by Susan Wiggs
Lianna sat still as Bonne unstopped a bottle of fragrant oil and anointed her, secreting the scent of lilies at her nape and temples, between her breasts and at the backs of her knees. Despite her drunken state, the maid’s hand was steady as she imbued Lianna’s lips and cheeks with a discreet mist of rouge.
Bonne stepped back and gasped in admiration. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard!” She took up a polished-steel mirror and angled it toward Lianna. “You look like a princess.”
Lianna frowned at her image. The pale robe fluttered against her willow-slim form; her hair hung in drifts around her oval-shaped face. Her customary look of arrogance, worn to hide the intrepid dreamer deep inside, made her delicate features seem hard tonight, hard and bloodless.
“How can you scowl at being so favored?” Bonne demanded.
Lianna shrugged and eyed her maid’s ripe bosom and bold smile. “In sooth, Bonne, you have the looks that turn heads. Besides, an agreeable face doesn’t win a kingdom, nor does it endure.”
“Happily for you, your beauty has endured into your twenty-first year, my lady. You look far younger. I was beginning to think your uncle the duke would have to drive you to the altar at sword point. Think you he’ll approve of your Lazare?”
Lianna swallowed. “My uncle of Burgundy will send his spurs spinning into oblivion when he learns what I’ve done.”
“Aye, I’ve always thought he wanted better for you.”
Privately Lianna agreed. She’d often wondered why Uncle Jean had never pressed her to wed, but was too content in her spinsterhood to question him. Now King Henry had forced her out of that comfortable state.
A burst of noise from the hall drifted in through the window, along with a breeze tinged by the smell of the river and the lingering acrid odor of Chiang’s fireworks. Bonne put away the mirror. “I’d best leave you to your husband. My lady...you must be biddable and patient with him....”
Flushing, Lianna raised a hand to forestall her maid. “Don’t worry, Bonne.” Women’s talk made her ill at ease; she had no interest in secrets whispered behind a damsel’s hand. She propelled Bonne toward the door. “I daresay I’ll survive my wedding night. Go and find your Roland.”
The girl swayed down the narrow spiral of stairs.
Lianna returned to her solar to ponder that mysterious, much-lauded act that would solidify her marriage to Lazare Mondragon. With a stab of loss, she thought of her mother, long dead of drowning. Dame Irène might have guided her this night, might have prepared her to receive her husband.
Glancing at the gesso mural, Lianna watched the firelight flicker over a detail of a young woman reading to a child from a psalter. Again Lianna searched her memory for her mother but found only a whisper of rose-sweet fragrance, the ghost of a cool hand against her brow, the soft tones of a female voice. She might have told stories to me, Lianna mused.
Shaking her head, she tossed aside the useless sentiment. She had no place in her life for pretty stories and games. Fate had left her to learn on her own, to approach every task with calculated logic.
She faced marriage in the same dispassionate manner. When the English king’s envoy had arrived three weeks earlier ordering her to marry a baron who styled himself Enguerrand of Longwood, she’d begun a swift, methodical search for an eligible Frenchman who didn’t fear her powerful uncle. In Lazare Mondragon, she’d found him. Sufficiently needy to be dazzled by her dowry, and sufficiently greedy to flout the duke, Lazare had proved instantly agreeable. The castle chaplain—aging, senile—hadn’t insisted on a lengthy reading of banns.
The door swung open. With stiff movements Lianna inclined her shining head. “Mon sire.”
Lazare Mondragon stepped inside. He was resplendent in his wedding costume, from the velvet capuchon on his graying head to his narrow pointed shoes. The shimmering cresset flame lit his handsome features—a strong nose, angular chin, and dark, deep-set eyes. Taking Lianna’s hand, he brushed it with dry lips.
The brief contact ignited a flicker of trepidation in her. She snuffed it quickly and said, “Is all well in the hall?”
“My son Gervais and his wife have won the hearts of the castle folk, Gervais with his bold tales and Macée with her pretty singing.” Lazare’s voice rang with fatherly pride.
She studied his lined face. The shadowy eyes looked world-weary, the eyes of a stranger she’d met only six days before. He lacked the eagerness of a new bridegroom. She pushed aside the notion. Of course he wouldn’t look eager. Lazare was a widower, her senior by twenty-five years. But he was French, and that was enough for Lianna.
