Of course, later, his mother had caught them; she was always following him around, that old cow! Henri had been sent off to an abbey and Ysabel, well, her mother had seen to it that she was watched. She shrugged. It had not taken long for her to find a way around her mother's vigilant eye. Henri's passion had awakened a need in her that could not be denied.
Ysabel snorted when she heard the mannikin speaking to her, telling her that there had been no man in her bed for the past seven months. "Tell me something that I do not know!" she taunted it. Her disguise complete, she went to the mannikin and pushed it into the pouch once more.
"It is too soon!" it shrieked, but she mashed it down inside.
"No one will keep me from my Henri," she told it. "Not even you." She slipped out the door and descended the steep kitchen stairs to the back door.
MARÍANA was in the kitchen again, watching Geneviéve move from hearth to cooling table, to oven and back again. Her aunt poked at the roasting pheasant and ladled butter over partridge and grouse, while Maríana stirred lake eels in saffron sauce. Lionel set bowls of almond cream on the long oak table, next to plates of custard lombarde and a marrow and plum tart. At the table's end, a large platter held the figure of a young man, sculpted from a thick wine jelly. Lionel caught Maríana's eye and beckoned to her, pointing at the wine jelly figure.
"This one is spring, eh?" he laughed, placing tiny buds of early lilac where the hair should be. "Shall we make him the green man?" He winked when Maríana glanced around and then held her finger to her lips. "Shall we give him a lover's prominence?"
"Quiet, now!" she scolded. "That is a heathen practice." Her words were stern, but she let her eyes twinkle.
"Ah, you will give me no pleasure in my work!" he sighed. "But what shall I do with him, then?" He frowned at the platter. "He needs something more."
Maríana looked down at the figure. "No lilacs," she finally said, "dark hair. And a harp shaped like a dragon." Why not? That way she could show everyone Richard was only a friend, nothing more. He would be married soon. Geneviéve told Maríana she had heard he was in Bourdeilles even now. Her hand hovered over the figure's face.
Lionel drew in his breath sharply, but all he said was, "De la Guerche." He frowned at the figure, then shrugged and started molding the jelly. Maríana stood watching until Lionel had made the hair from dark shavings of willow bark and was carving the straight nose, the wide and gentle mouth. She averted her eyes and moved away, to where Geneviéve stood with a ladle and a knife.
"Maríana," Geneviéve said. "Go up to the hall and tell them we will have games tonight."
"Which games?"
Geneviéve turned from the steaming kettle of leeks in ale and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Ragman's roll, dice, and maybe hot cockles, maybe not." She reset the lid on the kettle. "My brother cannot make up his mind about that game." Another lid was lifted and set aside. Clouds of steam rose from serat, garlic boiled in buttermilk. "Oh, and watch the hearth up there. We are roasting two boars." She leaned forward to taste the serat. "Make sure they do not burn them."
"Very well." Maríana shook her head as she climbed the narrow staircase to the hall. Hot cockles was a game where men and women were blindfolded, then struck lightly by participants. The blindfolded players were asked to tell who had struck them by the touch. It was a silly game, really. Why would her father dislike it? At the top of the stairs, she held her breath. Henri might be there now. As she moved across smooth stone and meadow rushes to the hearth, she looked across the hall.
Her heart skipped. He was there.
HENRI SAT next to Johanna on the seat of honor, a raised dais that was cushioned and canopied. He wore a wine-colored tunic, trimmed with dark green, and red-brown breeches. Maríana let her breath out in a long sigh. Henri was beautiful, with his high, broad cheekbones, dark brows and golden brown hair. She was not the only one who thought so. Even she could see the quick glances and even bold stares women in the hall aimed toward Henri. The golden light from torches and hearth warmed his skin, but the warmth did not touch the ice blue of his eyes as he regarded Johanna, who leaned toward him in earnest discussion.
Louis-Philippe sat on his other side, rubbing his chin and regarding Henri. Her father made a brief gesture. Henri's mouth tightened and his eyes flared. Then the moment passed and Henri leaned forward toward Louis-Philippe. Her father laughed and turned to Johanna. But Henri sat back in his seat, his gaze searching the hall.
