by Susan Wiggs
Emotion flooded her. She closed her eyes, spread wings of abandonment, and began to soar.
A meadowlark raised its voice in a liquid trill of sound, and a breeze stirred the flowers into a wheel of moving color. She gave the softest of sighs and felt his lips bow into a smile at her temple. A welling of emotion, too painfully sweet to name, gathered in her breast. She’d asked him to make love to her, but he’d done much, much more. He’d laid her heart open to feelings she had never dared believe in. He’d taught her that dreams could be touched.
At last she broke the powerful spell of silence that bound them. “I never knew...that loving could be like this.”
She felt that smile again, warm against her face. “Nor did I.”
She twisted, propped her elbows on his chest, her breasts brushing against him. His pure, noble features looked different somehow. Softer. “Truly?” she asked. Remembering Bonne’s mention of Roland’s carelessness, she frowned. “I thought it was different for a man.”
He shrugged, the glowing breadth of his chest rippling with movement. “I wouldn’t know. I can speak only for myself.” His knuckles grazed her cheek. “You have brought me more joy this day than any man has ever felt.”
Remembering her clumsiness, her ignorance, she lowered her eyes and toyed idly with the thatch of golden hair on his chest. “But I did nothing to...to see to your pleasure. Surely you’ve been with women far more skilled in the arts of love than I.”
He lay silent. She dragged her gaze upward to stare into his face. His smile was lazily amused. “Always you speak of knowledge and skill,” he said teasingly. “You overestimate my experience. You are my first, my only.”
The meadow seemed to fall into a heavy, expectant stillness. “No,” she breathed.
The warm, self-assured murmur of his laughter made her smile. “Please, love, don’t join the ranks of my comrades who think me a great oddity of nature because I don’t indulge in wenching.” His hand stirred the wisps of moon-silk hair by her cheek. “I’ve done well to wait.”
Drifting in a lush cloud of amazement, she leaned down and whispered a kiss on his mouth. She glowed at his words, feeling special somehow, that she was the first upon whom he’d bestowed the gift of his body, his love. He’d come to her clean, unsullied...chaste. As her mind took hold of the idea, cold talons of guilt clutched at her. She’d come to him for no better reason than to get a child. She’d taken his love, stolen his heart, his seed, his honor.
No, she told herself fiercely. He, too, had a need, and she’d answered it. Still, her goal placed a taint on their love, made her feel unworthy of him.
* * *
Rand saw regret seep into her eyes, and suddenly the enormity of what he’d done struck him like a bludgeon blow. He’d broken a vow sworn before God, cheated a woman he had yet to meet. But most unforgivable of all, he’d dishonored Lianna. He might have done worse. He might have gotten his bastard on her.
“Blessed lamb of God,” he whispered, taking her face between his hands. “I let myself believe it was enough that I loved you.” Sharp, jagged pain mangled his heart, clawed at his throat. “But it isn’t enough. I’ve ruined you for a man who can offer you more.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. Incredibly, she gifted him with the treasure of her smile. And then she was laughing—desperately, uncontrollably, her small frame trembling in his arms. He heard an edge to her laughter that told him she was inches from tears. Her vulnerability alarmed him. “You...have done nothing...of the sort, Rand the Gascon,” she said between gasps of mirth.
“But I—”
She landed a firm kiss on his mouth. “Believe me, sir knight, I am not saving myself for my husband.” A thin ribbon of irony wrapped around her words. Her gaze was steady now, and still amused. “I knew from the start that we could never be more than sometime lovers, never have more than stolen trysts. ’Tis all I want. ’Yis everything I want.”
He took the sincerity of her statement into his heart, and he believed her. His vows lay in shreds around him, mocking him with guilt. A guilt he ignored as he made slow, tender love to her, again, and again, until the shadows lay long upon the meadow and a woodcock beat its wings high overhead, unleashing its mournful, chittering cry to the gathering evening.
Seven
Lianna paraded through the halls of Bois-Long, leaving in her wake a trail of slack jaws, shaking heads, and inquisitive whispers. Gone were the critical eye and determined gait of the diligent chatelaine; now she had the dreamy look and light step of a woman in love.
