Not once had Alexandre asked her where she'd been last night . . . unless he knew. That possibility was horrible but highly unlikely. Alexandre could not possibly know she had been with Jean and still offer her his love; yet she was uneasy. He was so like Jean now, with the same wry, beguiling charm. He wore Jean's smile, wail its fleeting, boyish wistfulness, the hint of mischief that might have been coquettish in a girl, yet in Jean was so unpretentious that it was utterly disarming. Thinking of Jean made her heart ache. Last night she had known love rich and fulsome as she would never know it again. Whatever Jean felt, she knew her love for him would endure as long as she lived. He seemed so far away, and yet, as Alexandre's blue eyes gazed into hers, so tormentingly near. "What if I refuse your offer?" she murmured.
The hope fled from Alexandre's face, and his eyes looked past her to the woods outside. "Then," he said slowly, "I should have Father Anselm begin annulment proceedings. You may leave at tomorrow's daybreak just as you came, with your dowry and jewels . . . and the black stallion to go where you please."
Liliane stared unseeingly at the jewels winking in the poignard hilt; their brighfiiess seemed to mock her plight. Whatever her personal longing, she was bound by duty to Diego. "Beside bright honor," Diego had once told her, "all else is dull dross, and God's honor is first." By the last, Diego had not meant the petty bickerings of religion, but the uncompromising demand of human ethics that soul and conscience must mirror, whatever one's vision of God. The wars that mattered were not of the world but of the soul. In honor, she must give Alexandre the benefit of doubt and with that her trust, as he promised his own. To refuse that frost would be to fail him and Diego, as well as herself. If he was lying, she could hardly end in a worse situation that she was now in, unless she wound up in the castle dungeon. With a lump in her throat, Liliane handed him the poignard and whispered hoarsely, "I shall accept your offer then, my lord. I pray you make it in good faith."
As if he had not dared to hope, Alexandre's face lit up with a bright, quick glow. He tossed down the poignard and caught her firmly by the shoulders. "By all I hold sacred, you shall not regret remaining my wife, if aught I may do will please you.
You need not fear that I shall force you to my will or my bed. Come to me as you will, only do not close your heart and mind to me. Believe me when I tell you that I have paid sorely for the distress I have caused you. 'Twas not ill meant, and was a bitter trial to me." Gently, he touched her lips. "Believe that I find in you all that is lovely and desirable and fascinating." His lips curved with Jean's Endearing touch of mischief. "Perhaps at dinner you will tell me where you learned to climb with such agility—perhaps from the monkeys of the Moors?"
"At dinner, my lord?" Liliane asked uneasily. "Am I to pass the afternoon in this chamber?"
"If you desire. However, I thought you might like to ride along the beach." His eyes glinted with sapphire, like sunlight on the water. "Alone."
Liliane's spirits suddenly lifted. "I would very much like to ride, but"—she smiled sheepishly—"I fear that I am rather tired. I had better nap until dinner."
His mouth twitched with suppressed humor. "Of course." With roguish gallantry, he took her hand in his and kissed it. "Until then."
After he left, Liliane flung herself wearily upon the bed. Fatigued as she was, she found that she could no more close her eyes than an owl could ignore mice. Ah, how her doubts and confusion skittered and squeaked like mice! Where was the old, sardonic Alexandre?
He certainly did not come to dinner. Her new, bewildering husband was suave and charming—courtesy itself. He was also very funny, which startled her more than anything else. The old Alexandre had no more sense of humor than a cobblestone. Liliane had never seen him laugh, but then she had rarely laughed herself in the past months. Tonight, Alexandre was brimming, with infectious high spirits. Liliane relaxed, relieved that she did not have to endure another of their usual dull, non-communicative dinners. She alone proved susceptible to his gaiety: the surrounding castellans obviously did not share their master's ebullience. Their suspicions of her had been confirmed, and they considered the dungeon a more fitting place for her than her seat at the head of the table. Alexandre's aunts were white with stifled fury and Charles scarcely lifted his accusing gaze from her face. Finally she whispered to Alexandre, "This is never going to work. They all believe that you have lost your wits."
