The Mistress Of Normandy

by Susan Wiggs

  Thomas’s face paled. “My God, you haven’t heard, then.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Scrope is no longer the king’s treasurer. He and Thomas Grey, together with Henry Percy and Oldcastle, revived the intrigue against my brother. They sought to put the Earl of March on the throne, but March lost his nerve and confessed all to Harry.”

  “Scrope was one of the king’s closest friends.”

  “As of twelve days ago, he is a headless corpse,” said the duke. “As are all who dare attempt to defy my brother.”

  Despite the warmth of the August day, Lianna shivered. Her plan to ask Rand to turn from King Henry did not seem so simple now. If Henry had shown no mercy to a lifelong friend, how much more ruthless would he be toward Rand?

  The strong, bracing arm of Clarence interrupted her thoughts. “Come,” he said. “Harry seems to have left off his praying for a moment. He would see you now.”

  A small crowd in the center of the deck parted. The young man in their midst looked unremarkable at first glance, but on closer study Lianna recognized the aura of power that emanated from him like heat from a fired cannon.

  Although he wore a crown, he needed no outward sign to identify him. His confident demeanor and the fire in his eyes marked him clearly as Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales, Knight of the Bath, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of Chester, Duke of Lancaster and Aquitaine, King of England—and of France, if his goal were indeed fulfilled.

  The blood-red eye of a fabulous ruby winked from its setting in the state crown of Henry V. Rand knelt in obeisance. Reluctantly Lianna followed suit. Henry’s shoes, she noticed, bore two familiar devices: the leopards of England and the lilies of France. This monarch could well crush both kingdoms beneath his ambitious feet.

  She raised her head, keeping her gaze steady, hiding the resentment and trepidation that welled within her.

  Henry held out his hand. “Baroness.”

  She took his hand but could not bring herself to kiss it. She inclined her head and murmured a greeting. Henry gave her a thin, cold smile, then turned a look of inquiry on Rand.

  She’d expected a self-centered monster, an imperious usurper, an uncaring plunderer of the poor. Henry seemed none of these things. He sat quiet, impassive, as Rand explained how they had come to be in England. Respectfully he asked for passage back to France.

  Henry turned and subjected Lianna to a long, grave moment of speculation. “You would sail to France on one of my warships?”

  “I would reach my home by whatever means, Your Grace.”

  The corners of his mouth tautened in satisfaction. “I would expect such determination from Burgundy’s niece.”

  “I would be lying, Your Grace, if I pretended to approve of my uncle’s alliance with you. His brothers, the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Nevers, are of like mind. France is our country, sovereign unto itself.”

  A flash of ferocity glinted in Henry’s eyes. “Then why should I bear you home, my lady?”

  Rand pressed his warm hand into the small of her back. “Because, Your Grace, she is my wife.”

  * * *

  Henry heard murmurs from the gathered nobles. He lifted one eyebrow, the stern control of his mouth momentarily lost in a sudden quirk. His gaze passed over the handsome pair before him. Despite his own scant seven and twenty years, he saw them as infinitely, unbearably youthful. The girl’s face remained composed, her attitude respectful, yet he recognized unease in the vulnerable fullness of her lower lip and yearning in the depths of her eyes. She would be a fighter, aye, this lass with the blood of Jean Sans Peur flowing in her veins.

  Longwood’s face was a study of quiet dignity, never pleading, yet a request for indulgence haunted those green eyes. The man has changed, Henry thought. He’s no longer the monkish knight I dubbed at Westminster, but a man of new strength and self-assurance.

  An unaccustomed softness welled in Henry’s heart, a softness heated by a subtle flare of satisfaction. He’d sent Rand forth to claim a bride and a castle. Rand had done both. But he’d found more than that. He’d found love.

  Aye, the bond was written on their achingly young faces, in the fingers twined together between them, in the way the girl leaned slightly into the lee of her husband’s shoulder. But was the bond strong enough to keep her from treachery?

  Henry addressed Rand, yet his gaze stalked challengingly over his whispering counselors. “Aye, my lord, I’ll allow your wife to sail with us.”

