A large man with a long silver beard loomed out of the shadows behind her. "What did you say?" he asked querulously. "Whose army?"
The woman turned to him and spoke a few words in another language. The man simply shrugged and answered her back in the same tongue, then disappeared into the house.
She smiled, but her eyes were cold. "We only just arrived here, Monsieur," she said. "I wish we could help you, but..." Her voice trailed away.
Henri had been expecting resistance. He pulled a small leather bag of coins out of his pack and shook a few into his hand, then looked up at the woman. The sight of gold often loosened tongues. But she only shrugged and started to pull the door closed. Placing his foot between the door and the frame, Henri said, "Please. Just a moment. I must make note of your statements for Bishop Durand." He watched her closely when he said the bishop's name, but he could see no reaction. If anything, the woman looked even more indifferent. But she could not close the door without shutting it on his foot and Henri did not think she would do that. He pocketed the bag of coins and shifted his sword. When she saw his blade, the corner of her left eye twitched. It may mean nothing, but he was encouraged. She knew where Antoine had gone. He was sure of this.
While she watched, he pulled a sheaf of parchment, a pot of ink, and his quill out of the pack he had slung across his shoulder. "What did you say your name was?" He carefully made notations on the parchment. This was a ploy he had often used. It did not work with clerics or nobles, but writing was magic to most. When people saw him writing they usually became nervous and would end up telling him whatever he wanted to know.
Henri was certain that Antoine had been here. He also was certain the woman was hiding something. Glancing up at her, he held his quill poised.
She looked down at his parchment and said, "I did not say. My name is Leila."
"What?" he asked. He was not used to people simply answering.
"My name is Leila," she said. "L-e-i-l-a." She spelled it out for him, watching him writing it. "Are you hungry?"
Henri jumped. "Hungry?" His stomach suddenly rumbled loudly.
"You are hungry, aren't you?" Her teeth gleamed in a broad smile. "Come inside, we will feed you before you go back." Leila's eyes became pools of blackness and he felt a thrumming in his head when he looked at her. Her fingers closed upon his arm. She was strong, this woman. Her grip on him was firm. His feet moved across the doorstep and the house swallowed him.
HENRI LEFT the house of Leila and Iranzu Jakintza, his stomach full of roast pork and fresh-baked bread and rich wine. He stood for a moment, breathing deeply, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. It had not been dark inside the house, but the pale early evening sky nearly blinded him. He blinked and stared back at the small stone house behind him. "Now, what was I there for?" He scratched his head. "Of course, Antoine Jakintza," he laughed, smiling at his memory of the old man trying to explain the Jakintza family tree to him.
"There are so many Jakintzas and we are all related," Iranzu had told him proudly. Unfortunately, to his apparent consternation, the old man could not find Antoine Jakintza on his list of the family. But Iranzu had shrugged and smiled engagingly, saying, "He must be there somewhere. More wine?"
The woman Leila and the old man told Henri that the previous occupant had left quite suddenly and that they had taken the house soon after. They seemed worried that he might come back to claim his house again, this Antoine who must be related to them, but whom they did not know. Henri found himself reassuring the two Jakintzas that he would make sure that they could stay in the house. He would speak to Louis-Philippe himself! Henri wanted to do whatever he could for them, although just before he left, a cold, measuring stare from Leila's gray-green eyes took the air right out of his lungs. He had gasped, but a moment later, she smiled at him warmly, her eyes grew large and black again, and everything was fine, just perfect.
HENRI SMILED at people scurrying to their homes. The final rays of sunlight caressed the blue and gray stones of the walls. He could smell meat roasting and caught the scent of ale through the rough-hewn door of a tavern. A perfect evening. Stars were just beginning to show.
He breathed in the damp smell of the earth near the lake, then stopped and shook his head. How did he get this far? Surely he had just left Antoine's house. But the house did not belong to Antoine, did it? It belonged to a man with a silver beard and a woman with gray-green eyes. He must write to Durand and tell him Antoine could not be found. They must stop looking. He shook his head again. Something was not right, his thoughts would not fit together. When he felt a hand take hold of his arm, he turned to see who was trying to catch his attention and found himself looking into another pair of green eyes.
