A Flame Runs
Wild
❖
Christine Monson
Prologue
~
The Startled Falcon
A coastal pine forest near Malaga, Spain
January 1189
The winter day was murky, sodden; the horses slid on rotted leaves as the hunting party skirted the marsh. The game birds were still, the falcons reluctant to fly, but Diego was undaunted by the morose weather. Liliane smiled as her husband, eager as a boy, rode ahead along the far end of the marsh, the sun breaking through gilt-edged clouds for him. In his last moments, he had the sun's hazy pearl gleaming directly into his faded, jubilant eyes. Suddenly, his destrier's squeal of fright shrilled across the long-dead grass. When the horse bolted, Diego's old body crashed into the brush, his neck broken as if by an accurate hangman. His falcon rose in a blur of cruel hooks and steel feathers through the wet pine tops glittering in the wind. Diego never fastened the falcon's jesses. Just as he had never fastened Liliane's.
Liliane spurred ahead but reached Diego's side too late. Her tears fell upon his face as she cradled his old head in her lap, gently ruffling the childish down of his white hair. Even as she tenderly wiped away the blood that trickled from the gash on his temple, the crystal clarity of his mind and soul became less than the dew, with no more substance than the drizzle gathering on the pine needles to drop still, tiny weights upon the dark-mahogany and green mosses.
Now Liliane's freedom as well as Diego's life were abruptly ended. With horrified clarity, she saw that in allowing Jacques de Signe the power to select her next husband should she be widowed, she had signed Diego's death warrant; that warrant had hbeeneen executed without warning, without mercy.
Some of Diego's accompanying castellans had already ridden into the woods, searching with deadly concentration for a possible assassin. Other castellans dismounted to search the marsh. Although their faithful faces were as familiar to Liliane as her own, they suddenly seemed to be far-away strangers. Except for Pedro, his eyes hot and desolate as he stood over her with his crossbow, ready to defend her. Soon Jacques de Signe would wrench her away from Pedro and the rest of them, but most painfully from Diego.
My darling Diego, she grieved, brushing a soft kiss across his forehead. I came to you as a child, and now you leave me so, as if you were the baby we longed for, sleeping at my breast. My child, my darling, my husband. I am but twenty years old and my heart is shattered. Now I shall be forced to leave you and our beloved Spain and return to France, to the gray fortress of the monsters who swore to kill you. . . .
Chapter 1
~
The Deadly Bargain
Castillo de Pinal, Malaga, Spain
Mid February 1189
They were quick enough to come to her. Sitting in Diego's chair in the great hall, her pale, fine-boned face starkly beautiful against the black velvet wimple of her widow's garb, Liliane impassively studied their faces. Louis de Signe's blunt features were weak in their brutality, suggesting muscle going soft. His large, heavy-lidded pale blue eyes were restless in his yellowish face. He was liverish, she noted with an apothecary's practiced eye. Louis was careful with wine by day, but the servants reported that he sometimes stumbled about his room at night.
Cousin Louis, his short, deceptively quick body bulky beneath his black woolen surcoat, was suspiciously quiet about Diego's death. He might well have been the one who had felled Diego, probably with a rock from a sling. Louis liked to hunt; he was good at it. No one knew for sure why the horse had bolted; the trackers had found no trace of footprints among the flattened reeds and marsh grass. Diego might merely have gashed his head upon one of the stones on the ground. Still, on a damp day, the marsh was a good place to snare a falconer.
While Louis might be the hunter, Jacques had probably loosed him on the quarry. Almond-eyed Uncle Jacques, with his lethally quick brain mounted atop slow fat. Ponderous in jewel-trimmed velvet, he swayed gently as he offered sonorous condolences upon Diego's death.
Unholy slugs, Liliane thought passionately. If you have murdered Diego, I shall teach you the taste of bitter salt. You know not justice, but the galled taste of your own blood you shall discover.