Maríana came to stand by the hearth after she had delivered Geneviéve's message about the evening's games to Guillaume. She watched Henri as he looked at people in the hall, occasionally subjecting one or two to a silent appraisal. Soon he would see her.
She lowered her eyes and watched him through her lashes. Surely his gaze would move on and continue around the hall, only brushing her lightly. Even the thought of the briefest of glances from those cold blue eyes started her heart pounding uncomfortably. But he did not look away. Should she acknowledge him? She could feel her face grow hot and quickly glanced up. Blast the man! His eyes were still upon her. She would not be stared at. She boldly met his gaze.
His eyes glowed, not shuttered, not cold. Was it the firelight? His stare was no longer coolly appraising, masking his inner thoughts. A deep hunger lived there in his face, but for what? She thought she saw shadows, despair. She struggled to turn away. Then Henri seemed to regain control and veiled his expression.
A touch on her arm summoned her.
Geneviéve stood beside her, beaming. "Why don't you retire to your chamber and change before the feast begins." She leaned forward and wiped a smudge off Maríana's cheek. As Geneviéve rubbed the smudge, she whispered, "He is no blood relation, you know." She looked up over Maríana's shoulder, nodded and gave a broad smile. "You can turn, now, my dear," she said. "He is talking to Johanna again."
"But he is my cousin." Maríana looked back to see Henri leaning toward her grandmother. He was showing Johanna something small, a carved figure, in his hands. A warm ache spiraled from her belly down her thighs. His hands. What would they feel like against her skin? She drew in her breath. What was she thinking?
"He is your grandmother's nephew through marriage only." Geneviéve dimpled and took Maríana by the shoulders, leading her to the staircase. "Though you would need special permission from the bishop." A shadow crossed her plump features, then her face cleared and she shrugged. "Why not wear your gray sendal silk," she whispered.
THE FANFARE for the first dishes greeted Maríana as she took her place at the family table. Johanna and Louis-Philippe were already seated opposite her, with an empty space between them. Geneviéve was at her right, Guillaume on her left. Maríana glanced at the head of the table. "Henri is not here?" she murmured to Geneviéve, but her aunt nodded at the central staircase, where Henri now descended to the great hall. Not as tall as Richard, but well-made... .
She wrenched her eyes away from Henri and stared at her trencher. So he was no blood relation. What of it? She kept her head bent. He must have arrived to take his seat. She glanced up. The head of the table was still empty. Where was he? She turned her head and looked into his face, the finely chiseled bones, the wary eyes. He had seated himself directly opposite her, waving his hand at Johanna when she indicated the seat of honor. But his eyes were upon Maríana.
Blast the man! How could she eat with him seated only an arm's length away? Why didn't he sit at the head of the table? She focused on her lap. Her fingers toyed with her trencher. They were serving the partridge, the pheasant. Guillaume offered her a slice from the pheasant's breast. She murmured her thanks, but kept her eyes downcast. Henri's hands rested on the table across from her. She could barely breathe. The sweet, moist flesh of the pheasant sat like ashes on her tongue.
Henri dipped crisp slices of roast game birds and chunks of hearty boar into bowls of crushed rosemary and fennel. The surrounding company joined the pipes in snatches of song. Laughter rang around her, but she sat qu
ietly with downcast eyes. Her breath caught in her throat whenever she happened to see Henri's strong hands upon the table. How would she survive this dinner?
Henri never addressed her throughout the meal, never said a word to her. But her ears ached with the melodious, low rumble of his voice. He made short, polite comments to Johanna. He remarked on the beauty of the silver table fount spouting two kinds of wine, the one light and delicate, and the other deeply colored and sweetly heavy. He joked with Louis-Philippe. She listened, heart hammering in her chest. Would this meal never be over?
Then Jeanne was tapping her on the shoulder, handing her a fine bowl filled with warm, fragrant water sprinkled with dried rose-petals and crumbled lavender. "But I already have mine here," Maríana said, her fingers touching the small bowl on her left.
