“But I told him! I grew uncomfortable with the silence between us and regretted our quarrel. So I wrote him from Aquitaine. By then, I thought Ponce must know my location. Still Raoul did not write, not even to answer my queries about the manor. I believed he must still be angry and put it down to that. But now . . .”
Clearly, he sensed the words she did not say. Yet he chose not to press her.
“Coming dark soon,” he called to their straggling escort. “Step lively. We’re too close to the border to be safe in the open.”
Chain mail rattled as the sluggish mounts picked up their hooves. When they left Le Mans, six guardsmen had seemed ample protection—a party small enough to move at speed. Now Alienore found herself wishing for more to confront whatever waited for her at home.
Against the ruddy fire of sunset, the manor house stood in blackness. Its narrow windows yawned, bereft of a spark of light. Overhead, twin turrets pierced the heavens, no sign of sentries at their post. No challenge rang from the silent battlements.
Terror bloomed as visions of catastrophe flashed before her eyes. Jesus wept! Have we come too late?
Alienore dug her heels and the warhorse surged forward, hooves sending up splashes of muddy water.
“Wait, damn it!” Jervaise spurred after her. But she could not heed caution now.
She thundered into the yard and headed for the manor. A huddle of outbuildings flashed past: the stables, the smithy, the buttery where the cheeses were pressed. Not a soul in sight, God save her. Had the Scots already struck?
Without slacking, she spurred Galahad onto the exposed stair. His clattering hooves echoed the fearful pounding of her heart. As the warhorse pitched up, she raised her voice to the heavens.
“Hail the house!”
Behind, hooves rang on stone as Jervaise freed his scimitar with a shing! He would defend her to the death; she knew it without question, just as she knew her own name. But no sword on earth could defend her from this. The brooding silence of her home extinguished her last flicker of hope.
Then the portal creaked open. Dim firelight spilled onto the stair. It limned the bent and twisted figure who tottered there, braced between wooden crutches.
A sob tore her throat. Slipping, scrambling, turning an ankle in her undignified haste, she tumbled from the saddle and flew straight into the arms of her beloved mentor.
Raoul d’Albini teetered beneath her weight but caught her close in his gnarled arms. When she returned the embrace, his crippled frame trembled. Once so vital, burning with crusader purpose, her old friend had grown old and feeble since she’d fled.
“Alienore, my child. Is it truly you?” His deep voice was unchanged, his Norman French pure as the king’s. “I had all but given up hope for your return—or your forgiveness.”
“’Tis no dream,” she whispered. “I have come home to you.”
Recalling her manners, she released him, though hot tears blurred her vision. Looming over them on horseback, Jervaise watched the reunion in silence.
“I married the Duc d’Ormonde, can you imagine?” She offered a wobbly smile. “This is my husband. Ponce’s half brother, Jervaise de Vaux.”
Recognition and a flicker of discomfort—or guilt?—furrowed the old man’s brow. Bracing his stooped body between the crutches, Raoul lowered his snowy head. He still claimed a courtier’s impeccable manners, though twenty years had passed since he’d left the French court.
“I’ve heard much of you.” With a courteous nod, Jervaise dismounted, though he did not sheathe his sword. “My lady’s mourned your parting.”
Her heart swelled at his graciousness—gentle as any true knight, though he mocked himself for it.
Raoul’s eyes glittered with emotion, yet he spoke with quiet dignity. “You are welcome to Wishing Stone Manor, though I fear we can offer little in the way of comfort.”
Her concerns bubbled to the fore. “Those empty villages—I do not understand what has happened. Why did you not send word?”
In the darkened manor, a footfall sounded. A shadow moved up behind Raoul, and Jervaise’s scimitar swept up to defend. A ghost materialized from the darkness: a tall Saxon warrior clad in chain mail, ax jutting over his back, blond hair tangling at his shoulders.
God save me—Father! Crying out, she grasped Jervaise’s arm to stay him. Had she gone witless? Nay, not her father—
“So the prodigal bride returns.” The Earl of Lyonstone bowed. “I have waited long for this moment, sister.”
“Benedict,” she said softly.
Jervaise lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it.