She poured wine into a mazer and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Belliane,” he said absently.
“Please, Lazare, I do go by my familiar name.”
“Of course. Lianna.”
Smiling, she filled another cup and lifted it. “A toast, to the deliverance of Bois-Long from English hands.”
A frown corrupted the smoothness of Lazare’s brow. “That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it, Lianna?”
The bitterness of his tone sparked a flash of understanding in her. Crossing to his side, she laid her hand on his arm. “I never pretended otherwise.”
He shook her off and turned away. “I was quite cheaply bought, was I not?”
“We were two people in need, you and I. That our marriage answered those needs is no cause for shame.” She faced the window and looked out at the beloved, moonlit water meadows surrounding Bois-Long. “We can be well content here, Lazare, united against the English.”
He drank deeply of his wine. “Longwood could arrive any day now, expecting a bride. What will he do when he finds you’ve already wed?”
“Pah! He’ll turn his cowardly tail back to England.”
“What if he challenges us?”
“He’s probably old and feeble. I have no fear of him.”
“You’re not afraid of anything, are you, Lianna?” It was more an accusation than a tribute.
Nom de Dieu, he did not know her at all. Soon enough, no doubt, some loose-tongued castle varlet would tell him of her soul-shattering terror of the water, that childhood nightmare that plagued her yet as an adult.
“I fear some things. But I won’t waste the sentiment on this Baron of Longwood.” With distaste she recalled his flowery missive, scented with roses and sealed with a leopard rampant device. “In fact, I look forward to sending him on his way.” She touched her chin. “I’ve been thinking of saluting him with Chiang’s new culverin, the one on the pivoting gun carriage....”
“It’s all a damned game to you, isn’t it?” Lazare burst out, his eyes flaring. “We court the disfavor of the two most powerful men in all Christendom, yet you talk of cannon charges and fireworks.”
Although dismayed by Lazare’s mood, Lianna bit back a retort. “Then let’s talk of other things,” she said. “It is our wedding night, mon mari.”
“I’ve not forgotten,” he muttered, and poured himself another draught of wine.
She almost smiled at the irony of the situation. Wasn’t it the bride who was supposed to be nervous? And yet, while she faced her duty matter-of-factly, Lazare seemed distracted, hesitant.
“We’ve bound our lives before God,” she said. “Now we must solidify the vow.” Dousing a sizzle of apprehension, she went to the heavily draped bed and shrugged out of her robe. Naked, she slipped between the herb-scented linens and leaned back against the figured oak headboard.
Lazare approached, drew back the drapes, uttered a soft curse, and said, “You’re a beautiful young woman.”
Her brow puckered; the statement was not tendered as a compliment.
Cursing again, he jerked the coverlet up to her neck. “It’s time we understood each other, Lianna. I’ll be your husband in name only.”
The sting of rejection buried itself in her heart. Ten years without a father, seventeen without a mother, had left scars she’d hoped her marriage would heal. “But I thought— Is it King Henry or my uncle
? Are you so afraid of them?”
“No. That has nothing to do with it.”
“Then do you find me lacking?”
“No! Lianna, leave off your questioning. The fault doesn’t lie with you.” Lazare’s eyes raked her shrouded form. “You are magnificent, with your hair of silk and sweet, soft skin of cream. Were I a poet, I’d write a song solely on the beauty of your silver eyes.”
The tribute stunned and confused her. He laid his hand, dry and cool, upon her cheek. “You’ve the face of a madonna, the body of a goddess. Any man would move mountains to possess you!”
The stillness between them drew on. A faint crackle from the fire and the hiss of the ever-shifting river pervaded the chamber.
Lazare jerked back his hand. “Any man...” He laughed harshly. “Except me. One of the wenches downstairs will have to do as a receptacle for the unslaked lust you inspire.”
Lianna shivered. “Lazare, I don’t understand.”
He leaned against a bedpost. “This marriage is one of mutual convenience. No children must come of our union.”
“Bois-Long needs an heir,” she said softly. And in her heart she needed a child. Desperately.
“Bois-Long has an heir,” said Lazare. “My son, Gervais.”