  As an uproar of indignant protests resounded, the girl smiled for the first time. Not the gushing, overblown smile of a courtier, but a sweetly understated bowing of her lips.

  “Nay, Your Grace,” said his cousin Edward, the Duke of York. Edward’s fleshy face reddened with resentment. “Your own interdict against women and camp followers forbids it. By your very proclamation any female found among the men is to have her arm broken.”

  “The interdict is meant to deter prostitutes, cousin,” Henry snapped. “It does not extend to noble ladies.”

  “But the seamen will never suffer her presence, sire. Sailors be a superstitious lot. They consider a woman unlucky.”

  Henry bristled. York was a fence straddler whose loyalties shifted as easily as the breeze off the Narrow Sea. Henry tolerated him only because the support of the House of York was so vital to all of England. “Enough, cousin. You’ll say no more on the matter.”

  “But, sire, what if she’s a spy for the French?”

  “Then she’s better off with her English husband.”

  York’s jowls quivered. “I demand that—”

  “Silence!” Henry’s command fell like an ax blow. Edward tossed a smoldering look at Lianna and lumbered off across the deck. Others followed more slowly, their grumbling stifled by fear of the king’s displeasure.

  Henry walked to Rand and Lianna. His special attention, he knew, would shelter them from resentment better than a shield of iron. Aye, he needed to protect them, for he needed that causeway.

  “I wish I could say I acted out of sheer indulgence for the bond you two share.” His eyes flicked to Lianna in time to see a startled look cross her face. “But it was more than that. I wish for you to remember that I could have refused.”

  She moistened her lips. “I shall remember, Your Grace.” Suspicion flowed beneath her words. A less perceptive man might not have recognized the veiled indignation. Yet Henry of Monmouth was nothing if not perceptive.

  “You are indeed of Burgundy’s blood,” he said in admiration and annoyance, “no matter what you may think of his politics.” He saw her hand tighten around her husband’s, and apprehension reared suddenly in his mind.

  He dropped a visor of indifference over his features to hide an unsettling notion. He had not reckoned on the idea that Rand could be lost to a Frenchwoman. Now he had to admit the possibility. He’d once had Rand’s loyalty, but now this impossibly beautiful niece of Burgundy had his love. Burgundy’s niece... The idea twisted around his thoughts. Jean Sans Peur would be quick to make use of so compelling an emotion as love. Would his kinswoman do the same?

  Reluctant but determined, Henry forced out, “You understand that I must deal harshly with disloyalty.”

  “Your brother told us of Scrope’s treason.” Lianna lifted her eyes to his. A challenge gleamed in that silvery gaze. The Baroness of Longwood was his adversary, and Rand the prize.

  “I do hope,” said Henry, “you’ll not ignore that lesson.”

  * * *

  As oarsmen propelled the Trinité Royale out to sea, Lianna folded her arms, cradling her milk-swollen breasts. “I should have stayed. God forgive me, I should have stayed with Aimery.”

  “We’ll be back within a few weeks,” Rand assured her.

  “It will seem an eternity,” she murmured.

  Several feet away, Henry stood facing the distant quay where his stepmother, Queen Joanna, and her priests kept up an endless chant. “Jesu mercy and gramercy,” he muttered, and turned his gaze toward the ea
st and south, toward France.

  Lianna’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched the monarch raise his arm, signaling the master mariner.

  A trumpet blared; drums beat.

  On the Trinité and all her sister ships, sailors scrambled up the rigging while others hauled at the staysails. Canvas snapped and cords sang through the pulleys.

  Cannon fire grumbled from somewhere off to the right. “Fools,” she muttered in French. “The harbor is far too crowded to be firing the guns. They ought to know better than to—”

  “Fire!” High in the rigging, a lookout screamed the warning. “A Dutch ship is afire!”

  The conflagration appeared as a distant swirl of smoke among hundreds of lurching masts.

  More explosions resounded. “Her gunpowder stores have blown!” yelled the lookout. “She’s set two other ships afire!”