“How goes the boonwork, Edithe?” she called as she passed the girl in the great hall.
“’Tis passing tedious,” Edithe grumbled, jabbing her needle into the white linen of a priest’s alb.
Lianna suppressed a grin. “Perhaps in the future you’ll not find spinning so tiresome.” She moved on, meeting Macée at the big central doorway. “Good morrow,” Lianna said, her smile all the brighter for Macée’s dour expression.
“I cannot countenance this unpredictable Norman weather,” Macée complained, shaking the thick overskirt of her red velvet gown. “Already the heat of summer seems upon us.”
Laughing, Lianna lifted the hem of her thin smock. “I never hesitate to sacrifice fashion for comfort.”
Macée fixed her with a hard, critical stare. “Your dress is appropriate, perhaps, for work in the rye fields. Truly, your face and arms are quite disagreeably brown from too much sun. One might easily mistake you for a peasant.”
The insult rolled unheeded off Lianna. She was deliriously happy—precisely because a certain knight-errant did mistake her for another. In the three weeks since suppressed passion had exploded into ardent lovemaking, she’d spent many splendid hours in Rand’s arms. Thinking of him, the long, lazy afternoons in the sun-washed glade, she felt a warm spasm of remembered pleasure. She lowered her head to hide a sudden blush, then impulsively took Macée’s hand.
“I know my ways seem strange to you,” she said. “I do not mean to offend.”
Macée looked surprised; then caution shuttered her eyes. “Nor did I,” she said slowly. “‘Tis just that this weather, and other small things, have brought a mood upon me.”
Sympathy tugged at Lianna’s newly tender heart. Macée was barren; perhaps her woman’s time had come to remind her of her shortcoming. Now that Lianna knew a man’s love, she understood Macée’s pain. Sometimes Lianna glimpsed a darkness in Macée that was disturbing. “I’ll send for some cool cider,” she said. “If you like, I’ll come and read to you at eventide.”
Still cautious, as if she did not quite trust Lianna’s overture, Macée nodded and went into the hall. Lianna ordered the cider, then walked to the armory to find Chiang.
The master gunner stood brooding at the window, his narrow back stiff, his jet-black hair mussed as if he’d worried it with his fingers. His hands, creased from years of work with caustic substances, were braced on either side of the embrasure. Lianna followed his gaze. Several knights were in the greensward, practicing lance thrusts at the quintain. Better there, she mused, than in the hall. To her dismay, Gaucourt tolerated excessive drinking, gambling, and wenching.
“I thought you’d be testing that new batch of corned powder,” she remarked.
Without looking at her, he said flatly, “Gaucourt’s men have learned about my forge.”
Now she understood his glum mood. Years ago he’d perfected a process of tempering steel, and his blades rivaled those the Crusaders brought from the East. But Chiang’s interest lay in gunnery, and he resented any task that drew his attention from that passion.
“Doubtless they’ve been clamoring for you to forge them new blades,” she said.
“Every last one of the louts.”
“Your swords could make you a rich man, Chiang.”
“And plying your body as a courtesan could make you a rich woman. I am no more interested in sword making than you are in whoring.”
Her stomach lurched with th
e bile of guilt. No, she told herself firmly, I do not play the whore. What I do with Rand, I do for love.
“...especially not for Gaucourt’s unruly knights,” Chiang was saying. “They use their blades against peasants.”
She pressed her lips together. She’d heard the rumors of Gaucourt’s plundering, but necessity forced her to ignore the gossip. “I’ll tell Gaucourt your services are not available.”
He turned dark, narrow eyes on her. “Your ‘stepson’ says otherwise.”
Anger prickled over her. “Gervais has not the right.”
“In his father’s absence, he claims it.”
“The devil take him on his back,” Lianna swore. Cupping her chin, she watched the knights practice. Saddles creaked and soldiers grunted as they drove their sweatsoaked bodies and lowered their lances at the quintain. At length she asked, “What about blades to use against Englishmen?”
“I’d not forge those either, my lady.”
She looked at him sharply. “One would think you favor an invasion from King Henry.”