Alexandre grinned. "Perhaps I have. Sanity was becoming a burden."
"But, my lord ..."
"Please, call me Alexandre or Alex, or whatever you like, but not 'my lord.' I am beginning to feel as though I ought to have an attendance of priests to merit such perpetual deference."
Liliane was dumbfounded. Was this the severe man she had married? "Alexandre," she began hesitantly, then she continued more firmly, "Alexandre, surely you must see that your family and retainers will never accept me."
"They will accept what I accept," he said flatly, and for a moment she glimpsed the old, determined Alexandre.
"But I am not sure that I can ever be happy. ..."
He took her hand. "You promised to trust me. Where is the fiery courage and defiance that you brought from Spain? Leave our people to me."
Our people? He had never before suggested that anything in his demesne might also be hers. She gravely doubted if human hearts and minds could be casually allotted her like sticks of cordwood. "Alexandre," she said patiently, "whatever you dictate, they will never love me."
"But they love me. Although my aunts, who love only themselves, are another matter, my people will wish to see me happy. In time, they will see that you make me happy and, in perhaps a longer time, that you wish me well."
Liliane lowered her eyes, her expression grave. "Can you be so sure of that, when I might so easily turn on you at any time?"
"If I cannot be sure," he replied quietly, "I may as well go to the devil now. I should not want to live to see you faithless."
Liliane was both touched and bewildered. Gone were his demands that she be true, his threats if she betrayed him. AH she saw now was his quiet trust in her. Although she was grateful, she was also frightened by the enormous responsibility he'd placed upon her.
Suddenly she noticed the clerk's face. As if Antoine Fremier could sense what she was thinking, his usual bland expression was belied by a peculiar brightness in his pale blue eyes. That brightness faded so quickly that she thought it must have been a trick of the candlelight. The clerk peacefully chewed his stew as if he were a browsing ewe lamb. Even his face resembled mutton, shapeless and pinkish gray. His mouth and chin were weak, his hands pudgy and useless for much besides tallying figures. Liliane had never paid much attention to him, and now only that fleeting, diamond brightness in his eyes had drawn her glance. His interest did not disturb her, for she assumed that a man who worked at mathematics would naturally be inclined to-analyze her in her present situation. In fact, everyone around her was watching her, only more obviously than the clerk.
Alexandre had ordered entertainment to follow dinner. One of the guards juggled, and a group of the village peasants performed a round dance. The performances lacked enthusiasm, but Alexandre seemed not to notice, vigorously applauding everyone. Because he had gone to the trouble of planning an evening she might enjoy, Liliane tried valiantly to look as if she did, but she found the pretense difficult amid so many hostile faces.
Oddly enough, her discomfort was eased by the priest, Father Anselm, who was last to take part in the entertainment. She was surprised to see a priest participate in so worldly a display, particulary in a recitation of romantic Angevin poetry. The poem was long and beautiful, benevolently delivered by the rotund father as if he were unaware that the heroine's favors to her hero included more than tourney ribbons. Was Alexandre trying to show her that he and Father Anselm were not as stuffy as she thought?
She glanced at her husband, half expecting him to be either staring with boredom or sound asleep. Had he not professed that entertainment of thi
s sort left him cold? But, no, he was wide awake, with an expression of alert interest that made her uneasy. Everyone in the castle normally retired shortly after sunset; the hour was now near midnight and many were openly yawning. Alexandre ought to be tired; she had noticed lines of fatigue about his eyes and mouth in the early afternoon. She prayed that lively energy had nothing to do with his private plans for the hours before dawn. At this thought, Father Anselm's poem progressed too quickly for her liking, and it seemed to be finished in moments.
A trifle unsteady, Liliane stood with Alexandre to thank the entertainers and bid a warm good-night to the gathering. As Alexandre turned to lead her to the stairs, Charles's furious expression made her glad that her husband was between them. In the darkness of the Stairwell, a cold panic seized her. She could not go to bed with Alexandre now! How could she pretend to love him after Jean, whose very ghost seemed to be at her side?
