A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  Alexandre watched Liliane take up her embroidery, his mind still upon his mysterious rescuer. Few serfs had horses and the only gray belonged to a former serf named Pierre le Blac, who lived in a stone hut five miles up the shore. Pierre, whom he had freed with his family for military service, just might be his man.

  "Do you sing?" he asked Liliane suddenly.

  She laid down her embroidery. "A little. Shall I find my lute?"

  "Do, please. I have ever been a restless patient and am apt to require entertainment. The cracks in yonder wall have begun to pall."

  Fetching her lute from her chest,. Liliane laughed. "When you have heard my singing, you may prefer the cracks."

  Alexandre shook his head. "No fear of that. When I first occupied this chamber, I was but thirteen and still fanciful. Often when I was alone, I studied those cracks." He pointed. "That long crosswise one is the road to Cathay with its rare silks and jewels and spices. That lump is the palace of the cruel Dragon Emperor, and the shallow dip beside it is the Willow Tree Garden wherein dwells his lovely daughter."

  "And is she wicked, too?" Liliane asked softly.

  "No one knows." His eyes were ink-blue beneath their shadowing lashes. "She has never been seen by any living mortal. Only the nightingales sing of her beauty. By moonlight, she is a wand of ivory with jeweled eyes and gleaming hair intricately woven into lovers' knots by attendant silkworms."

  "She sounds a bit unreal, as if she were the creation of a clever artisan."

  Alexandre smiled wryly. "That is quite possible, for she is a temptress. Any man who attempts the garden wall and looks into her eyes is turned into a lion dog of marble."

  Liliane was puzzled. "A lion dog?"

  "A tiny, wheezing, ridiculous creature blinded by its own hair. The Chinese keep them as lap dogs."

  Liliane pensively stroked the smooth inlay of the lute. "So, the princess is cruel, after all."

  "Perhaps she is a prisoner, under a spell."

  Liliane cocked her sleek, golden head. "Who can break the spell?"

  "A prince who sees past her cold eyes into her heart, yet still loves her more than his life. If she is without a heart, he will lose both his manhood and his life."

  Her smile was wistful. "Poor prince. Better he should stop his ears against the nightingales and keep his heart."

  "Then he would be a poor, cowardly prince, doomed to wander forever alone, longing for the lady of his dreams." Alexandre lifted his hand in a graceful gesture of both resignation and beckoning. "Come, then, nightingale, sing thy song. What is life without risk?"

  Liliane was almost reluctant to begin playing. Alexandre's tale was mere fancy, yet the image of Jacques's gargoyle face grinning above a crimson dragon's body filled her mind. Danger stalked her, and Alexandre was better warned away . . . yet, he would never believe her if she told him, the truth now. First he had to believe in her, see into her heart and love her, just as the prince of his fancy must win his mysterious princess. Knowing this, Alexandre probably had contrived the tale to let her glimpse something of the longing for love in his own heart. For the first time, Liliane wanted to reach out to Alexandre, not some absent ghost like Jean. And so, for Alexandre, Liliane sang an ancient Andalusian song of love, a Gypsy canto hondo, or "deep song."

  Alexandre had never heard such a song; it was mostly in Spanish, but many of the words were unfamiliar. Liliane's voice was lovely, strong and vibrant, with a passion as wild as the storm winds of the coastal crags of El Andaluz. The pitch of certain notes was Eastern, and the rhythm and tapping of her fingers against the body of the lute was exciting and exotic.

  In the song, a young gitano—a Gypsy—fell in love with a. noblewoman who seduced him into killing her husband so she might marry a powerful duke. The jealous gitano stabbed her, and in dying, she swore her endless love for him in a beautiful lacrissima, as well as her eternal vengeance—promising to haunt him in every whisper of the wind and rustle of the leaves, in every sigh of the sea and crackle of his nightly campfires.

  Liliane's singing fascinated Alexandre. Not everyone appreciated the earthly, unconventional style of the canto hondo, but he found it both terrible and exhilarating in its moodiness and passion. The teasing, taunting ardor of the two proud, wary lovers made his body tense with anticipation. The alluring, treacherous woman who captivated the gitano with empty promises became a victim of her own desire. Her surrender was furious and complete; his possession of her was filled with both wild triumph and foreboding defeat.