Despite all that had passed between them, a crippling surge of tenderness rolled through her. Once, long ago, before Theobold banished her to the convent, her little brother had worshipped her, and she had adored him without reservation. God help her, she adored him still.
Yet her heart sank to behold him. He regarded her with the same hurtful coldness he’d brought back from crusade. Five years ago she’d bidden farewell to a grieving boy, and he’d returned from the crucible of battle a man grown—a hulking warrior like his father, a brooding shadow of the exuberant lad he had been.
So nothing had changed between them, and she swallowed her remorse. Every inch the queen’s chancellor, she spread her muddy skirts and curtsied—giving him honor, though, she now outranked him.
“Good my lord, I’m honored you venture forth from Lyonstone Keep in this wretched rain merely to bid me welcome.” Despite her reservations, her voice softened. “’Tis good to see you, brother.”
“’Tis surprising to see you.” The young earl stared at the traveling party, clustered like muddy sheep in the yard. “I thought you would be too shamed to show your face here.”
“Shamed?”
“How else, after you fled your duty and my bidding like a runaway serf? Saint Swithun’s bones—”
“I sought no more than justice, only the lands our father wished me to have.” A sense of futility sank her heart. Almost a year since she’d left, and still they must tread the same weary terrain? She contained a sigh. “I wouldn’t have left if you’d heeded my pleas.”
Aye, she’d fled like a thief. But Ponce was not all she’d fled. Her brother had become a terrifying stranger.
Jervaise’s Lucifer pawed the stone—evidence of the rising tension. Against his bronzed skin, her husband bared his teeth in a hard smile.
“No man accuses my wife of neglecting her duty.”
“So you’re the infidel duke.” Benedict cocked his head to survey him. An odd light kindled in his gray eyes. “Welcome to your new home—such as it is.”
Raoul gasped in outrage at this slur to an honored guest. While the old knight cast a glance of reproach at the boy he’d raised, Alienore bristled on her husband’s behalf.
“You’re mistaken.” With a practiced sweep, Jervaise sheathed his scimitar, cloak rippling in the evening wind. “This is no home of mine. King ordered me to defend these lands. I’ll return to Ormonde by Saint John’s Day.”
“So again you will leave us.” Her brother turned to Alienore. Something like hurt surfaced in his eyes.
“Mistaken again,” Jervaise rasped. “My lady will remain mistress here. She’s more than earned it.”
Uncertain, Benedict blinked at him. But Alienore had no thought to spare for him now. She stood riven, as though Jervaise had struck her, and struggled to absorb the sharp spear of hurt.
He had broached no such plan to her. Was he so eager to be rid of her, his troublesome bride, now that he’d gained her dowry?
She swallowed against the hot lump in her throat. “Would you leave us standing in the rain all night, brother? We are in sore need of fire and a hearty meal.”
“We are remiss in our courtesy.” Raoul followed her lead, though his perceptive gaze probed her features.
She glanced around. “Where is the marshal to take charge of these horses?”
Benedict sneered at that, the fog of confusion cle
aring from his eyes.
“Your brother has commanded your retainers to serve him at Lyonstone Keep—all but old men and cripples with little to offer.” Raoul’s voice was carefully neutral. “If you wish to find your marshal, your chamberlain, your bailiff and other retainers, you must apply to your brother.”
Comprehension darted through her. She advanced to confront Benedict. “What is this monstrous outrage? By what right—?”
“We’ve much to discuss.” Jervaise’s hand gripped her shoulder, fingers pressing in warning. “It’s best done out of the rain. Entrust your Galahad to Vulgrin for now.”
She recognized his good sense, but the hot tide of outrage still bubbled. “What of our escort?”
“They’ll tend to their own,” he murmured. “Come out of the rain.”
Raoul cast him a grateful look and crutched aside so they could precede him.
Drawing her poise around her, Alienore lifted her chin and strode inside—then halted in dismay. The familiar antechamber was a stinking cave, straw rotting on the flagstones, the odors of urine and mildew clogging the air. Embarrassment at the manor’s disreputable state burned her cheeks. That Jervaise should see her home brought so low!
Before her the hall doors stood open, limned in the dim glow of firelight. Flinging off her cloak, she marched in, muddy skirts trailing at her heels.
