The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  Lianna glanced at the setting sun. The huge golden orb lay dead ahead. “But we’re sailing away from France,” she protested.

  “Damned right,” answered the mate. He looked back at the Eastern Star. The warship drove toward them, plowing white crests aside so that the waves at her bow resembled a set of bared teeth. “We won’t stop until we reach England.”

  * * *

  Dazed and stumbling, Lianna clutched at Rand’s arm and descended the gangplank. When her feet met English soil, she nearly crumpled from relief and despair. The French warship had chased them halfway across the Narrow Sea; a fierce gale had pushed the Bonaventure the rest of the way.

  “Where...in the world are we?” she asked.

  Rand’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “In West Sussex. Not ten miles from my boyhood home of Arundel.”

  “Holy Mary.” She looked at the sere meadows, the distant greening hills. She wondered if he hid a twinge of yearning behind that wide smile, those twinkling eyes.

  He glanced down at the baby in his arms. “It seems I’ve come full circle.”

  “Now what?”

  “The captain won’t hear of taking us back to France, not with the weather so bad and that unholy warship prowling the Narrow Sea. We’ll ride to Arundel. From there, I’ll inquire about passage to Picardy.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” They turned to see an elderly man sitting at the wharf, his lap draped with a much-mended fishing net. “I’d not be goin’ to Arundel, not with a babe.”

  “Why not, sir?” asked Rand.

  “There’s plague in the village.”

  Instinctively Lianna moved closer to Rand and the baby. She touched Aimery’s hand; his little fingers gripped hers with that strength that always surprised her.

  “And you’ll not find another ship ’twixt here and Portsmouth. Every worthy vessel’s been commandeered to join the king’s fleet at Southampton.”

  “Have Arundel and his knights gone?” Rand asked.

  The fisherman nodded.

  “When do they sail?”

  “A week hence, maybe.”

  Rand hesitated only a moment. “I must join them.”

  Fear and dismay twisted through Lianna. He was going to war against France. “No,” she said, “no, you cannot—”

  “Elsewise we’d have to bide here for weeks, perhaps months.”

  Her hopes wavered. “Can we not find a trading vessel?”

  He gestured at the sailors making their way to the village tavern. The seamen spoke animatedly among themselves. “Soon all merchants will have heard of the Eastern Star.”

  “But we cannot take Aimery on a war fleet,” she protested.

  “Nor can I take my wife,” he said gently.

  She gasped. He gripped her shoulders. “You and the child must stay in England, while I go to France and Bois-Long.”

  “You cannot expect me to sit idle in England while my homeland is being invaded.”

  Tension thickened the air. He searched her face. “I’ve seen that formidable look before. Very well, you may come with me, but Aimery stays. We shall foster him.”

  Disdainfully she glanced at the tumbledown inn, the seedy town. “What do you mean, foster him?” she said indignantly. “I’ll not let anyone here raise my child.”

  “I know of a convent.” He held her with a steady gaze. “St. Agnes’s. Justine Tiptoft is a novice there.”

  Lianna froze.

  “Justine can foster the babe for a few weeks, until it is safe to bring him home.”

  Bells of denial clamored in Lianna’s head. Give their child to Rand’s former ladylove? “I will not leave him.”

  “I agree, ’tis folly. You’ll both stay at St. Agnes’s.”

  She bit her lip.

  “We have no other choice,” he said. “Justine is a woman of good character.”

  “You would know,” she snapped.

  “Jealous?”

  “Of course not.”

  “She’ll care for the babe as her own.”

  Damn Henry, whose horror of being labeled a usurper’s son made him blind to human emotion. Damn Burgundy, whose lust for power made even his niece a pawn in his hands. And damn Rand, for thinking his former love an apt nursemaid for their child. She forced her words past the grief and doubt clogging her throat. “I will meet this Justine Tiptoft.”

  * * *

  Rand breathed deeply of the familiar brine-scented air. A lifetime had passed since he’d last ridden this way, past wind-dried grasses and short, brushy trees. It seemed so much longer than a mere year and a half. The man who had once crossed these fields and fens was a different person from the man who now led his wife along the rock-studded road.