“I favor peace and order. That raving idiot in Paris has not given us that. The only man I trust less than mad King Charles is the man who controls him—Bernard of Armagnac.”
A strange feeling of despair gripped Lianna. Chiang had always been her ally, her friend. “You begin to sound like my uncle of Burgundy,” she said with forced lightness.
Chiang shrugged. “He’s a reasonable man. Ruthless, but reasonable.”
“He’s trying to force me to submit to the Baron of Longwood.”
“At least the baron does not come equipped with a grown son who means to steal Bois-Long.”
Her hand stole to her belly. Not if I can help it, she thought. “I’ll worry about Gervais later. For now, I must set my mind to keeping Bois-Long out of English hands.”
“Would it be so very bad?” Chiang asked with uncustomary vehemence.
“How can you speak so? I thought the blood of Asia ran in your veins, not the blood of Lancaster.”
He fell completely still. His eyes grew hard and bright. His hands began to tremble. She sensed she had struck at the heart of a long-hidden secret. Taking his slim, rough hands in hers, she asked, “What have I said? Why do you look at me so?”
“If I told you, we would both be in danger.” His voice was soft, urgent, terrified. Then his face closed, and she knew he’d say no more. He forced a smile. “Let’s test that powder.”
Clamping her jaw against probing questions, she followed him to a marble-topped table. Lighting a small paper cornet of powder, they discovered the explosive to be of the very highest quality. Lianna’s mood had regained its lightness by the time she walked out into the garden behind the kitchen.
“I’ve been thinking, Mère Brûlot,” she said to the old woman bent over her weeding, “could we not grow some flowers here?”
Mère Brûlot looked up in wary surprise. She had crinkles etched around cornflower-blue eyes, long, stark creases below strong cheekbones, a weary set to her mouth. What had placed those lines there? Tragedy? Triumph? In sooth, Lianna had never wondered before, but she did now.
Lest Mère Brûlot think her prying, she put aside her questions. “I’ve been so busy feeding the soldiers of Gaucourt, I’ve neglected the garden. What about a border of harebells over by the turnips, perhaps a bed of gillyflowers near the pease.”
Confusion clouded Mère Brûlot’s eyes. “You’ve oft said flowers serve no practical purpose. They merely clutter a garden, leaving less room for growing food.”
Lianna knit her fingers in front of her apron. Her own words touched her like the cold fingers of a ghost, haunting her with a sense of loss. She’d lived a life of duty and pragmatism, never pausing to reflect on the small but significant beauty around her. She felt different now, unable to detach herself from the joys and sorrows of others. An ache, born of the love she’d found with Rand and of regret for all she’d missed in her life, throbbed inside her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Every garden should have room for flowers.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll make you a pleasure garden fit for the Dauphin Louis himself.”
“Good.” Lianna gave the frail hand a squeeze. A movement on the sentry walk snagged her attention. Garbed in a mantle of rich, royal blue, Gervais strolled with the Sire de Gaucourt toward one of the gunports. “I must go,” Lianna said. “Tell Guy to get you whatever you need. I’ll have the tables in the hall graced by your blossoms ere the turn of summer.”
“Certes, my lady.” The kindly face grew soft with a smile Lianna had never seen before. She wanted to hold the warmth of that smile in her heart, but she had to hasten up to the ramparts to find out what Gervais was up to.
“What we have here,” he was saying, “is an array of artillery that will blow the English back across the Narrow Sea.” He swept a gaudy gold sleeve toward a large framed cannon. “This one can hurl a hundred-pound charge.”
Amused at Gervais’s ignorance, Lianna stepped forward. “He makes much of the gun,” she said. “In sooth this cannon holds but a sixty-pound charge.”
The two men turned. Gervais spread his hands. “Do tell.”
“I’d not have to explain such things if you’d but take the time to find out for yourself,” she said haughtily. “Chiang has a gunner’s table for determining calibers. I’m sure he’d share it with you, did you but ask.”
Gervais grimaced. “I mislike laboring over figures.”
Smiling innocently, she asked, “Would it overtax your brain to learn numbers? Guy did tell me you’ve yet to learn your letters.”
All pretense of civility left Gervais. “Sheathe your talons. You forget your place.” He flung the words like a gauntlet at her feet.