"No," Jeanne whispered. "This is for the Baron of Bauçais."
"Grandmother is châtelaine when Ysabel is not well." Maríana pushed the bowl away. "You have the wrong person. She should perform the washing ceremony." Tradition. At the end of a feast the honored guest would be presented with the finest bowl of rosewater to thoroughly wash his hands in full ceremony.
Johanna nodded to her. "Would you, my dear?" Her eyes were rheumy and the hand she held out to Maríana shook. "I am afraid I would drop it."
Maríana took the bowl. She could do this. If she did not look into Henri's eyes, she could do this. A murmur rippled out from the family table, spreading across the hall as she made her way slowly to where Henri sat. People grew silent; the music stopped.
What was happening to her? She had loved Richard for so many years, had never been afraid to look into Richard's eyes. Think of Richard, that is what she must do. Conjure him. See Richard's lips curving into a smile, the scar at the corner of his mouth making a silvery dimple. Feel Richard's eyes, the color of burnished leaves of autumn, reaching into her.
Finally there. She could see Henri's feet. He must have stood. Her eyes traveled up his form, the red-brown breeches, the claret and forest tunic. She could do this.
She offered Henri the vessel with a flowing motion that evoked a murmur of appreciation and even applause. Good. She had not failed. She could feel people staring. Were they sighing over the image of a chaste young lady, her maiden's tresses flowing smoothly down her back, eyes properly downcast, offering the gently steaming vessel to the square, powerful hands of the knight standing before her?
She wondered what the guests who sighed so sentimentally at the tranquil, innocent picture before them would think if they knew of the wild racing of her pulse, the trembling of her knees and the fluttering in her loins as she knelt before Henri, vessel in her upraised hands, head bowed. Henri's hand chanced to brush her arm as she lowered the vessel after he finished. Startled, she raised her head and looked squarely into his clear blue eyes, eyes that widened as they met hers. The gold flecks swimming in blue glowed and the pulse at his throat quickened as he took her arm, helping her to stand.
At that moment, the crowd was diverted by the commencement of the games. Dicing groups formed as tables were cleared of food, and wagers flew thick in the air.
The moment had passed, but she was strengthened by it. Henri reached for the cloth proffered to him by a waiting squire. His eyes did not leave her, remaining upon her as she returned the vessel to Jeanne, who offered it to other guests at their table. Servants cleared the plates away for ragman's roll and a minstrel scattered the curled slips of parchment across the table. Soon lots would be drawn for selection of the first verses.
"What is this game?" He was still beside her. His voice sounded in a low growl by her ear.
"The seneschal and minstrels write verses on these strips." She pointed at the fluttering bits of parchment. "Whoever draws one must act it out."
"They all can read?" A line formed between his brows. She fought to keep from reaching up to smooth it away.
"At this table, we all do." She raised her hand and gestured toward the seven other tables that filled the hall. "At the other tables, as you can see, games of chance are played."
She walked back to her seat. Henri was sitting across from her again, his fingers toying with one of the parchment slips.
"Will you play?"
A shadow passed across his face. He had decided something, she was sure of it. But all he said was, "No." He looked away. "I will watch."
The first verses were dull, she barely paid attention. Henri sat with his arms folded, listening, staring at the table where the verses rested. Now that he was not watching her, she could look at him, at the curve of his cheek, the glint of blue eyes beneath his thick brown lashes. Her throat tightened. Was this the man from her St. Agnes dream?
Someone shook her, jostling her shoulder. "What?"
"Your turn, Maríana." Geneviéve reached out to stir the remaining slips. "You must choose, now."
Maríana reached out to grab the first slip she could reach, but Henri's foot touched hers at the same moment and her hand jumped, flicking the parchment away.
"Ah, well," Geneviéve said. "You can choose another."
Henri leaned down, reaching under the table. "No," he said. "Here it is." The parchment was tightly curled. She extended her hand and jumped again when their fingers touched. This could not continue. She drew in her breath and pulled the slip open.
For a moment she frowned, the letters that sprawled across the parchment made no sense. "Lady Maríana," it said, "Would you meet me at the door of the chapel after the eleventh hour. Your devoted cousin, Henri." She choked.