  Liliane's hair had loosened from her chignon and fell across her bare ivory shoulders! Her breasts swelled beneath her cerise bliaud as her seductive voice rose in a song throbbing with passion. As she reached the crescendo, Alexandre wanted to drag her into his arms and sear her mouth and body with kisses. In the music, he heard the scream of a stallion and imagined his own cry of triumph as he at last claimed her as his wife, feeling again her softness, experiencing the strangely wanton innocence that had so maddened him at their joining.

  Without thinking, he half rose from the pillows, only to hear the gitano's lament.

  " 'In the burning embrace of hell, I am lost to heaven. This devil woman is my love and destruction. Ah, I embrace her as one damned does the ashes of his hopes and honor.' "

  Perspiration chilling his brow, Alexandre fell back upon his bed. Liliane might be inviting him to take her, but she was also warning him that having her might exact a terrible price.

  As if she sensed the strength of his temptation, her eyes, wide and misty, held his. Whether she challenged him or pitied him, he did not know, but his desire was like a compelling, maddening sting that might only be assuaged in her flesh. He suddenly knew he would never want another woman as he wanted Liliane. That she might feel nothing for him, that her response might be silent mockery, was unbearable.

  When she stopped singing, he lay tense as a tightly strung bow, silent but ready to release all his pent-up emotion at the first touch of her hand.

  Liliane listened to the growing silence after her voice no longer filled the air. She had expected at the least a polite murmur from Alexandre, if not the ardent response she had increasingly hoped for as she had come under the spell of the canto hondo. She had seen the gitanos dance, the elegance, the passionate attraction that mounted to fiery abandon. She had known that abandon once with Jean, and now she wanted to experience it with Alexandre. With his sun-glinted hair tousled and chainse falling open upon his muscular chest, he was most appealing. His skin was so smooth, so vulnerable and touchable. His eyes had turned that strange, disturbing shade of blue that stirred her, made her believe that he wanted her to caress him, to ease that chainse back from his shoulders and kiss him, have him slide away the covers so that she might kiss his naked body until he was wild for her. His eyes told her he wanted to see her unclothed, too; to see her hair swirling about them both as she molded her body to his and began the fierce, sinuous dance of desire together in search of another of love's endless mysteries.

  When his eyes beckoned her so, why did he still look so rigid, so unapproachable?

  Had her song offended him? The canto hondo could only offend a prude; the song itself was a work of art, and she thought that her voice was pleasant enough. She began to grow uncomfortable. "I take it that you find the wall cracks preferable to my singing, my lord?" she said a bit faintly.

  "I assure you that I was far from bored, my lady."

  In the golden afternoon light, Alexandre's expression was so like Jean's, that of an eager boy alive with a man's ardor. So often, she was certain he couldn't be Jean, and yet at this moment all her senses cried out that he was Jean, and she wanted him to take her in his arms. After so many weeks of uncertainty, both longing and frustration compelled her to cast aside caution. "Yet you appear unhappy, my lord," she murmured, her own heart in her eyes. "Perhaps you prefer the flute?"

  Liliane had hoped for a reaction, but certainly not the one she received. Alexandre might have turned into a differen
t man.

  He was taken completely off guard by her question. His desire cooled abruptly as he was sharply reminded that Liliane still thought of Jean, and that her beauty cloaked a swordsman's mind.

  To discover his weaknesses, she knew to probe for openings, and Jean provided a major one. Hurt and angry, he instantly became Jean's opposite. "I am not unhappy, Madame," he replied in a deliberately peevish tone. "I am merely weary. Pleasant music invariably pots me to sleep. Unfortunately, your heathen song of lecherous adultery has achieved the opposite effect. Do me the kindness of learning a few decent French songs that will spare us both embarrassment." He sank into the pillows and gave her a sour stare. "Also, call upon the priest this afternoon and make confession. Your moral education is sadly lacking."