She soon found that Alexandre had no intention of making her endure him. At the top of the staircase, he kissed her cold fingers. "Good night, my love. May all the stars smile upon your dreams and bring you peace. If you want me, I shall be nearby."
The intensity in his sapphire eyes suggested that he was available to provide more than a drink of water! To her horror, Liliane noticed that a pallet had been laid beside her door. "I thought you said there were to be no guards!" she protested. "You vowed that you would trust me!"
"You, I trust"—his eyes glinted mischievously—"but my loyal retainers may be overzealous."
"Will you not be very uncomfortable?" she asked, a doubtful expression on her face.
"Very." His voice was soft; his eyes held a seductive light.
She eased awkwardly around the door. "I am so sorry." A moment later, her pillow peeked out. "You may want this ..."
Alexandre grinned ruefully. "I daresay I shall. Ah ... do not mind any groans and thumps you hear; 'twill be just my pommeling away."
"You will be safe?" she asked, concerned.
"Stiff, but entirely safe."
She could not resist. "Shall I sing you to sleep?"
"Tonight," he replied with a meaningful smile, "I think your singing would have the opposite effect." Then his eyes brightened. "However, I am fond of having my back rubbed."
"For that, perhaps you had better apply to Father Anselm. Your good priest must be an expert—his old hound dotes on having his back scratched!'' Laughing, Liliane closed the door.
Chapter 6
~
The Truce
Castle de Brueil
July 1189
The next morning, Liliane discovered that although Father Anselm was not around, his old hound had acquired more company than the friendly hunting dogs that lay about the great hall. Charles had mysteriously adopted two huge, surly mastiffs, which he was training in the courtyard. Liliane's eyes narrowed when she saw them snarling and lunging at the other dogs. Strongly suspecting that the mastiffs were intended to curtail her nocturnal roaming, she turned abruptly to Alexandre, who was walking along the rampart wall at her elbow. "Did you . . . ?"
"No," he said quietly, "I did not."
"They are dangerous, Alexandre."
He sensed her unspoken request. Leaning over the parapet, he called, "Charles, when those beasts learn manners, they are welcome within the walls; until then, chain them outside."
"Of course, my lord." Charles quickly led the mastiffs out, but Liliane distrusted his easy compliance. She had seen enough to know that he was a good trainer. The mastiffs would shortly be "controlled" enough to obey his commands and be "exercised" at night when he often supervised the guards. Even if she could get over the wall, the dogs would be waiting on the far side. She knew that Charles would be slow to call them off.
Alexandre studied her pale face. "Would you care to take that ride now?"
"Alone?"
"If you like."
Liliane had to give Alexandre credit; he did not do things halfheartedly. Before, he had guarded her like a hawk; now, by giving her free run, he was risking not only her uncle's scheming vengeance, but the loss of his retainers' confidence, as well. He looked worried as he went with her to the stable. Was he afraid that she would run all the way to Jacques, or that one of his people might turn assassin and relieve her of that temptation? Whatever the risk, she was determined to test him. A wimple and chainse were not her favorite riding attire, but she was too impatient to change. She ought to send a reassuring message to Jacques while she had the chance, but she dared not take the risk today. She might well be followed. Alexandre might have merely pretended not to know that Charies had acquired those mastiffs. Despite her husband's concessions, he certainly was testing her, as well.
However, this game could be played both ways. "Would you like to come?" she asked brightly as he saddled the black.
Alexandre looked faintly amused, clearly aware that the last thing she wanted was company, particularly his. "Another day, perhaps, when I have less work." His blue eyes twinkled. "But thank you for the invitation."
Oddly enough, halfway to the shore, Liliane found herself actually missing him. In his current mood, he was not nearly as dreary as he had been; in fact, he was charming! Of course; this remarkable change might well be just a performance to knock her off guard. She took a deep breath of fresh air and spurred her destrier onward. She had no wish to brood about intrigue on this bright morning. The green meadows sparkled with dew, and the distant beach and brilliant turquoise sea beckoned. Low cloud puffs drifted over the Mediterranean, whose sleepy morning breakers spilled lazily over the black rocks as she reached the beach. The shoreline was empty. Unable to believe that she was not being watched, Liliane twisted in the saddle to look back over the way she had come. Only low, scattered pines and rippling grass met her searching gaze.