Liliane longed to order her men to kill Jacques and Louis, but to do so without proving their guilt would be murder. Also, she could not risk the lives of her loyal castellans, outnumbered as they were by Jacques's armed men at the castle gate. Five Norman mercenaries stood behind Jacques and Louis while she kept only Pedro with her lest a command for additional bodyguards rouse the castellans' suspicions. At the slightest evidence that the Signes had assassinated Diego, the castellans would attack them like raging wolves and be slaughtered for it.
Above her widow's black, Liliane's face was chiseled ivory; her brows and lashes were gold, hinting at the color of her covered hair. Her amber eyes were tranquil, no longer translucent with sorrow or red from nights of weeping for Diego. Possessed by her private devils of guilt, rage and remorse, Liliane had ridden the hills surrounding Malaga these past weeks: weeks that seemed both too brief and too long.
Liliane loved Malaga and pine-studded Andalusia. Along this coast, at once rugged and sublimely seductive, she had adventured freely for seven years, until the time came when Diego had no longer treated her as a son, but as his wife and a woman. In most ways she had been ready to be a woman, but she chafed at the restraints that came with womanhood, in particular the long skirts that hampered her even as they flattered her slim curves.
When she was fourteen years old, Liliane had suffered the brutal loss of her parents in a raid by a neighboring baron. Afterward she submerged herself in convent life but encountered more superstition than solace. Instead of submission, Liliane learned rebellion.
She had been at the French convent for six months when Jacques, Baron de Signe, the titular head of her family, had claimed her father's lands and brought her to Paris. He arranged a marriage; Liliane was packed up again and sent to Spain. Despite her uncertain future, she had been relieved. Paris was a pesthole, but Jacques's house emanated evil and intrigue. She particularly hated her cruel, licentious cousin Louis.
In Spain, she had been presented to Count Diego del Pinal, a graying man who had sacrificed much of his modest wealth to gain her. Diego soon made her see her good fortune. Not only had he been dear to her parents, but he was also a valued advisor of Almansor, the Moorish ruler of Southern Spain who had once been his enemy. A wise and sensitive man, Diego helped her explore the practical possibilities of her rebellious nature.
At the time, Diego wanted a lively, youthful companion far more than he wanted a wife. With his encouragement, Liliane often dressed like his castellans when they went hunting. She learned to ride with the best, also to use a scimitar and light weaponry to defend herself against the dangerous amirs who roamed the countryside.
Diego was not the lover she might have imagined from the songs of the troubadours, but she grew to love him and would have given him her body and soul had he wanted to claim them. Diego, however, was too wise to take all she had to give. He was aware of his age and had not the heart to leave her emptied.
Although some time had passed, his death still made her feel like a bird with a shattered wing. She had lost Diego and must also lose Andalusia with its wild coast and lemon-scented courtyards, its lovely palaces and fountained pools that shimmered turquoise in the sun. Diego and Andalusia sang in her blood. Here were her people; here heir heart. And her heart had been trampled by a pair of greedy, vicious men who were no better than the baron who had destroyed her parents. Now the tears were dammed in her soul and she prepared to face her relatives,
"Liliane, dear niece," murmured Jacques with feigned compassion, "I
commend your strength of will. When we heard the distressing news, we made all haste back from Cadiz, but you seem to have made an admirable recovery from your husband's death."
What you mean, she thought, is that I do not weep, therefore r neither grieve nor fear your power. And without that fear you suspect I may not be trusted to serve your purpose. "Diego was old, Uncle," she replied softly, then rose with a sigh of velvet. "His end was mercifully quick. He died a happy man." A gold and sapphire filet gleamed on her alabaster brow as she inclined her head. "Do you know of another with such rare fortune in these uncertain days?"
"Then, Cousin," Louis paused, his eyes hard, "you attribute Count Diego's death to accident? You blame no one?"
"No one," she replied simply, betraying no trace of her suspicions. "Who can be sure what happened? It is useless to speculate. I am grateful that you have returned to lend me your strength and see me safely from this place of sad memory." Liliane looked about the graceful Moorish arches of the hall, the fine mosaics, and brass chandeliers. TWo months ago, she reflected, the pair of you stood in this room and threatened Diego's assassination. You needed a rich widow to placate a bloodthirsty French count back from the crusades who had threatened to split your gullets for poaching on his land. This count had won your French king for a friend, and you had no brides to offer as a token of peace. And now you cannot trust the one bride you have, Liliane thought, smiling inwardly.