  The Trinité came about. Screaming men and panicked horses dove from the vessels. Some men found boards and barrels to cling to; others sank with terrifying speed. Choking with horror, Lianna buried her face in Rand’s tunic.

  Behind them came a husky whisper. “A bad omen. A bad omen indeed. I did say ’twould be so.”

  Rand spun around, glared into the broad, fleshy face of Edward of York. “Keep your thoughts to yourself,” he snapped.

  “Your French wife casts a pall on the venture.”

  Seeing Rand’s big fists double, Lianna pressed closer. “He means to provoke you. Don’t let him.”

  “I’ll hear you apologize to my wife, Your Grace.”

  York’s corpulent body quivered with indignation. “I speak no false apologies, especially to a Frenchwoman.”

  “You’ve a high opinion of yourself,” Rand lashed out. “My God, treachery clings to you like a disease. All know of your part in the rebellions against the king’s father.”

  “Harry has given back the titles Bolingbroke stripped from me. You would do well to remember my position.” York looked at Lianna again and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, glancing at Rand’s clenched fists, the duke seemed to think better of risking another slur. He disappeared behind a jumble of barrels lashed to a stanchion.

  The lookout called again, this time his voice ringing not with terror but with wonder. “Swans! The swans of Lancaster!”

  Borne by the wind, the flock streaked eastward, great wings outspread, necks stretched long. The swans appeared glaring white against the brilliant azure of the sky. Sick with foreboding, Lianna watched until her eyes ached, and then she turned away.

  * * *

  Despite protests from York and some of his cronies, the Baron and Baroness of Longwood occupied a cramped but private sterncastle cabin.

  “What think you of King Henry?” Rand asked, curious to hear her impressions.

  “I know well what manner of man your king is. For he is cut from the same cloth as my uncle of Burgundy. Both fabrics are woven with keen judgment, determination, and ruthlessness.”

  Based on a single meeting, she had delved to the ambitious heart of King Henry.

  “In allowing me to sail with the fleet, he has put me in his debt.” She stared into Rand’s eyes.

  Something in that searching look caused a sudden chill to seize his heart. “What is it, love?”

  “What will you owe to King Henry?”

  The measured deliberation of her words told him she’d pondered the question more than once. “I am sworn to uphold his right to the crown of England....” He drew a deep breath, knowing his next words would smother the flare of expectancy that shone in her eyes. “And France.”

  The light died. He pulled her against him, weaving his fingers into the silken strands of her hair. Cradling her head to his chest, he said, “We both knew it would come to this choice. Soon I will have to deliver Bois-Long into King Henry’s hands.”

  * * *

  And soon, Lianna thought miserably, I will have to stop you. Even as she sought the forgetful comfort of his embrace, she knew she could not open the ford to the English army. These invading multitudes must not cross the Somme and unleash their fury on all of France.

  The time for a covenant had arrived. Pulling back, she held his eyes with hers. “Do you love me?” she whispered.

  Surprise softened his expression. “Have I not told you so a thousand times?”

  “Tell me again.”

  He pressed his lips to her brow, her mouth. “I love you, Lianna. I love you, as the lily loves the sun and the dew.”

  She placed her hands on his cheeks and framed his face. And I love you, her heart said, but she did not speak the words. Could not. For she could not love the lions of England. She hauled in a long, steadying breath.

  “Do you love me enough to...turn away from King Henry? To keep the ford closed to the English army?”

  He jerked his head away as if her hands had become white-hot brands. “My God, I cannot believe you would ask treason of me.”

  She pressed her lips into a line of anger. “Is it any worse than the treason you have forced on me?”

  “Henry raised me from bastardy, gave me lands, a title.”

  “He almost got you killed.”

  “That was Gervais’s doing. Gervais, who lays claim to Bois-Long because of the intriguing you did with his father—who is, I might add, now dead because of his plotting.”

  She reared back. “How dare you blame me for working to preserve the sovereignty of France? I’ve given you my home, an heir. Will you give me nothing in return?”

  “Would you have me dishonor my vow of fealty? What of honor, Lianna?”