For a half hour's westward ride, Liliane saw nothing more but lovely, barren hills carpeted with morning-glories and thistles, until she spied a couple of children. The boy, who was perhaps eight years old, and a younger girl rode a driftwood "horse" partly buried in a patch of seagrass a hundred or so yards up the beach. They were probably harmless but she had seen too many
Moorish children who were adept spies to dismiss them completely. Her suspicions were confirmed when farther along the beach she came across a lonely figure. Like a humped, brown tortoise, Father Anselm was perched on a high rock jutting into the sea. He was fishing with a string attached to a short peg, which he held in one hand while he wound the string about it with the other. A small fire was kindled on the beach. He is after langoustes, she thought, but he may also be making sure I do not wander too far. She rode up to him, pebbles scattering beneath the black destrier's hooves. "Good morning, Father. I hope I am not disturbing you."
The old priest stood, a broad smile splitting his plump face. "No, no, my lady. I am having poor luck this morning. I fear that I rose too late and my quarry has already breakfasted. The Lord is reproving my laziness."
"We all retired too late last night to eagerly face the sunrise. You are wise to try for your own langoustes. Old Doucette is a fine cook and clever with spices, but she grills seafood nearly as long as mutton."
Father Anselm looked surprised. "Is that it? I have always been disappointed by Doucette's shellfish, but mine are invariably as tough as hers."
Liliane glanced back down the beach. Another fire glimmered where the children had been playing; it was unnecessarily high for cooking. "Why not summon your accomplices, Father," she suggested softly, "and with luck, we shall all have a fair lunch."
The priest flushed. "Signal fires were not Alexandre's idea, you know, but Charles's . . . and mine."
"My lord Alexandre is fortunate to have so many devoted protectors," she replied lightly.
"We mean no offense, my lady, but ..."
"None is taken. You all have good reason to doubt me."
Father Anselm played awkwardly wMt the fishing cord. "We wish it were otherwise, my lady, but you see, your riding alone poses certa
in difficulties."
She dismounted. "I can imagine."
Father Anselm had shuffled forward to assist her. Observing her agility, he hesitated, then tentatively extended his hand. "I wonder, myjady, if you ready can imagine the whole problem."
She grasped his hand and he hoisted her up onto the rock. "If I may ask, did Count Diego del Pinal allow you to ride alone?"
"No," she admitted. "A castellan named Pedro always accompanied me, although he rarely interfered with where I went."
"Then you had escort for good reason, you will agree?"
She smiled. "If you mean that Moors are not accustomed to encountering females alone and unveiled, I will agree. That is why I often wore male clothing so that I might pass as a boy. Also"—her smile grew impish—"Christian raiders like my uncle, Baron de Signe, sometimes rode down from the north."
The priest was undaunted. "Here they also raid from the east. The Lombards have never been content with their borders. Adventuring banditti have often wandered this far in the past few years."
And King Philip was too far away to lend assistance to Alexandre, Liliane mused. Suddenly she saw how Jacques might destroy Alexandre without provoking the king's retaliation. "How long has it been since my uncle wandered this far?" she asked with beguiling innocence.
"Too recently to ignore his ambitions." Father Anselm's voice took on a stern note. "If you have no regard for your husband's welfare, my lady, I hope you have the common sense to protect yourself. While my lord count has asked us all to preserve your safety, there are some limits to our power."
Liliane's smile faded. "Alexandre asked you to guard my life?"
"Did you not persuade him to do so?" countered the priest dryly.
"No," she said slowly. "I knew nothing about it." She settled on the rock and looked out to sea. "I do see your point— this is not just a matter of propriety. If anything happened to me, Alexandre's position would be damaged, particularly if one of his retainers were the culprit." She glanced up at the priest. "Are you sure it is wise to tell me this? The information could be a two-edged sword."
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