A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  In her anxiety, she began to notice previously inconsequential developments: for one, she was thickening in the waist and having to let out her laces. Soon she would have to give up riding and find some other way to reach Jacques. She also began to puzzle over Fremier the cleric, to whom no one ordinarily gave much attention. He had not been at Castle de Brueil upon his lord's homecoming, but upon leave of absence in Aries to care for a sick relative; the relative had recovered within a few weeks of Alexandre's return.

  She would have been pleased if Fremier had stayed in Aries. She had developed a vague dislike for the man; he was too subservient, too silent. He had a way of drifting through a room without attracting notice . . . and without interrupting conversation. Often she had looked up to find him watching her placidly. He seemed strangely patient, as if waiting for something. If he were a spy, he would know she had betrayed her cousins. He could have informed Jacques of her deceit soon after her marriage; yet apparently he had not. Having no evidence of his guilt, Liliane forced away her suspicions; Fremier was probably no more than he seemed: a harmless cleric.

  Her greatest uneasiness lay in deceiving Alexandre, when she had sworn she would never do so again. He would never believe that she could lie to him and utterly disregard his efforts to protect her. At long last, he trusted her completely. How iB she was repaying him!

  She had hoped to withdraw from all her intrigues with Jacques upon returning to France. Palestine had cured her of wanting to deal with violence. She wanted only to be Alexandre's wife, the mother of his child, the chatelaine of lovely Castle de Brueil. She wanted peace. Why was it ever so impossible?

  When, upon the next afternoon, a page wearing the Signe colors presented himself at the castle, Liliane knew that peace was about to end. "Your cousins are declaring a tourney," Alexandre dryly informed her. when the page had departed. "We are graciously invited as a gesture of future goodwill."

  "You must not go, Alexandre! Jacques means some wickedness; that tourney will be a deathtrap!"

  "It will also be Mahomet's mountain. I have no great wish to waste my time playing the fox for Jacques in the forest." He touched her cheek. ' 'Have no fear. You are thinking of Diego, I know, but he was not looking for an arrow in the back; I am." When her face showed no sign of reassurance, he drew her into his arms. "Come, where is your prodigious sense of adventure? You have wanted proof that Diego was murdered; at the tourney, you are likely to get it."

  "I do not want it this way, Alexandre," Liliane said desperately. "When I came here I was reckless and selfish. Is there no way I can show you how precious you have become to me?"

  "Aye," he replied softly, "there is a way." His lips lowered upon hers, gently yet with the certainty of possession. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  Aye, there is a way, Liliane thought dazedly as her senses awakened to him. I can love you with all'my body, heart and mind ... yet naught I can do will matter against an assassin's cold intent.

  * * *

  The tourney was held on the field skirting ponderous Castle de Signe, with lords from eight surrounding fiefs invited. Usually tourneys were clumsy affairs with a few knights slogging around in the mud before an indifferent audience of peasantry, but Jacques had set up a private pavilion, placed chairs about the field and marked it off with great pennants in his colors; smaller pennants backed the chairs of his fellow landowners. "Nothing like declaring his ambitions in Provence," Alexandre murmured to Liliane as she bound her colors to his arm.

  Glancing at Jacques, crammed toadlike in his chair at the center of the line of nobles, Liliane was inclined to agree. "The nobles hate him, yet they do not dare publicly insult him. He is too dangerous."

  "That is why I do not want you going near him without your escort. Extend your courtesies, then keep to the area of our tent." When she said nothing, he caught her hand. "You promised that if I brought you, you would rake all precautions. Remember?"

  "I remember." They had gotten into a roaring argument when she refused to be left at home. Only her apparent surrender had won Alexandre's acquiescence.

  To assure her safety, he had brought a forty-man escort and planted them about her so thickly that she could scarcely see the tourney field. She suspected such protection was as much to deter her as Jacques from any pranks.

  "Who are you matched against?" she asked as Alexandre's attention returned to the squire fastening his armor.

  "Cortillon, Gribes, and Louis the Malevolent, naturellement. "

  "Do not tease. Louis is not the laughing sort."

  "Neither is his pretty cousin. Do smile, or he and Uncle Malevolent may believe you are worried about me."