  High in the north loomed the oak-topped knoll where he’d once sat with Justine, burying memories of war beneath the balm of his music and her gentle presence. Below the town lay the pond where he’d fished while listening to Justine reciting from her book of hours. They passed a hedgerow beneath which, as a fumbling youth, he’d kissed her.

  Rand looked upon these things and felt...nothing. He sensed no kinship with that idealistic young man. A cold tremor seized him when he recalled how he’d resisted the task the king had foisted on him. He’d nearly followed his heart, not his mind, and disobeyed Henry. He might never have met Lianna...and she would be under the Mondragons’ influence.

  He glanced down at the baby—heir to a castle Rand had never wanted—cradled in the crook of one arm, and then at his wife. She rode with a queenly air, head up, back stiff, eyes straight ahead. The attitude spoke volumes of the way she faced not just riding through a foreign land, but all of life. She was a fighter to her very heart, with a warrior’s boldness and energy. Still, she embodied the best of a woman’s innocence and simplicity.

  Beyond Arundel lay a tiny roadside chapel built of chalky stone and roofed by thatch. Thoughtful hands had kept weeds and briars from growing over the burial place of his parents.

  He drew rein and signaled for Lianna to do the same. “I would have you see this.” He dismounted, helped her from her horse, and led her into the cool chapel. She took the baby from him and stood in the doorway while her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  A brass effigy bore the flat, serene images of a knight and his lady, their faces impassive, their fingers entwined.

  Rand lit two candles, placed them in sconces near the altar, and knelt facing the effigies. “My parents,” he said simply. “They used to ride out to this chapel to be together. I thought it a fitting place for their effigies.”

  Putting out a finger, she traced the letters spelling out the name Marc de Beaumanoir and Anne Marne. “Your grandparents,” she murmured to Aimery, who stared round-eyed at the candle flames. She touched the familiar motto that was etched on the brass: A vaillans coeurs riens impossible.

  “‘To valiant hearts nothing is impossible,’“ she said softly. “Yet your father was nineteen years a prisoner at Arundel.”

  “His wedded wife would not ransom him.”

  “Why?” asked Lianna.

  He shrugged. “She found a lover, had a child by him, and let the estate fall to the French Crown.”

  “But your father was a count, a landholder. Did he not yearn to return to Gascony, to reclaim what was his?”

  “He had something infinitely more precious here.” His hand covered hers and carried it to the image of Anne Marne. “He had the woman he loved.”

  “They lived as man and wife?”

  “For nigh on eighteen years. They died within months of each other.”

  She knelt in silence, absently stroking the baby’s brow. Marc gave up on his French wife, took an English lover. When the English were driven from France, might not Rand do the same? Swallowing hard, she banished the notion and forced herself to ask, “Have you missed Arundel?”

  The solemn mood seemed to have left him. He grinned. “Not since I met you. Nor will I ever.”

  They left the chapel and rode on, reac
hing the convent of St. Agnes in late afternoon. A laywoman took their horses and bade them wait in the courtyard.

  Dreadful anticipation gripped Lianna as she sat holding her child and waiting to meet Justine Tiptoft. Lianna kept her eyes fastened on the cobbled surface of the yard while a nun went to summon Justine.

  A soft, feminine voice and trills of childish laughter rang through the square.

  A procession of children approached. In their midst walked a young woman wearing a coif that shaded a wide, pretty smile and bright, twinkling blue eyes. A breeze molded her gray habit against her generous curves.

  Not a mouse, Lianna thought instantly. Nor yet a girl. Justine Tiptoft. Lianna’s heart plummeted. So this was Justine. Justine, whom Rand had loved when the Demoiselle de Bois-Long was but a hated obligation.

  Rand smiled and held out his arms to Justine, who moved into his embrace with a familiar ease that turned Lianna’s stomach to stone.

  She’s a novice, Lianna thought. She’ll be a bride of Christ; she has no hold on Rand. Still...

  They kissed briefly. Lianna tried to tell herself it was a kiss of friendship. Rand stepped back, took Lianna’s hand, and brought her forth.

  “Jussie, this is my wife, Lianna. And our son, Aimery.”

