his cup. It seemed to hover slantwise, defying the pull of gravity. “I made the mistake of disregarding you, dear lady. I believed you were not a significant player, but I was wrong. Your achievements at Eleanor’s court have proven you a master of the game. Are you surprised? Unlike most men, I am not loath to admit my errors. Indeed, I make it my custom to learn from every one.
“What I propose now, my lady, is an alliance: a union between the daughter of Lyonstone and the earl’s chief counselor. An accord with the sole purpose of undoing this misalliance between you and the Devil of Damascus. I would restore your honor and your freedom.”
Her heart beat so swiftly her head spun, thoughts whirling through her brain. She’d sought an ally to undo her marriage. Now that she’d found one—and such a one!—dread dropped like a stone in her belly.
Of course, she did not trust him, no matter what clever words he spoke. Yet the looming prospect of a future without Jervaise turned her world bleak and friendless.
“It would not be freedom for long, would it? You would annul my marriage to the current duke and sell me to this noble claimant instead.”
Firelight played on his hands, over the myriad of tiny scars that marred his skin. Not the notches of a careless blade, but divots of pale tissue, as if from burning droplets. “The future holds many possibilities, my dear, some more likely than others. It’s too soon to say which of these shall prevail. Let us address the immediate problem—the devil you’ve taken to your bed.”
The skin on her nape rose in warning like a wolf’s hackles. Somehow, the man’s malice seemed personal. “What of him? The marriage is already made, witnessed by the queen herself.”
He bared a sliver of smile. “Marriages are unmade every day, one way or another. Surely you came here hoping for that.”
A wave of despair swamped her. “I do not deny it. I intend to petition Rome, with the king’s support.”
“After the Becket affair? Henry Plantagenet’s support would be the kiss of death to any petition that reaches the pope’s ears now.”
The more cordial and seemingly helpful he became, the less she trusted him.
“I must consider my options, sir. Until then, I do not care to discuss the matter.”
“Consider them,” he said, indifferent, rising in a whiff of dusty herbs. “Consider also, if you will, how I can aid your cause. Persuading Benedict to forgive your defection and throw his weight behind you is the least of it.
“I am a patient man, my dear, and willing to await your reply. But events in this land are moving swiftly. Do not, I pray you, keep me waiting for too long.”
Restlessly Alienore paced her bedchamber, barely lit by the dying fire, mind chewing over her encounter with Beding-field like a dog worrying a bone.
Jesus wept, where was Jervaise? She hardly knew whether to fear for his safety, with a viper like Bors hissing malice against him, or fear he’d gained the king’s ear.
The rap of knuckles sent her spinning toward the sound, every nerve tingling. Alive to her fingertips, she all but ran to the door. Still, she took care to control her face. Not for worlds should he know she’d missed him or was pleased by his return.
But it was not Jervaise who waited. For the second time that night, a liveried page stood before her.
“Lady Alienore of Lyonstone? You are summoned to the king.”
“The king?” She stared.
Exhaustion weighted her limbs like sodden garments. After the restless tossing sleep of her wedding night, she’d ridden miles over muddy roads. Then endured the drawn-out tension of supper and the prickling danger of Sir Bors. Now, after all that, she must address the king?
She rallied her wits for the challenge.
“Do you know if my—husband—is also summoned?”
“Nay, madam. His Grace asked only for you.”
She smoothed her gown and straightened the silver chaplet that banded her brow. A glance in the polished plate showed her pallid with weariness. Then her jaw firmed, eyebrows drawing together, eyes firing with resolve.
With God’s grace, I shall overcome.
They passed down a spiral stair and through the great hall, where again she searched for Jervaise. The hearth was banked, for most had already retired—or sought other diversions. Sleepy servants still toiled, piling benches against the wall, clearing a space where the lesser folk would sleep, wrapped in their cloaks near the warm coals.
He is not here. Her heart plummeted. Sweet mercy, where can he have gone?
“Madam? The king waits.”
Squaring her shoulders, she hurried after the page, butterflies turning cartwheels in her stomach. She would require all her wits for this encounter.
Sentries with crossed pikes warded the king’s bedchamber and eyed her with open speculation. She knew what they must think, to see a lady summoned alone to the king’s chamber at this hour. Henry was not a man known for chastity.