"Maríana!" Henri threw his arms wide and embraced her. "So you are here in Reuilles-la-ville too?" Smiling, he waved his hands at the still waters beyond the wharf. "Look at the starlight on the lake! Isn't it a perfect night?" He looked down and saw his squire Robert hovering next to her. "Robert! What are you doing here? I told you to stay at Reuilles-le-château." Why were Robert's eyes so wide? Henri swayed on his feet and Robert moved to his side.
"It was my idea, Henri." Now Maríana was at his other side, taking his arm and draping it over her shoulder. "When you could not be found, I went to Robert." Henri felt himself propelled by the two of them to a raft at the end of the wharf. The same boatman who had taken him over that afternoon stood there, his pole held ready. "Come," Maríana continued. "We will take you back."
Henri wanted to tell her that he could take himself back, but now his tongue would not work. Then the pattern of ripples spreading out from the raft caught his eye and the next thing he knew, Maríana and Robert were guiding him off the raft and walking him up to the walls of Reuilles-le-château. His legs trembled. It took all of his concentration to make them move. He heard Robert whisper, "He has never been like this. What is wrong?" and saw Maríana shake her head at the boy.
"There is nothing wrong," Henri assured them, pulling his arms away from their hands. "I had the most wonderful meal with an old man and his granddaughter." His hand swiped at the bag at his side. "I wrote their names down." But the bag was empty. "Where are my parchment and quill?" It hurt to think and the walls of Reuilles-le-château looked so far away. He forced his right foot to move, then his left. The walls did not seem any closer. "Perhaps I do need your help." He held his arms out and felt their grasp again.
When they entered the château grounds, two young girls were herding huge pigs through the arched entrance to the inner bailey. Henri collapsed with laughter. He could not stop laughing, but Maríana and Robert pulled him up off the ground and hurried him past the gates, around the back way into the palais.
When they reached the knights' room, Robert shoved Henri onto his bed while Henri chuckled and grabbed at Maríana's gown. Henri tried to pull her onto the mattress with him, but he was unable to hang on to anything for very long. His hands did not seem to have any strength in them. He lay back and watched Maríana's face as she helped Robert remove his sword and boots, then she sent the boy away and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders.
"Maríana." He reached out to touch her cheek. There was something he wanted to tell her, but her eyes held him and he could not speak.
"You need to sleep," she said, then placed her palm on his forehead. Her hand felt warm and grew even warmer. He wanted to tell her to take her hand away; it was burning his forehead, but as soon as the thought formed, he felt his eyelids drop over his eyes and sleep wrapped its dark blanket around him.
MARÍANA sat on the edge of Henri's bed, hearing his breathing lengthen, then grow steady. As she watched the rise and fall of his chest, she rubbed her burning palm against her skirt. This was the second time she had used her gift to help this knight. Ibrahim would be furious. But she could not leave him to suffer from the effects of whatever herb or root Leila and Iranzu had given him. She was sure they gave Henri a plant to take away his will and the force of th
eir words to convince him that Antoine could not be found.
So like a boy... his face relaxed in sleep, dark lashes swept across his cheeks. She sat and watched him until he turned away, wrapping his arms around his middle. She would not help Henri find Antoine, but she also would not allow her family to harm this knight. Reaching forward, she traced the curve of his cheek with her fingers, then stood and pulled the curtains around his bed.
Chapter 16
YSABEL ROSE up out of a terrifying dream. In it, the mannikin had grown into a huge creature made of some kind of straw or twigs, covered in vines and flowers. It had a gigantic, dark grinning mouth that was opening to swallow her. She struggled, then felt her own mouth working as she gagged and choked. Her eyes opened and she saw the black sky and cold light of a full moon streaming around the edge of the tapestry she had hastily pulled across her window earlier that night. Her pillow was soaked with sweat. She groaned and swallowed again, trying to still the spasms in her belly.