  Torn between fury and disbelief, Liliane gaped at him. She knew the hypocrite wanted her. Sanctimonious popinjay! She could scarcely imagine that only moments ago she had contemplated going to bed with him! She should have left him in the river to turn completely to ice; his brain was already as frozen as his stifled manhood! Stonily, she rose. "You need no music to put yourself to sleep, my lord; let but your serious nature have its sway. All creation will disappear into the maw of one great yawn."

  Liliane saw Alexandre's mouth twitch as if he might laugh, but then he said sternly, "You are impertinent, milady."

  "Children are impertinent, sir. You are in no danger of drawing ridicule from babes. Before your heir tries his teeth on your finger, you will be gumming gruel." Liliane stalked out and slammed the door. She flew so quickly down the turret stairs that she missed the muffled laughter that echoed through the upper tower.

  A week later, Alexandre rode out to Pierre le Blac's hut. The gray horse he thought might have carried his half-drowned body to the castle was grazing in the meadows nearby, but Pierre swore flatly that he had played no Samaritan. "The nag was not in my keeping on the night you describe, my lord, but strung on the smithy line to be shod."

  Alexandre accepted his story. After all, why would Pierre lie, particularly when a few questions to the smithy would expose him?

  Alexandre had Pierre bring over the big mare, men he examined its hoofs; the left front one was notched from a loosened nail. "That's why I had her reshod," explained Pierre. "She was beginning to favor that side."

  Alexandre thanked him, then set out for the riverbank he had tumbled down. As he did not remember precisely where the fell occurred, well over an hour went by before he located the spot a half mile below the old Roman aqueduct that spanned the river to the northwest. Several rains in the fortnight of his illness had washed away footprints, leaving only feint marks where bracken and undergrowth had been trampled. With a hunter's patience, he finally found a horsed hoof print with a crooked notch; also a human footprint, nearly as small as a child's. Serf children sometimes played on the bank; perhaps an older child had made the mark. Still, he was right about the gray.

  As he was still weak from his illness, he rested on the bank for a few moments. Sunlight sifted through the new oak leaves to play on the rushing water. It made him think of fishing by the forest stream and his first encounter with Liliane. She had not come near him for days and he did not blame her. Fancy, his recommending a priest to curb her "lusty" spirit! He was delighted by her defiant response, less so by the alienation to which it must lead. Startled by her knowing mention of the flute, he had overreacted, seeming more of a martinet than he had intended. Liliane was also probably annoyed that he was using her dowry money without legally having a right to it, since the marriage was unconsummated. As a woman, even a wealthy one, Liliane could make little trouble on that score; however, if she solicited Jacques's assistance, she could force the issue. It was ironic that he should have to be forced to bed a woman for whom he was fairly panting, yet he was too well aware of his susceptibility to enter that snare too quickly.

  The next day, feeling stronger after his foray in the fresh air, Alexandre rode out to the byre to finish resetting the wall. He had been in haste to finish the work the night he had been overcome by lung fever. With satisfaction, he found the project undisturbed. Making certain that he was unobserved, he entered the byre and pried three large stones from the wall where he had lowered the dirt floor a foot below the outside ground level. An iron box containing Liliane's dowry—gold dinars, silver dirhams and the titles to her lands—was wedged behind the stones. Whatever happened to him, the Signes would never retrieve Liliane's money. By much scrambling in the courts, she might regain her Spanish lands to buy her next husband, but any spying would cost her dear.

  He took a pouchful of coins and replaced the box behind the stones, but as he turned to leave, he noticed a small, familiar footprint in the damp earth. It was nearly lost under his own prints, but had been undisturbed by the weather. He found similar prints by the door and outside the byre, as well as faint traces of a notched hoof. Whoever had ridden the gray had been both at the river and the byre. The byre was ruined, nearly roofless and empty for a decade; no one had reason to come there, except to look for him ... or the money. The money he dismissed—he had been too careful in disguising its hiding place, even to the point of sending workmen out to various sites about the demesne so that his own work at the byre would not draw attention.