A cold hand took hold of her heart and squeezed. “You can’t do this to me,” she said, clutching the sheets against her as she sat forward in anger. “The château is my ancestral home, defended by my father, Aimery the Warrior, and his kinsmen before him. I won’t allow your son to usurp—”
“You have no choice now, Lianna.” Lazare smiled. “You thought yourself so clever, marrying in defiance of King Henry’s wishes. But you overlooked one matter. I am not a pawn in your ploy for power. I’m a man with a mind of my own and a son who deserves better than I’ve given him. My life ended when my first wife died, but Gervais’s is just beginning.”
“My uncle will arrange an annulment. You and your greedy son will have nothing of Bois-Long.”
Lazare shook his head. “If you let me go, no one will stand in the way of the Englishman who is coming to marry you. Your uncle of Burgundy has been known to treat with King Henry. He may force you to accept the English god-don. Besides, you’ve no grounds for annulment. We are married in the eyes of God and France.”
“But you yourself have decreed that it is to be a chaste union!”
“So shall it be.” With a smooth movement, Lazare drew a misericorde from his baldric. Shocked by the dull glint of the pointed blade, Lianna leapt from the bed, shielding herself with the coverlet. Lazare chuckled. “Don’t worry, wife, I’ll not add murder to my offenses.” Still smiling, he pricked his palm with the knife and let a few ruby droplets of blood stain the sheet.
Lianna bit her lip. In sooth she’d never quite understood where a maid’s blood came from; it was destined to remain a mystery still.
“Now,” he said, putting away the misericorde, “it is your word against mine. And I am your lord.”
She clutched the bedclothes tighter. “You used me.”
He nodded. “Just as you used me. I’m tired, Lianna. I’ll pass the night on cushions in the wardrobe, so that no one will look askance at us. After a few days I’ll be sleeping in the lord’s chamber—alone.”
“I’ll fight you, Lazare. I won’t let Gervais have Bois-Long.”
Giving her a long, bleak stare, he left the solar. A river breeze snuffed the lamp. Lianna crept back into bed, avoiding the stain of Lazare’s blood, and lay sleepless. What manner of man was Lazare Mondragon, that he would not take his bride to wife on his wedding night? Her wedding night.
Moonlight streamed into the room, casting silvery tones on the pastoral scene painted on the wall. Beyond the woman and her children, a richly robed knight knelt before an ethereal beauty, gazing at her with a look of pure, mystical ecstasy.
An artist’s fancy, Lianna told herself angrily, turning away from the wall. An idealized picture of love. But she couldn’t suppress her disappointment. The whimsical dreamer she so carefully hid beneath her armor of aloofness had hoped to find contentment with Lazare.
Instead, she realized bitterly, the sentence of a loveless, fruitless marriage hung over her. No, she thought in sudden decision. Lazare was wrong to think she’d relinquish her castle without a fight. She wrested the wedding ring from her finger. “I am still the Demoiselle de Bois-Long,” she whispered.
* * *
The chaplain’s rapidly muttered low mass was sufficient to satisfy the consciences of the castle folk who attended the morning service. Grateful for the brevity, Lianna sped to the great hall.
After nudging a lazy alaunt hound out the door, she stopped a passing maid. “It smells like a brewery in here, Edithe. Fetch some dried bay to sweeten the rushes.”
The maid bustled off, and Lianna crossed to the large central hearth, where Guy, her seneschal, stood over a scullion who was cleaning out the grate. Guy, a gentle giant of a man, ruffled the lad’s hair and chuckled at some joke. Both came to grave attention as Lianna approached.
Once, she thought, just once I wish they’d share their mirth with me. But her aloofness, cultivated to augment the authority she so feared to lose, did not invite intimacy. “Are the stores in the kitchen adequate?” she asked Guy.
He nodded. “We’ve yet a side of beef, and fresh eels, too. Wine’s a bit diminished after last night, but it’ll suffice.”
“Are the stables cleaned and stocked?”
Another nod.
She took a deep breath. “Gervais and his wife?” Her tongue thickened over the name of Lazare’s son. Did he know of his father’s plan?
Guy’s face was expressionless. “Stumbled abed not an hour ago, my lady.”
Fine, she thought. Gervais would have no part in running the castle. “My...husband?” She faltered over the word.