Why was she shivering? Her chamber was warm enough. It was early June. The approaching summer heat already made the air heavy and laden with fragrance. Perhaps the scented air had caused her stomach to rebel. Or the lavender-strewn bowl of water she had to present to guests at the château every evening. She had asked them to use rose petals, but they kept sprinkling lavender in the bowl.
Ah, well. At least the washing ritual gave her a chance to touch Henri. He had managed to avoid being alone with her for the past two months, but she was sure she could eventually break his resistance. He had not gone away and she could continue to watch the play of hearth light across his face. She had watched Henri for the past two months, seen him coming and going from Reuilles-la-ville, saw his eyes as he looked upon the servants and family at Reuilles-le-château. He was always assessing, judging, her Henri was, always searching for something. His eyes usually looked distant and cold. It made her shiver with desire, wanting to bring fire into those eyes.
But when he was in the palais, Henri's eyes followed her stepdaughter.
Ysabel swallowed again, then stroked her belly. Whenever Maríana was near, Henri stared at her. As far as Ysabel knew, he did not talk to her stepdaughter, but wherever Maríana went, Henri watched her and his eyes burned with longing. Ysabel gritted her teeth. Henri had never looked at her the way he gazed at Maríana. Every time Ysabel saw Henri watching Maríana the raw desire on his face made Ysabel's loins turn to butter. Even Johanna had noticed his interest in her granddaughter.
Ysabel had set several traps for Henri after their first liaison. She had him called to the garden, where she awaited wearing her thinnest gown and nothing underneath, followed him to Reuilles-la-ville, waylaid him in the corridor. But Henri had outwitted her. He had his squire Robert with him all the time and would not send the boy away, even when Ysabel asked to be alone with him. Could she season Robert's food with a sleeping draught? Yes, and send a message to Henri that Maríana awaited him. A shiver started at her neck and ran down her legs. Henri would answer such a message. Why not do it now? She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed, then clutched her middle.
Ysabel waited for the waves of nausea to pass. Was it the leeks at dinner? But she had always been able to eat anything. She pulled her wet hair off the back of her neck, then scowled at her cabinet where the mannikin howled with laughter.
"What do you have to be happy about?" she asked in irritation. As if in answer, it started humming a tune. She waved her hand. The thing was mad. Someday she would have to... she sat up straight as she recognized the tune it was humming. Then she ran to her pile of moon-stones. Her mother had given her the stones when she had her first bleeding time. She counted the tiny black stones, then started her count again. The black stones marked days that she did not bleed. Ysabel faithfully placed a moon-stone in the line on her shelf every morning after she visited the privy or used the chamber pot, black for no blood, stones with a red circle for her bleeding time. Her fingers shook. There were too many black stones, twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five, forty-eight, fifty-three. Surely there should be no more than thirty. She counted again, then leaned back against the bed, her mouth hanging open in astonishment. The mannikin was still humming the cradle song.
"SHUT UP," she told it. "A child."
Ysabel rubbed her belly, still as taut as ever, yet even now she could feel a slight hardness inside where her womb was starting to grow. "Henri's child." Would its eyes be blue and gold?
The mannikin started shrieking with laughter again. "Henri's child!" it roared.
She gasped and counted again. "Not even two months gone yet," she said. "Not very much. Babies come early sometimes."
"Not that early!" the mannikin shrieked. "With your husband never in your bed at all!"
Ysabel threw her pillow at the cabinet. Then she sat back to ponder. Could she get Louis-Philippe so drunk that he was senseless and fool him, tell him that they had made love? No, that would not do. He might not believe her, and anyway, she wanted to seduce him, have him, steal him back from Ibrahim.
The mannikin howled again. "Try cutting your tits off!" it screamed.
Ysabel started to throw her moon-stones at the cabinet, then stopped, her mouth dropping open again. "Of course!" she laughed. "I can dress like a man!" She held her sides and chortled. "I used to dress like a boy when my brothers would go riding so I could go with them where maidens were not allowed. Why didn't I think of this before?" The mannikin was incoherent with rage. "I'll bet you never thought you would help me, did you?" she taunted it, and was rewarded by blessed silence.