Warmth stinging her cheeks, she lifted her chin and stared straight ahead. When bidden, she strode inside like a knight riding into battle.
Her wary gaze swept the chamber, stamped with the personal tokens of its master. Between bold tapestries woven with battle scenes, trophies of the hunt stared back at her: elk with antlers, boar with tusks, a bruin with a gaping jaw.
Nearby stood a writing table, a sheaf of curling parchment cascading unchecked to the floor—then the blazing gold and crimson bed, curtains drawn back to reveal its perilous depths. These were the king’s hunting grounds, and the prey he stalked was she.
The man was unseemly, just as Eleanor claimed—but he was her king. He stood before the casement and the mist-wrapped turrets beyond. At least he was decently clad, still wearing the russet tunic and leather chausses he’d worn to dine. His hunting jerkin lay discarded across the bed.
Concealing her unease, she sank into a curtsy. Henry Plantagenet laughed shortly and hoisted his goblet in salute. “You didn’t expect to gain my ear so quickly, hey? I circumvented my reeve entirely for you, madam. Are you grateful?”
Aware of the open door and the sentries’ straining ears, she confronted the lion in his den.
“I am grateful for the opportunity to lay my case before Your Grace. But aye, I am surprised. I did not believe you would be eager to receive me—counselor to the queen you’ve put aside.”
His cobalt eyes flashed. “Did you address my wife so frankly? I can’t believe she welcomed it—but perhaps I’m mistaken. Candor can be refreshing as rain in a royal court.”
She clasped her hands before her. “Your Grace, I can only be what I am. I know no other way to speak.”
“Oh, well said! I begin to see why the queen values you, Lady Alienore of Lyonstone.”
He dismissed the page, and the door scraped shut—sealing them in. At least this blunted the guards’ hearing, though it did naught for her jittery nerves. Unless Henry had a squire tucked away nearby, she stood very much alone in the royal presence.
She couldn’t help recalling the rumors every courtier had heard. The king was lusty as a satyr, they all said. Hadn’t Eleanor herself accused him of infidelity? He was Richard’s father, after all.
Henry pushed away from the casement. His energetic stride swallowed the dist
ance between them. She stood erect, hands clenched against her skirts, breath rising and falling too swiftly to hide.
Impatiently he swept documents from his chair, and wiggled his fingers to gesture her into it. Perching uneasily—for she would have preferred to stand—she braced for confrontation.
He folded brawny arms across his chest. “Will you take a cup of malmsey?”
“Nay, the hour is late. I will come direct to the matter.” Wishing he did not tower over her, she steeled herself.
“Aye, madam?” Still courteous, his eyebrows hitched.
“I object most strenuously to the marriage arranged for me, against my consent, to the Duc d’Ormonde.”
Eleanor of Aquitaine would have frozen her with a glance to hear the royal will questioned. But Henry Plantagenet only nodded, as if he’d expected as much.
“Do you have a religious calling, madam? I’m told you were convent reared.”
“So I am. But nay, ’tis not that.” She would not use her faith as a false shield.
“Then surely you must expect to marry, a lady of your station.” Quizzically, he eyed her. “Do you object to the man himself? Or is this a maid’s wounded pride that you were not tenderly wooed with pretty baubles and love talk?”
Discomfiting as it was, she was grateful for his directness, straightforward as the queen was subtle.
“I am no foolish maid, Your Grace, to trouble my king with girlish fancies. Until yesterday, I was a royal chancellor.”
“Then what’s the matter? For all his empty purse, Jervaise brings a great title and a knight’s strong arm to the match. That’s no small thing on the Scottish border, where your lands march.” A smile gleamed in his beard. “Christ, he’s always popular with the ladies. Isn’t he handsome enough for you? Or doesn’t he please you in the marriage bed?”
Now this was frank speaking! Heat scorched her from crown to toes. Still she strove to hold his gaze—demanding his respect.
“I object to the marriage because it violates the will of my father, Earl Theobold of Lyonstone, one of your most loyal and trusted vassals. My father bequeathed me the Wishing Stone lands and the freedom to make my own marriage. My brother, under the sway of a clever counselor, chose to violate those rights.”
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