But her secret triumph crumbled when she remembered how foolish she had been to submit to their blackmail. In an attempt to save Diego, she signed their scrap of vellum, relinquishing her right to choose her next husband, giving that power to Jacques. Diego's estate would be given into the guardianship of Almansor, while she and her rich dowry would once more become Signe property to be dispensed as Jacques saw fit.
Years ago, Diego, the closest friend of her parents, had mercifully married her to prevent Jacques from selling her off to the bidder with the most land and influence. He saved her from the legal robbery of her property and childish virginity, and he kept her spirit from being crushed by some uncaring lord.
All Diego asked of her in return was that she bear a child to replace the heir he had lost in the early Christian wars against Almansor's father. Patiently he waited those last, precious years when he might have more easily sired a child, so that she could experience her own childhood. When she was seventeen and had learned to love him, he attempted to consummate their union. Humiliated by his failure, he had not come to her again. Instead, she went to his bed, where she stayed not as his lover, but as his companion and comforter. Those years were happy.
Diego had learned much from both Christians and Moors, and all of it he taught to Liliane. From the Christian world, she mastered history and languages; from the more tolerant, enlightened Moorish world, she acquired knowledge of mathematics, astronomy and medicine. From the great Moorish libraries in Cadiz and Cordoba, she read in the original Arabic book, untouched by the narrow mysticism of the European Christians.
By sharing what he had learned from book and sword, Diego gave Liliane weapons for survival. In a man's world where a scholarly woman was undesirable, even suspect, she had cultivated a brain so sharp and deft, that few strangers were aware of her intelligence. Also, not trusting the amirs, Diego had taught her how to command the defense of their lands.
At times Liliane had felt like a ghost: not quite a wife, not quite a woman; not a Christian, not a Mohammedan; not a Spaniard, a Moor or a Frenchwoman. Her only allegiance had been to Diego. His love was her anchor and now she had none. She was being forced to go to France to marry some brawny, blue-blooded thug named Alexandre de Brueil to placate Uncle Jacques and Cousin Louis—and buy her time until she could determine their guilt and claim revenge for Diego. Somberly, she stared at them as they hovered like vultures. Already she knew too much about their various crimes for them to risk losing control of tier. As long as she was useful, they would let her live, but the instant she crossed them, she would die. She wondered if her unlucky bridegroom, Alexandre de Brueil, had the wit to know that the Signes had numbered his days, as well.
"I place myself willingly, in your hands, Uncle," she told Jacques as she came down from the dais to take his hands. "Diego was like a father to me, but with all respect, he had not your political and financial acumen."
Jacques's piglike eyes gleamed and she knew she had struck a note he understood: cold, calculating practicality. "You flatter me, my dear," he murmured. "I shall strive to meet your high expectations."
"I am sure you will, Uncle. I trust you will protect my interests as your own, thereby we shall all prosper." She paused and, with a deliberately careless air, added, "This Count de Brueil is young, you say?"
Louis laughed mirthlessly. "Never fear, Cousin. You will not find another father in Brueil."
She matched his smile. "Do not misunderstand me, Cousin. I am not gauging Brueil as a lover, but as an opponent. Better to disarm him than cross swords, mm?"
Chuckling, Jacques embraced her. "Welcome back to the bosom of your family, my dear. Your father may have been something of a disappointment to me, but blood always tells. I think you will prove a sharp match for Alexandre de Brueil."
And for you, she thought grimly, though you do not yet know it.
Chapter 2
~
The Flute in the Wood
A forest east of Toulon, the southern coast of France
April 1189
Alexandre de Brueil perched above the spring stream that was frigid with run-off from the snow-capped Alpine highlands. Poised lightly on the balls of his feet, he waited for a flash of silver among the black rocks. A winter of dry venison, and before that, searing months of near starvation with the defending crusaders during the siege of Jerusalem, had made him dream nightly of fresh trout in running water. He had imagined water pouring through Jerusalem's sun-baked streets, cascading off the city walls, down, down away from him to the enemy who flaunted water-filled goatskins at the trapped Europeans who were dying of heat and disease in their burning armor.