  She smiled, then through set teeth, whispered, "I am stiff with worry. Be careful!"

  Alexandre grinned. "I am determined to be a grandfather, darling." Tucking his helmet under his arm, he cuffed his squire lightly. "Pick up anything left on the field after I match Louis de Signe. No one else must get to it first, understand?"

  The boy nodded. "I'll be quick enough."

  As Alexandre led Liliane away toward the Signe party, she muttered, "Are you not being too prophetic about your last remains?"

  "I hope not." He waved to four guardsmen to accompany them. "Just now, I am more interested in surviving our courtesies to your uncle."

  As they approached him, Jacques's toadlike head swiveled to follow their progress. His smile was broad, but his eyes were flat and ruthless. Louis stood behind him, his armor encasing his short, brutal body like an indestructible block. Jacques seemed more interested in Liliane than Alexandre, his head cocked as he studied her with sharp curiosity.

  Despite her green samite bliaud and gold-set ruby filet, Liliane suddenly felt very obviously pregnant, and very vulnerable. Alexandre sensed her increased tension, and his arm tightened about her shoulders in firm reassurance. She felt a strong wave of love for him, for so often he knew her feelings; his sensitivity made her current intentions seem all the blacker.

  "Welcome to our tourney, Milord de Brueil," Jacques said jovially as Alexandre bowed briefly to him. He smiled at Liliane's perfunctory curtsy. "Liliane, we have missed your pretty presence for too long. You must visit us at Castle de Signe during the Christmas festivities. I hope you will be well entertained this day; we are expecting yet another seven knights to enter the lists."

  "You are gracious, milord," replied Alexandre. "One may always rely on your family to provide lively entertainment." He smiled faintly at Louis. "I am impatient for our contest to banish the rust of inactivity, but then you have never played the country squire, have you, sir?"

  Louis's black eyes stared back. "I play at nothing. War is but duty for a practical man."

  "No one has ever accused you of being amusing, Louis," Liliane observed lightly. "Why not run along with Alexandre to your brawling while I relieve Uncle with the latest gossip from Spain?"

  Now all three men were looking at her: Louis, with sullen resentment; Alexandre, with startled wariness; and Jacques, with speculation. She forced herself to drop casually into the chair beside her uncle and look up at Alexandre. "Did you not say something about impatience for the fray, darling? After all, I have not seen Uncle Jacques since our wedding."

  Her tactic dawning on him, Alexandre swiftly reached for her wrist. Just as quickly, she evaded him. Jacques smoothly intervened. "You must let Liliane stay, milord; she will be our Queen of Love and Beauty and reign over the tournament. Her place of honor should be next to me. You are entered early in the lists, I believe, and should finish with Louis just before luncheon. You and Liliane must dine with us."

  Alexandre's expression clearly said that he would sooner risk a meal with Caligula. His eyes narrowed as he towered over Liliane. "The choice is up to you, my love."

  "I should like to stay." With an effort, Liliane looked away.

  Alexandre turned on his heel and strode toward the field. "Accompany the count, Louis," murmured Jacques, "and remember your manners." With a
short snort of impatience, Louis stalked after Alexandre.

  Jacques benevolently urged his companions and servants away. "Now, my dear," he purred, settling in his chair, "what is your news from Spain?"

  "The cork trees are quite a change from the oaks of Provence. They are productive but neglected. They might produce an extraordinary yield with some attention."

  "You inspected them?"

  "More than once. I ventured to offer a little advice to a caretaker, but it was ignored."

  "Perhaps the caretaker thought you might be preoccupied with womanly matters. One gathers you are to be a mother soon?"

  "Accidents happen . . . particularly at tourneys." Her hand caressed his arm. "Darling Uncle, are you going to make me a widow today?"

  "Would you like that?"

  "I have ever preferred freedom to obligation, particularly to you. I should like to be done with this business. You may have observed that my husband and I are not fond."

  "On the contrary, compared to most noble couples, you are turtledoves. Your husband seems intrigued with you."

  "Alexandre's infatuation suits my purpose; certainly it has made my living at Castle de Brueil more comfortable, if tedious." Her beautiful face adopted an arctic expression. "If anything should happen to him, I should like to return to Spain. Do what you like with Alexandre, but have the kindness not to bother me with details. I never want to see rustic France again."