"My dear!" Geneviéve pounded her back till her teeth clattered.
She pushed her aunt's hand away, cleared her throat and recited, "For indeed there is no more subtle passion under heaven than that of a squire for his first beard." It was an adulteration of a love song, but what could she do? She folded the slip Henri had handed to her and tucked it into the open seam of her surcoat. Johanna clapped her hands and sent Jeanne to borrow an ermine tippet from Lady Béarn so she could act out her verse.
She hooked the fur over her ears, lifted a clean plate that had been left behind when the table was cleared, and made a show of masculine preening. People howled until the next verse was drawn.
She returned the ermine to Lady Béarn and sat with the rest of them, smiling and laughing at the appropriate moments, but her thoughts were on the small slip of paper. It was less a request than it was a command.
He had replaced the slip she had dropped with his own message. Why the secrecy? She turned the thought over and over in her mind, wondering if she should indeed go to meet him, when she chanced to meet his eyes across the table. He had been sitting there regarding her silently, and, as she looked up at him, his gold and blue eyes captured and held hers. And he smiled.
She was lost. The smile transformed his face, softened the tired lines and the iron control of his jaw. The gold in his icy blue eyes glowed.
There was no doubt. Henri de Bauçais was the man in her St. Agnes's eve dream. There was also no doubt that she would make her way through the sleeping palais to the door of the great hall. She would evade the night watch, travel to the chapel to meet him. What else could she do?
THE ELEVENTH hour. She gathered her mantle around her head and looked out into the inner bailey. The heavens had opened that evening in the soaking downpour known as the siri miri. Good. The night watch would be inside the gate house, out of the rain. She moved from shadow to shadow, past the gate house, and through the inner gates to the chapel. Shaking the rain from her mantle, she shifted from foot to foot in the recessed doorway of the church. Where was he? From out of the pouring rain, she saw him stride across the cobbled ground to the church doorway. He had not hurried. He was drenched.
She handed him her outer mantle. He smiled wryly and ran it over his face and hair, then folded it with care. She waited in silence. He stood there before her, silent also. The moment lengthened. He had asked her to meet him here. It was for him to speak. Rain made a steady whisper on the cob
bles. Dampness rose from the soaked mantle across her arm.
He broke the silence. "My lady, I apologize for the unconventional meeting. I needed to speak with you about your family, but I felt it would be impolite to do so in front of your father and grandmother, so I arranged our meeting here."
She watched his face. "My father and grandmother are my family. What do you have to say that cannot be said in front of them?"
"It is your other family I am speaking of, Jakintza," he said, his voice stumbling on the Basque name.
She froze. "Go on." Had he noticed her stillness?
"I have been sent to find a cousin of yours who lives in Reuilles-la-ville, an Antoine Jakintza."
Her breath caught in the back of her throat and she feared he had noticed. Stick with the truth. "I do not know him." Antoine had never been at the house when she went to see Iranzu and Leila. She lowered her eyes and controlled her expression as the image of her raven-haired sister leaped into her mind. "I doubt that I could help you."
He stood in silence for a while, regarding her. "Perhaps not." He offered his arm. "I will escort you back." He smiled. The gold in his eyes caught and held her again. "I promise to run this time."
She took his arm and they ran back to the palais, Henri barking out an answer to the watchman who challenged them. When they reached the door, however, they were both soaked and laughing. Henri walked her to her chamber door and, bowing deeply and gracefully, he took his leave. She shut the door and leaned up against it, her knees shaking. Why Antoine? What did Henri de Bauçais want?
Chapter 13
HENRI CURSED himself as he made his way back to his chamber. What could he have been thinking of, jeopardizing his mission by asking Maríana about Antoine right from the start? He should have gathered information before he approached her. Now she was alerted to his purpose here at the château. He pushed away the memory of her standing there gracefully like the goddess Diana with her braided auburn hair, green eyes fringed with black lashes and translucent skin glowing. Ridiculous! He was no longer a boy. He was immune to such things.
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