Here, too, the signs of neglect shouted their tale. Muddy rushes on the floor, the stench of rotting food, with no sweet herbs to soften it. The trestle tables and benches were piled against the wall, shrouded with cobwebs and dust. A struggling scrap of fire did little to heat the chamber.
But there, before the hearth, a rickety table and benches still stood. There a man uncoiled, graceful and deadly as a striking serpent. Firelight gleamed on silver hair, winked on his rings and the throwing knives in his boots.
“My dear Alienore.” He showed a sliver of smile. “Your return is most timely—though you’ve almost arrived too late.”
She strode forward to confront Sir Bors of Bedingfield. “’Tis plain to see I have been too long away. My husband and I will soon put things to right.”
His poison green eyes slid to Jervaise.
“Bedingfield,” her husband said softly. “We meet at last.”
Bors’s eyes narrowed, the skin around his eyes twitching. Firelight gleamed on the white scars at his neck.
“Salaam alaikum. Peace be unto you.” Each pointed word flew from his lips like a dart. “Isn’t that how it’s said in Outremer? Quite the remarkable elevation for a bastard and infidel. A rather convenient stroke of fortune. All praise to Allah, wouldn’t you say?”
Jervaise bared his teeth in an unfriendly smile. “I’ll not soil my tongue wishing peace to you.”
“For shame, Sir Bors!” Raoul crutched forward, eyes like lightning in his seamed features. “I shall thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. You are not lord of this hall.”
Bedingfield’s eyes flickered. “I believe you forget your place, old man. Marguerite de Rievaulx no longer lives to protect her paramour.”
“Silence!” Alienore’s voice snapped like a whip. A transforming fury burned through her. “We have not traveled these many days, over treacherous roads and pitching seas, only to bandy insults beneath my own roof. Benedict, you had best control your vassal.”
Bors laughed, his rugged face creasing with genuine mirth. “Oh, Alienore, I have missed your arrogance, even if your brother hasn’t. Do sit down, all of you. We have a great deal to discuss.”
She was unwilling to do anything at his bidding. But Jervaise gripped her elbow, urging her to the table.
She eyed the bare boards. “Is there morsel for weary travelers?”
“Regrettably, our larders are not as they were,” Raoul said with dignity. “I will see what may be managed.”
“Nay, old friend.” Her heart twisted with remorse. “I do not rebuke you. How can I? I am certain you did the best you could. Nesta will go to the kitchens.”
Dropping her frightened eyes, the tiring girl hurried out. Awkwardly, Raoul lowered himself to the bench.
Alienore studied her brother with worried eyes. The difficult light could not conceal his waxen pallor and hollowed cheeks. Even in the chilly hall he sweated, sunken eyes glittering with fever.
Casually, Jervaise unsheathed his dagger. Four pairs of eyes followed the wicked crescent as he honed it against a sharpening stone.
“No doubt your counselor’s conveyed the king’s will,” he rasped.
Benedict blinked vaguely, his gaze shifting to Sir Bors. Something he found there prodded him to clarity. “That course is utter folly. The rebels are a disorganized rabble, cowards starting at every shadow! They’ll never muster the courage to move openly against the king. Henry wastes his time and ours if he calls the levy here.”
Calmly, Jervaise sharpened his knife. “That rabble’s seized command of several major keeps: Leicester, Huntingdon, Tutbury, Durham—”
“Oh, aye.” Benedict waved a hand. “These Norman barons are a spineless lot—nary a drop of good Saxon blood among them.”
“You are half-Norman, Benedict,” Alienore said. Marguerite’s sorrowful image floated before her eyes. “As am I.”
“Norman, Saxon, what do those old grievances matter now?” Raoul knocked a crutch to the floor. “Do we not all shed blood when we are struck, suffer the same pinch of hunger when raiders burn our fields? Do we not owe fealty, one and all, to our good King Henry?”
“This is not about the king.” Benedict scowled. “We’re here to assess the situation, and he is not.”
“Our young earl speaks with wisdom beyond his years,” Bors murmured. “England has not forgotten the strife that tore these lands apart, when Henry’s uncle Stephen and his dam, Mathilda, fought for the throne.”