  "That might be arranged," Jacques said obliquely.

  "Good. Then I might arrange for you to get into the castle. Would you like that?"

  He was silent for a moment. "I am such a methodical man, my dear. Rarely does anything hurried appeal to me."

  "Something hurried might occur to Philip." She played with the emerald on her finger. "Alexandre tells me that Philip knows Louis betrayed his raiders to the Saracens."

  A tiny tick twitched at Jacques's mouth. "How could the king possibly believe that?"

  "A certain turncoat named Jefar el din spied among the Saracens and heard talk among Saladin's lieutenants. Philip is also a patient man, but Louis's days are numbered . . . and when Louis goes, you will follow, for all the world knows he is your left arm."

  Jacques was pale now. "And who is my right?"

  "Why not a woman?"

  "That depends. Does this woman know why Philip is biding his time?"

  "His illness in Palestine was feigned. Do you understand now?"

  "Consolidation." Jacques's fat fingers tightened on his chair. "He means to summon us to Paris. Why make an example of us in Palestine when he can do it before all France and exhibit his control over the south, from the Rhone to the Italian provinces." He looked up at his flamboyant pennants. "Up until now, Alexandre's and my adversity has suited him well. Our quarrels have helped to keep a balance of power in Provence. If that balance fails in my favor, Philip fears he may have to contend with me one day over, this region."

  "Exactly."

  "So if Alexandre de Brueil were dead and Jefar el din unavailable, Philip would lack his chief witnesses and be obliged to reconsider his strategy." He stared at her. "What is your price for this discouragement?"

  Be careful, her logic warned. You must seem real to him; he will not believe you have blossomed into his sort of monster overnight. "I want my child. If the child remains in France, you will kill it and possibly me in time, just to keep your affairs neat. I have no intention of rotting away at Castle de Brueil to hold it for you Once the child and I are safe in Spain, I shall sign Alexandre's lands over to you . . . but do not rely on paying any friendly visits to Malaga as you did last time. I shall have you shot on sight."

  He laughed dryly. "You need not worry. I am growing too old and fat for such gallivanting. Besides, I have no desire to worry about my right hand shooting me when my left hand is already eager for the opportunity."

  Her attention turned to the field where a fallen knight was being helped from the field. His opponent was trotting off the far end of the field to his squire, while Louis and Alexandre were mounting their destriers. Both were dressed in the new style of hauberk: a coat of chain mail over a heavy leather shirt. Over a closely fitted hood covered with chain mail, Alexandre wore a bucketlike iron helm with a slit over the eyes, while Louis wore an older conical helm with a nose guard. Alexandre's hauberk was polished to near white; Louis's was painted black. Their hands were covered with mitts made of mail.

  Louis was not impressive aboard a horse, but Liliane knew from Palestine that he was extremely hard to dislodge from his saddle. He was strong and sturdy like a battering ram. In contrast, Alexandre resembled a slim steel reed. He Was deft, quick and lethal, but he also followed the code of chivalry, while Louis had no such handicap.

  Her stomach was knotting. To distract Jacques, who could spot an opponent's fear with a ferret's accuracy, she affected a casual drawl. "So you think Louis might betray you?"

  "He was suckled on treachery. Nothing else has any taste for him. As I have shaped him, so will he grow." Jacques stretched his plump legs. "I must say that, for a spider, he is fit enough; so is your husband. Quite a splendid-looking young man, Alexandre de Brueil. Many a woman would rejoice to find him in her bed. He is virile, handsome, intelligent . . . even decent." He eyed her slyly. "Tell me, dear, is that last quality his flaw?"

  "Quite right, Uncle," Liliane answered coolly as she watched Alexandre and Louis trot to opposing ends of the list corridor. "Diego was an old man; Alexandre a decent man. Next I want an exciting man."

  "Have you ever considered Philip?"

  Her eyes widened slightly, then she smiled. "Philip would hardly be likely to welcome a Signe into his bed just now."

  "Oh, I think you might be beautiful enough—and clever enough—to tempt him. After Palestine, he could use a little distraction."