Ysabel tore into the chest filled with gowns she had brought from Touraine. At the bottom were the plain shirt and breeches her brother had given to her. Humming the cradle song, she pulled on the breeches and laced them up tight. She wiggled into the shirt, swept her hair back and tied it with a leather thong, then stuffed it into a jaunty cap she found tucked away in the bottom of the chest. Viewing the results in her polished silver mirror, she grinned at her reflection. Finally, she retrieved the needle from underneath her mattress and held it triumphantly in her hand, tossing it into the air and catching it easily.
"Here I come, Baron!" Ysabel waved at her image, then strode purposefully out the door.
LOUIS-PHILIPPE was sound asleep and snoring. Ysabel breathed a prayer of thanks that the baron did not have his manservant sleep in his chamber. All the de Reuilles loved their solitude. When she had first arrived at Reuilles-le-château, Ysabel had been shocked to find that her husband-to-be would keep his own chamber and that she would have a separate chamber. Such a thing was unheard of in Gréves, although Ysabel had heard rumors of this practice in Paris. She was glad they did not keep the traditional ladies' bower, though. To sit all day in a room full of jabbering women made her head spin.
She crept around the edge of the large mattress and looked upon his face as he slept. An ache of longing brought tears to her eyes as she gazed at his smooth brow, the straight line of his nose, his lovely full mouth. Henri may be beautiful, but Louis-Philippe was glorious.
And he was hers -- would be hers, totally hers. She would steal him from Ibrahim. Her breath caught in her throat when she hid the needle underneath the far edge of Louis-Philippe's pillow. Then she drew her hand across her eyes, dashing her tears away, and reached out to shake him awake.
His arms shot out and he grabbed her, as he exclaimed, "What? Who are you?" He sat up and rubbed his eyes with one hand, the other holding her fast in his grip.
Ysabel smiled at him. "It is only me, your wife, my lord."
Louis-Philippe frowned, then his eyes widened. "Ysabel?" He waved his hands at her costume. "What is all this?" He did not sound displeased.
"A game, my husband." Ysabel ran her hands down his chest. "Just a game. Please indulge me." She got up from the bed, remembering to move with free, broad strides as a man would, and came around to the other side. "It is just you and I, after all," she continued, pleased to see the effect her words had on hi
m as his eyes upon her warmed with desire. "What we do in our marriage bed is our own business," she finished, lowering the timbre of her voice.
"Indeed!" Louis-Philippe pulled her toward him in a deep embrace, then he tore off her breeches and pinned her to the bed, stretching her arms wide and lacing her fingers in his own.
Ysabel shuddered as she felt the length of his body against her, felt the proof of his wanting parting her thighs. She whispered words in his ear, words her brothers had told her, words she could never say aloud if another lady were present. He shivered and held her even closer, then covered her mouth with his. She gripped him with all the strength she could muster as he entered her body. He moved against her three times, then she heard his gasp and felt the pulse of his release.
Ysabel had barely remembered to wince at the proper time and now reached under the pillow for the needle, stabbing her thumb and smearing the blood underneath her on the bed as she moved out from under him. Indeed! That was over quickly. She glanced at him through her lashes. Perhaps he would improve with time. She started to slip out of the bed to return to her chamber when Louis-Philippe caught her again and gathered her into his arms.
"Madame." He grinned at her surprise. "You know and I know that we are not through yet." Louis-Philippe pulled her onto her side and breathed gently upon her chest. "So tiny," he said as he nuzzled her breasts.
Ysabel mouthed another prayer of thanks, this time for her child-like chest, while Louis-Philippe's fingers played over her skin, finding centers of pleasure that she had no idea she possessed. Now he whispered to her, lovely words, words that flowed out of his mouth and curled around her. What language was he speaking? His hands caressed her until she shook and cried out for him to take her. This time, he moved slowly and she exploded several times before he was spent.
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