Vigorously Benedict nodded. “I say the rebels’ defiance will crumble once Henry returns.”
“Let’s start with fact.” Jervaise’s eyes narrowed. “Henry’s charged us to defend these borders. He has troubles of his own in Normandy.”
“Well, he should not—” Benedict blustered.
“What news of the Scottish threat?” Jervaise studied the dagger’s edge. Firelight ran along the blade, outlined the dots and slashes of Outremer script.
“The Scottish . . . ?” Blinking, the earl turned toward his counselor.
“My dear lord, you recall the alleged Scottish threat.” Sir Bors stroked his arm, comforting him as if he were a fractious child. “We spoke of it on the road.”
“Oh, aye. ’Tis rumored some rabble is massing at the border. But Scots William will not set a toenail on English soil after the trouncing de Lucy gave him last year. Sent him howling all the way back to Edinburgh.”
Seeing the feverish glitter in her brother’s eyes, Alienore ached for him. Her valiant brother—noble, good-hearted, generous to a fault, so proud of his responsibilities as heir to Lyonstone. What had become of him? The pale invalid before her who swung between apathy and braggadocio was a stranger masquerading as the boy she’d loved.
She could not speak for the tears that clogged her throat.
“This for your assessment.” Jervaise buried his knife in the table. The sickle blade hummed with menace. “The king doesn’t share your view. He believes William will surge south any day.”
“But—” Suddenly, the earl looked very young.
“Tomorrow,” Jervaise continued, “we assess the state of Lyonstone’s troops, weapons and provisions. We assure the defense of your castle against possible siege. And we raise the levy against the Scots.”
Sir Bors tented his fingers, rings glittering. “My lord has made all the defensive arrangements he deems advisable. It is long since the Norman king has burdened himself with English concerns.”
“He needed to set his own house in order.” Alienore’s cheeks burned with guilt. Henry’s queen had betrayed him, and she herself had done nothing to prevent it.
“But—what mo
re can I do?” Benedict shot her a helpless glance. “We have mustered all the men we may. There are few to ride under my banner these days. ‘Twould be folly to call more! ’Tis the planting season.”
Her mouth opened, but Jervaise’s leather-wrapped thigh pressed against hers—warning her to silence. His banked heat licking against her leg did indeed distract her. Suddenly she could think of nothing but the slide of bronze skin against hers, the unholy fire that kindled when he came to her bed . . .
Jervaise smiled down at his knife. “I’m keen to review the arrangements. Shall we say, an hour past Prime?”
“As you will.” Sullen in defeat, Benedict glowered.
“You will have to come to Lyonstone Keep.” Bors showed his teeth in another thin smile. “My lord requires his medicines to achieve a restful sleep.”
“I’m no invalid to be coddled,” Benedict said irritably. “But I shan’t sleep in this spider-infested cave my sister calls a home.”
Outraged, Alienore drew breath to protest. Again Jervaise’s thigh pressed hers, consigning her to simmering silence.
“That calls to mind another matter,” he rasped. “Now my lady’s returned, you’ll release her folk to their proper places. She needs her chamberlain, bailiff and reeves, her cook and marshal, laundress and all the rest. By Holy Friday, two days hence, all Wishing Stone folk will return to their rightful place.”
Alienore shot him a grateful look. Though she’d felt reluctant to yield her authority in these domestic matters, Benedict’s hostility had only grown in her absence. For the moment, such orders would come easier from Jervaise.
Her brother glanced uncertainly at Bors, whose ringed fingers riffled against the table. The flash of emerald and onyx hurt her eyes. Queasy, she looked away.
“You will find this countryside quiet as a dead man, so you may sleep without fear tonight.” Sir Bors’s eyes slid to the staircase that climbed to the lord’s chamber. “Do have a care with your footing on that stair. With this house in such disrepair, a man could easily break his neck.”
He offered Jervaise a sliver of smile. “Indeed, unless I am gravely mistaken, a man did break his neck in that very spot and not so long ago. That is where poor drunken Ponce had his fatal plummet. But the old man here would know more of that.”
The Devil's Temptress Page 24