  Jussie? A pet name, a lover’s name, spoken with obvious ease.

  “Hello, Mistress Tiptoft.” Lianna expected the soft loveliness of Justine’s face to harden, her smile to fade. What must she be feeling, facing the woman who’d stolen Rand from her?

  Justine’s smile broadened. “Please, call me Justine, or better, Jussie.” Merry blue eyes swept Lianna from head to toe. “You’re beautiful, and your baby looks like an angel.” She glanced at Rand. “You’ve been blessed. Truly.”

  “Aye,” he said, his voice gruff with sincerity. “More richly than I deserve. Jussie, we’ve come to ask a great favor of you.”

  She turned to the group of children. “Go help Sister Frances in the orchard,” she instructed. “I’ll fetch you at vespers.” She made a shooing motion with her apron, and the children scampered off.

  Quickly Rand explained what had come to pass, how they had come to be there, and what they wished of Justine.

  “I’ll care for your Aimery as my own,” she promised, reaching out her arms. “The lamb. Let me hold him.”

  In spite of herself, Lianna felt confidence in Justine. The orphans in her care were clean, well fed, and cheerful. She handed the baby to her. Aimery stared curiously at Justine and waved a fist at her coif. “He favors you, Rand,” she said. “Though he has his mother’s chin.”

  Justine was everything Lianna was not. She was compliant where Lianna was argumentative; her sunny temperament contrasted with Lianna’s seriousness. Justine was simpler, and softer. She’d never borne the burdens of a chatelaine, of a country torn by war.

  Rand turned to Lianna. “I’ll see that our horses are fed and watered, and make an offering to the abbess for the baby’s keep,” he said. “Doubtless you’ll want to speak to Jussie at length about caring for Aimery.”

  * * *

  Justine stared thoughtfully at Lianna. “Come. I hope to ease your mind about leaving Aimery with us.”

  They sat on a curved stone bench in the shade of a pear tree. Aimery crawled contentedly in the soft grass at their feet. “How old is your son?” asked Justine.

  “Nearly eight months.”

  “Is he weaned from the breast?”

  Lianna blushed at the frank question. “In part, yes.”

  Justine nodded. “The first few days might be hard on you both. Yet I’ve had luck with honey teats and a wineskin of goat’s milk for nursing. Your Aimery is sure to thrive here.”

  Lianna heard herself describing, in anxious maternal detail, the baby’s sleeping habits, the likes and dislikes that made her child unique. “He does favor a soothing song at bedtime,” she concluded.

  Justine’s eyes softened with memories. “I would expect as much from Rand’s son. He does play the harp so beautifully. Did he ever sing to you of Héloïse and Abelard?”

  So Rand had shared love songs with Justine. What else had he shared?

  You are my first, my only.

  Could he have lied? No, not Rand. And yet...

  “I suspect you know Rand and I once planned to wed,” said Justine.

  “’Twas not my choice to take him away from you. In fact, I did everything in my power to avoid marrying him.”

  Justine looked surprised. “You did not take Rand away from me.”

  “Aye,” Lianna forced out, “for in his heart he never left you.”

  Justine shook her head vigorously; the white coif bobbed. “How can you think that? Jesu, he never held me in his heart. He never truly belonged to me.” She clasped Lianna’s cold hands with her warm ones. “We could have married years ago, yet we didn’t. We both claimed we wanted to wait until his campaigning with the Duke of Clarence was done.” She spoke with confidence and bore herself with dignity in spite of the drab gray novice’s robe she wore. “I think we both knew that we simply weren’t meant to marry.”

  “Yet you planned so long—”

  “Only because my family wished it so fervently. To Rand, I was someone to care for, to protect, much as he was always protecting a stray cat, a bird fallen from the nest. But you...” Justine looked deep into Lianna’s eyes. “You are someone he can love, someone who won’t be lost in the shadow of him.” Her gaze was clear and steady. “Has he ever given you cause to think him untrue?”

  “No,” said Lianna quietly, remembering the honesty of his emotions. “Never.” For a long moment she stared at Justine. She wanted to hate the girl, but found her wholly likable. She wanted to find flaws but discovered only good qualities.