  Why then would anyone come looking for him? If foul play had been the object, he would certainly have been left in the river. Besides, the footprints belonged to a person too small to have considered assaulting him. The castellans were used to his spontaneous forays that sometimes lasted for days, so they would not have looked for him. Bit by bit, he narrowed down the possibilities. When he had not returned to the castle, someone, perhaps noticing he was growing ill, had set out to search for him. That someone had stolen the gray mare from the smithy string. His rescuer was either a small man, a youth ... or a woman. The first two possibilities indicated a loyal retainer too lowly to have his own mount; the last was highly intriguing. Did he have a female admirer?

  * * *

  His paunch spreading across his broad knees as he shifted his ponderous weight, Jacques de Signe did not bother to rise for his guest. While he had no particular contempt for spies, having often been one himself, he had no interest in nonentities, although he knew that nonentities made the best spies. The spy he had assigned to Castle de Brueil was reliable, dull and inexpensive. "Well?" Jacques folded his heavily ringed fingers over his gold-sashed middle.

  "Your niece, the young countess, is enterprising," murmured the spy. "Although never allowed abroad without guards, she has already discovered a way to leave and enter the castle without detection."

  Jacques smiled at Louis, who sprawled in a nearby chair. "So you were wrong, Louis. Liliane will have more than one use."

  Louis, his stubbled face made no more attractive by the hazy candlelight, shrugged sullenly. "I still do not trust her. She is too clever for her own good. Women like that always try to play both sides."

  Jacques laughed. "She is a Signe, after all." His attention shifted back to his spy, whose eyes were modestly downcast. Sometimes, the balding little man carried his mild-mannered demeanor too far, trying to convey his absolute trustworthiness. He was undoubtedly making his own puny, amateurish effort to advance his private profit. Jacques was presently unconcerned, but if the turncoat scuttled too far into the light, he would be crushed like an errant roach. "Tell me, Monsieur, how are the count and countess getting along?"

  "With all respect, milord, the count trusts his new bride no more than your nephew." The spy bowed to Louis. "In short, he appears loath to touch her."

  Jacques grunted. "That will pass. Liliane is too fetching to be ignored and Alexandre too hot-blooded not to try her. She knows better than to become with child; heirs do not serve our interests. See that she is discreetly advised by a midwife."

  "The countess needs little advice in that respect, milord. She is an experienced apothecary," the spy replied dryly. "The count would have been dead of lung fever in his wedding week had s
he been less expertly devoted in nursing him."

  Louis leaped to his feet. "You see! I told you she would play us foul!"

  Jacques eyed him patiently. "Liliane has more sense than you. Had she let Alexandre die so soon after the marriage, she would have been blamed, fairly or not. Philip would be at our throats. What better way to gain an enemy's trust than to save his life?" He tossed a jingling pooch to the spy. "Has my niece spotted you?"

  "Of course not" was the offended reply.

  "Good. Keep it that way. See she gets the note in the poach."

  While riding back to Castle de Brueil, the spy read the note, which was in English. He was not supposed to speak English, but he did, far better than England's ruling Plantagenets. English was an ugly language, but to the point. Jacques de Signe required information about the Brueil defenses from his niece. He would then compare her report with the ones he had been getting. If they did not match, Jacques would know that someone was giving him false-information. He carefully refolded the message and replaced it in the pouch. Then he wondered briefly how long it would take him to learn to forge the countess's writing and shove her neck into a garrotte.

  * * *

  the

  Liliane soon became thoroughly disenchanted with Castle de Brueil. In the weeks that followed Alexandre's illness, the place was practically a prison. She was firmly advised that the ruined part of the castle was unsafe for exploration and she was never allowed past the castle wall without an escort. The servants accepted her orders readily, and because she had always been accustomed to a relaxed household, she required no major changes. Also, she was sensible, considerate and deft at handling servants. Her success in preserving Alexandre's life had quickly won her a respect that might have taken years to achieve. Still, although the servants were obedient, they were reserved and suspicious. Some whispered that Liliane was a heathen witch, particularly as she never attended Mass in the chapel and never confessed to Father Anselm.