“Out riding the fields with the reeve, my lady.”
He would be, she thought darkly. Inspecting his new acquisitions, no doubt. Stifling a feeling of despair, she turned and spied Edithe returning. The maid dropped a handful of bay leaves onto a fresh bundle of rushes. “Nom de Dieu,” Lianna snapped, “they must be spread out, like so.” She took a twig broom from the girl and scattered the leaves.
Sulkily Edithe took the broom and set to sweeping. Spying the scullion staggering beneath a bucket of ashes from the grate, Lianna hastened to propel him out the door before he spilled his burden on the new rushes. He made it as far as the stone steps; then the ashes fell in a gray heap. A stiff breeze blew them back in again. Catching Lianna’s look, Edithe hurried over to ply her broom.
Lianna leaned her head against the figured stone of the doorway and sighed, thinking again of her mother. It was said that Dame Irène, singularly unattractive but beloved by her handsome husband, had been a gifted chatelaine. Guy, who was old enough to remember her, often said Irène’s success stemmed from the devotion her sweet nature inspired in the castle folk.
Lianna knew she possessed no such endearing quality. She directed every task with immutable logic, her manner distant yet implacable. Her thoroughness amazed the devoted members of the château staff and dismayed those who tried to shirk their duties. Yet no one, perhaps not even Chiang, understood that beneath her cool mien lived a lonely soul who did not know how to spark warmth in others.
* * *
Troubled by Lazare’s duplicity and seeking answers for her dilemma, Lianna rode out alone that morning. She crossed the causeway that spanned the Somme, then paused to look back at the château. The quiet impregnability of the stone keep, stout curtain walls, and limewashed towers comforted her. A month ago she had no adversary save droughts and hard freezes that threatened her crops. Now she had enemies within, enemies without.
She vowed to contend with each. Never would she let the castle fall to Lazare’s son. Nor would she allow Longwood’s leopard standard to supplant the golden trefoil lilies that now waved over the ramparts of Bois-Long.
As she nudged her horse in
to the long stretch of woods leading to the sea, the restful harmony of the landscape enveloped her. She found solace in the reflection of cottony clouds in the river, the calm strength of ancient beeches, the deep peace of cows udder deep in grass.
She did not stop until she reached the sheer, windswept cliffs overlooking the roaring Norman sea. Her fear of water held something of a horrifying fascination; simply looking at the churning swells made her tremble. Dismounting, she approached the lip of a cliff. Her palms grew damp; her breath came in curiously exhilarating shallow gasps. She sat on the promontory, hugging her knees to her chest, watching the white spray as it battered the rocks. Behind her reared a cleft of dark gray shale where she and Chiang mined sulfur for their gunpowder.
Yesterday morn, at her nuptial mass, she’d listened to the recitation of the Hours of the Blessed Virgin and dreamed of the children Lazare would give her. Children to bring to this beautiful, wind-worn place, to share the dreams she’d never dared reveal.
No children must come of our union. Lazare’s sentence rang like a death knell in her head. Lianna had never felt so alone. She buried her face in her arms and anointed her sleeves with hot, bitter tears.
The ship appeared while she wept. It was suddenly there when she looked up, a beautiful four-masted cog bounding over undulating swells. Sails painted with whimsical dragons and writhing serpents puffed like the breasts of great, colorful birds over the hull. Shields emblazoned with a leopard rampant flanked the ship’s sides.
She recognized the device from Longwood’s letter and King Henry’s written order. Her heart catapulted to her throat.
The English baron had arrived.
Two
From the deck of the Toison d’Or, Rand studied the Norman coastline. Squinting through a dazzle of sunlight against the chalky cliffs, he watched a pale rider mount a horse and gallop toward two dark gray clefts of rock. In moments the lithe horseman was gone, like a fleeting silver shadow.
Unhappy that his arrival had sparked immediate fear, he moved down the decks. Eu, the town where he planned to land, huddled against the tall cliffs. Denuded orchards and burnt fields, remnants of turmoil, lay about the village. France was a hostile, war-torn land, plundered by its own knights and the chevauchées of the English. Atrocities committed by the nobility had schooled mistrust into the plain folk of France. Rand resolved that when he took his place at Bois-Long, he would prove himself different from those greedy noblemen.