  “You must think me a jealous harpy,” Lianna confessed.

  Justine laughed. “I think you a woman who loves her husband.”

  Lianna glanced down at Aimery, and her eyes filled with tears. “But how can I love his ambition to open my home to English invaders?”

  “If he did not have that ambition, he’d not be the man you love.”

  Lianna snatched up the baby and hugged him. He grabbed for her chin. “Why can’t he just—” She bit back her wish for him to embrace the cause of France. The notion suddenly seemed petty, impossible.

  Justine reached over and stroked Aimery’s cheek. “Don’t force him to choose. He’s a man of great heart, but that heart can be broken.”

  Nineteen

  For many long moments since she’d climbed from a bobbing tender onto the crowded deck of the Trinité Royale, Lianna stood frozen with terror. The rough, cannon-plagued crossing to England had hardly prepared her for the voyage she faced now. Leaving her son had opened a well of misgivings inside her, rendering her cheeks pale, her face expressionless.

  Rand stayed at her side, his hand drawing soothing circles on her back. “Easy, love. We’re on the king’s own ship; no ill can befall us.”

  The lump of misery in her throat held her mute. She stared at Spithead harbor. The sun, bright as a new coin, gilded the sails of fifteen hundred warships.

  “’Tis the greatest fighting force ever to leave English shores.”

  Lianna fixed her eyes on the capstan adorned with a huge scepter bearing the fleur-de-lis. In displaying the lilies of France so prominently, King Henry shouted his objective to the world. Her gaze flicked to a carving on the deckhead: a gold leopard wearing a crown of silver. And, looking at the armada crammed into the harbor, she admitted for the first time that an English victory was possible. Could her uncle of Burgundy have been right all along?

  Noblemen strolled the decks; some paused to greet Rand and stare at Lianna. She bit her lip. “They think me weak.”

  “My love, they think you beautiful.” He gestured at a portly nobleman who stood astern with his household knights. “When Edward of York saw you, he all but dropped the loaf of bread he was eating.”

  She studied the Duke of York. A scheming
ex-traitor who had once led a revolt against the king’s father, Henry Bolingbroke, York had managed to insinuate himself back into royal favor. Distasteful of the man’s self-serving nature, she looked away.

  “You say so to be kind.” Irritation edged her voice. “A man half-blind could see my...my fear.”

  “You bore yourself like a queen,” he said.

  Gulls screeched and flitted through the mastheads. On the decks milled a company of nobles, priests, artisans, yeomen, and mercenaries who anticipated battle with an eagerness that distressed Lianna. Irish warriors, wild of hair and beard, their skin tattooed, ran to and fro. The crack archers of Sir Thomas Erpingham sat fletching arrows. She studied the great guns and siege engines lashed to some of the decks. The men who would operate those machines behaved for all the world as if they were embarking on a fine adventure instead of a mission to kill and conquer.

  “By my faith, Longwood, I’d heard you and your lady were aboard!” A handsome, big-boned man greeted them. A jeweled broach with the arms of Lancaster identified him as a royal personage. His broad, welcoming smile as he yanked Rand into a hearty bear hug identified him as a friend.

  “Lianna, this is Thomas, the Duke of Clarence and King Henry’s brother.”

  She curtsied respectfully but could not keep the irony from her voice when she remarked, “This is not your first voyage to France, Your Grace.”

  Thomas struck his chest, feigning a broken heart. “And I was going to admire your wife’s looks. But that voice...her accent puts me in mind of lilting breezes over the Norman fells.” Taking her hand, he placed a fervent kiss in her palm.

  “Is this your way of evading my remark?”

  “A man can always try.” He studied her face closely. “At least your quick tongue keeps me from envying Rand too much. I prefer that my women concern themselves only with domestic matters.”

  “I’d gladly do so, but your brother the king has forced me to turn my attention to political affairs.”

  “I do pray this conquest ends in peace for both our countries.”

  “France is at peace—”

  Clearing his throat, Rand encompassed the fleet with a sweep of his hand. “Lord Scrope must be lamenting the state of the royal treasury.”