  She was asking him to turn traitor, giving up the integrity that was the very essence of the man she’d fallen in love with. “The alternative is allowing France to fall to the English,” she whispered.

  “Henry beheaded Scrope, his lifelong friend. What do you suppose he’d do to me?”

  “Henry won’t kill you. The French will kill him. He’ll have all he can do to flee with his life.”

  Rand touched her cheek and stared deep into her eyes. “I will not turn from Henry. Is my love not enough?”

  Her silence was answer enough.

  * * *

  Finally Rand understood that the past year had been a gilded dream. Her warmth, her ardor, her acceptance of him, had all been an act. Each sunny smile, each evocative caress, had been a calculated thread in the web of manipulation she’d spun. God, he’d been a fool for deluding himself. He’d believed she loved him, despite her stubborn refusal to admit it.

  “Bitch.” He spoke the word with deadly quiet menace.

  Looking oddly fearful, utterly beautiful, she bit her lip. “What did you say?”

  “Salope.” He repeated the slur in her own tongue.

  Her head snapped to one side as if he’d struck her. He gripped her shoulders, fingers biting into her flesh. It felt strange to handle her harshly, strange and distasteful.

  “It’s all been a lie, then, hasn’t it, Lianna?. Your sweetness, your affection. You sought to lull me into compliance, then have me beheaded for treason.”

  “I don’t want your death.”

  He put his face very close to hers and wondered if she could see the sickness of disillusionment in his eyes. “Admit that you only acted the loving wife to lure me into your web of deceit.”

  “If you loved me as much as you claim, you’d not want to hurt me by giving my home to King Henry.”

  “Our home,” he roared, “or have you forgotten that? Love is not a weapon to be tested like one of your cannons.”

  “You’re afraid of tests, aren’t you?”

  “What of you?” he demanded. “Neither will you put aside your allegiance to France for the sake of love.”

  Tears trembled on her lashes. “I never asked for this. I did all I could to avoid marrying you.”

  Her tears tore at his heart. He forced an edge of steel into his voice. “I loved you, Lianna. I loved you when you were nothing, a girl carrying a gun—”

  “You’re
afraid, because you’ve been exposed. You’ve proven that you put your loyalty to King Henry above your love for me.”

  “As you put your loyalty to France above your love for me.”

  “I never said I loved you!”

  Agony tasted like bile in his throat. “It is because I love you that I am loyal to Henry. You’ve seen his force. Within a few weeks he will rule Normandy and Picardy, if not all of France.” He stood. He had the urge to pace, but the cramped quarters would allow little movement. “It would have hurt less had you been honest, and fought me as you did in the beginning. What pains me is that you lied. You let me love an illusion.”

  Her eyes held a wide, bruised look he had not seen in many months. Wanting to hate her, he left the cabin.

  * * *

  The English vessels nosed into the estuary of the river Lézarde and dropped anchor at the Chef de Caux, just west of the fortified shipping town of Harfleur.

  The fleet bobbed just as quietly. King Henry signaled a council of war by unfurling his royal banner at the masthead. His brothers, Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester, his cousin Edward of York, two bishops, and eight nobles, Rand among them, gathered for the meeting.

  “We’ll lie at anchor until the morrow,” said Henry. “All troops will stay aboard while a reconnaissance is made. No plunder,” he reminded them. “No harassing the peasants. No raping women—” here a pointed look at the lusty Edward of York “—and no excesses. The people of Harfleur are my people. ’Tis God’s cause we serve, not our own greed.”

  Rand took a deep breath and grimaced. The sting of brine and rot from the marshes corrupted the warm air. The lasting pain of Lianna’s deceit ate bitterly at his soul.

  “You and your wife will leave within the hour,” Henry said. “Her presence is a distraction, you understand.”

  Rand nodded. Already Lianna’s beauty and her strength in standing up to King Henry were legendary among the men of the fleet. But those admiring soldiers could know nothing of her scheme to lure her husband from England.

  “Ride hard for Bois-Long and hold the ford for me,” Henry said. “The success of this venture depends on our making that crossing.”