  "Particularly from you and Louis." Her hands tightened on her chair as the two men on the field exploded into a charge at each other. They smashed together with a brutal crash that staggered their destriers. Desperately, Liliane waited as they reeled . . . then righted, trotting back to their starting points. She saw Jacques looking at her white knuckles. "Anticipation, Uncle. Merely anticipation."

  "Will you consider Philip, then, my dear?"

  "Not so long as I have a husband, Uncle."

  She heard him laugh over the crash of the lances.

  Alexandre and Louis charged again and again. Their mutual hatred was evident, their urge to kill hanging like a bloody pall over the field. With equal skill, they took the bobbing, weaving points on their shields, cushioning the massive blows with a twist or lean of the torso. If that tactic failed, they leaned into the blow and, with sheer muscle power, tried to shatter the opposing lance; anything to keep the lance head from slipping past the heavy shield and striking the body, perhaps breaking bone even through the chain mail.

  Muttering rose from the crowd; everyone present was aware of the years of bad blood between the Brueils and Signes. Neither man, although taking terrible blows, would go down. Liliane sensed that Alexandre's past animosity was doubly fired by his anger at her familiarity with Jacques. Again, the destriers' muscles coiled and the two knights bore down on each other. The collision was a horror of splintering lance. Louis's lance skipped off the top of Alexandre's shield and struck him high in the shoulder, easily spreading the chain link. Alexandre's lance missed Louis altogether and Alexandre went down.

  Liliane was transfixed with fear. Like a squat vulture, Louis waited on his mount as Alexandre lay still. Liliane came to her feet so abruptly her chair toppled. Stumbling over her skirts, she raced out onto the field with her husband's squire just behind her. She dropped on her knees by Alexandre's side to see the long, deadly splinters of Louis's lance head protruding from between the steel rings of the hauberk. Her heart racing as if it would burst her chest, she worked frantically at the armor lacing. Distractedly aware of the squire's seemingly aimless scrabbling over the turf surrounding Alexandre, she shrieked, "Par Dieu, leave off! A
idez moi!''

  Alexandre's head moved slightly as the squire worked at his helm; when it came off, Alexandre's face was gray with pain, his eyes open and unnaturally dark. "The splinters," he whispered. "Gather the splinters . . ."

  Thinking he meant the splinters in his wound, Liliane began to try to remove them with trembling fingers while the squire cut the lacing. "No," Alexandre gasped, "the ones on the ground. Hurry!" The squire shoved his knife into its sheath and, under Louis's black gaze, quickly gathered up bits of lance head about the wounded man.

  Louis swiftly waved over some of his yeomen. "Help him."

  Ten of Alexandre's men had raced ahead of Louis's men to form a ring about their fallen lord. The squire drew his knife and glared up at Louis. "Back, milord! You intrude!"

  After scanning the hostile faces about him, Louis let sanity ' overrule social status and he withdrew.

  Alexandre's wound was .deep but high, the deepest of the splinters forming a narrow slit. When Liliane withdrew it, the blood flowed freely. When she ripped off her cap and packed it against the wound, the blood soon stopped. She sighed with relief. "If the wound does not fester, you will live, milord."

  His lips white, Alexandre made no reply as the squire helped him to a sitting position so that his padded gambeson might be stripped off. Liliane temporarily bound his wound with light bandaging so that he could be carried to their pavilion. Once inside the tent, she carefully removed the rest of the splinters. The process was painful, but Alexandre made no sound, nor did he look at her until his final bandage was tightly in place. "Oh, my love," she whispered against his cheek, "I thought Louis had killed you."

  Alexandre eyed her sardonically. "I am a lucky man. Lucky in war and love. I have a wife who plays in my enemy's lap while I snap at his heels like a terrier after an elephant." His head turned from her stung face toward the hovering squire. "Let's have a look at your field scavengings."

  When Liliane anxiously touched his face, Alexandre pushed himself up and held out his hand to the squire. Into his master's palm, the boy dropped several large fragments of wood backed with crumbling clay. Atop it, the boy placed a snapped off steel-capped lance point, about two inches long. "Louis's lance cap was clay," Liliane breathed in fury. "It had to break and uncover the steel head!"