Challenged, she eyed him coldly. “My place,” she said, edging her words with ice, “is as chatelaine of this castle, as it ever has been.”
“See here, my lady,” Raoul said in placating tones, “you should consider yourself fortunate. In gaining a husband you’ve not only protected yourself from King Henry’s manipulation.” He smiled at Gervais. “You’ve also gained a Frenchman to oversee Bois-Long for you.”
“’Twas not the reason I married Lazare,” she snapped. She glared at Gervais. “And well you know it.”
“Think hard on it, my lady,” Gaucourt said. Disapproval hardened his mouth and narrowed his pale, lashless eyes. Oh, God, Lianna thought, had she invited yet another snake to Bois-Long? “Because of your uncle’s sufferance, you’ve held sway over the castle folk. But in calling upon me to defend Bois-Long, you’ve alienated the Duke of Burgundy. And all here know of it.”
Gervais nodded with slow certainty. “Without Burgundy’s backing, the castle folk will refuse to swear fealty to a woman.” He gave her a dismissive glance. “I hope you plan to wear a decent gown to supper. From the looks of that stained apron, you’ve been grubbing about that heathen Chinaman’s lair again.”
She glanced down at her sleeves, smudged by soot from the powder she and Chiang had been testing. Her defiance of Lazare’s interdict was a sore spot with Gervais, yet she couldn’t help saying, “I do as I please.”
“So,” he said, smiling, “do I.” He pivoted toward Gaucourt. “The Chinaman will forge your swords. We need only await the shipment of steel from Milan.”
She fixed Gervais with a keen look. “We’ll buy no steel with funds from the coffers of Bois-Long. And Chiang will forge no swords.”
“My father—your lord husband—will doubtless approve the project,” Gervais shot back.
“Your father is in Paris, and he’d best be begging favors of Bernard of Armagnac and Charles of Orléans, trying to keep my uncle from undoing the marriage.”
Gervais’s dark eyes kindled. “And you had best hope my father succeeds, else you’ll find yourself and your keep in the hands of an Englishman.”
She ground her teeth. “In Lazare’s absence, I rule here. I’ll decide the matter of the swords
.”
Realizing that Gaucourt, an outsider, had heard quite enough of their quarrels, she marched away. The argument and the new worry about Chiang left her hollow and discontented.
Lifting her gaze to the sun, she realized with a throb of anticipation that she would soon see Rand again. Her need for him was strong today; she needed to taste the clean breath of his approval on her cheek, to feel the sheltering strength of his embrace. She needed him, with his sanity and humor, to wash away the sticky web of intrigue spun by the Mondragons.
* * *
“Then she starts a-tearin’ at me trews like good King Harry’s crown jewels was inside, and I says, Hold there, darlin’, you’ll exhaust me too soon.” Jack Cade peered at Rand over the bosom of the woman in his lap. He grinned down at the ample shelf of soft flesh. “They don’t call ’em milkmaids for nothing.”
Sitting in the grande salle at Le Crotoy, Rand listened to Jack’s drunken speech with mild annoyance and grudging amusement. The Duke of Burgundy had extended a fair welcome indeed, to Rand and all his men. Jack and the others availed themselves freely of women and wine. Despite Rand’s insistence that they drill at war games each day, they were becoming overfond of comfort.
Jack said something in mangled French to the milkmaid, who giggled.
Robert Batsford, the priest, drained his cup and called for more ale.
“Aye, don’t deny the pater his ale.” Jack chuckled. “It’s his way of tempering the needs of the flesh.”
“I understand not what she sees in you,” Batsford slurred, aiming a glassy-eyed glower at Jack. “The chit doesn’t understand a word of English, and your French sounds like the braying of an ass.”
“Ha!” Jack laughed, toying with the hem of the maid’s kirtle, “you know not your head from your nether end, Batsford. You stem your manly cravings with drink.” He tweaked the girl’s buttocks. “Minette and I, we speak the language of love. A man’s tongue is of better use when applied to a woman’s throat, her breasts...and elsewhere....” As he spoke, his hand crept more deeply beneath her skirts.