Alexandre forced the image from his mind. Chilled by the shade of the hillside's overhanging pines, he shivered slightly as he watched the frothing stream. Since leaving Palestine, he had piled his bed with furs and willing women, but had yet to be warm. The desert sun had thinned his blood; the siege, his body. He now had the hungry look of a wiry greyhound. After the siege, the overwhelming desire to gorge himself had been quickly quelled when he found that his shrunken stomach was unable to tolerate large quantities of food. The idea of greasy mutton and potatoes revolted him. He craved the fresh vegetables and fruits of the Crescent, pictured one exquisite yellow Lebanese lemon slice riding atop the trout now leaping among the rocky stream beneath him. Then he saw it: a shimmer of silver streaking through the shadowy current. He uncoiled his slim body and poised his light, forked lance above the frothing water.
A short while later, Alexandre's flute could be heard over the sizzle of roasting fish. Pausing briefly to sprinkle a pinch of aromatic Eastern spices onto his catch, Alexandre resumed playing an Arabic bazaar melody. His contentment was marred only by the nagging reflection that this would likely be his last moment of freedom for a long while. On the morrow he must marry; the thought affected his digestion like rancid meat. He already knew the discouraging details: Liliane del Pinal was a twenty-year-old widow of a Spanish nobleman and was reputed to be clever. That made her used, nearly past her prime, and practically foreign. As was typical of Spanish matrons, she was probably a religious fanatic and a shrew of less learning than presumption. She was also a Signe, and the Signes had all been weaned on treachery and greed.
Alexandre's lips pursed on the flute. Still. . . whatever Liliane del Pinal's bad points, the notorious Signe greed had made her rich. And at this point, money was the bargaining point he could ill afford to ignore. The Signes were afraid of him, he thought with contempt. In fact, it was Philip they feared, who shrewdly and ruthlessly ruled them all
. Since the age of fourteen, a year before his royal father's death, Philip had governed France. Even then he'd been a match for the sty Plantagenet brood sired by England's dangerous lion, Henry II. Now twenty-four, Philip could play Richard the Lionhearted, the dead king's eldest son, like a harp. Philip was going to be a strong king, and if the inclination took him, he would crush the Signes as if they were mere cockroaches.
I helped Philip put down the Flanders uprising, Alexandre mused, then escorted the French banner to the Holy Land. Now, I am Philip's friend, and that has cost me my blood, my ideals and the near ruin of my neglected estate, upon which the Signes have gnawed like rats. Well, by all the Saints, thanks to Liliane's fat dowry, I shall at least rebuild my estate. Alexandre smiled mirthlessly. Besides, if my new bride is too sharp a bone, I can always pick her clean of money and toss her back to her greedy uncle. His smile broadened wryly. Ah, perhaps I have a few scruples, after all. If I followed Philip's example, I would stuff the wench into a tower as he did his first wife, blandly marry another woman, and watch the papal feathers fly. . . .
* * *
Astride her Moorish mare, Liliane heard a flute. Silvery as a cool beam of light, a wistful melody shimmered about the wood. I wonder if Pan haunts this place, she mused with a spark of playfulness rare to her since leaving Spain. The journey first by sea, then two days overland, had been a strain, her revulsion for Jacques and Louis increasing with every mile. This past week she had stayed at Castile de Signe while Jacques had briefed her on what he expected from her coming marriage to the Count de Brueil. For the time being, she was amply to keep him informed about everything that went on in the count's demesne. "Other than that," he had told her benevolently, "just enjoy yourself. Be pretty, wear your jewels. He will be smitten with you in no time."
Jacques's meaning was clear enough. She was to seduce Alexandre de Brueil into trusting her. If only her uncle knew how inexperienced she was at seduction!
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