“Yes!” Alex watched as Nicki, unaware of his scrutiny, nodded in response to something her cousin Phelis was saying. She wore her favorite tunic today, a silken gown of snowy white. Backlit as she was by the midday sun streaming in through the window, she looked like an angel who’d floated to earth just for him. Her radiant hair, crowned with a circlet of gold, hung in two long braids interwoven with white ribbons, exposing the pearl earrings dangling from her delicate ears. “I want to shout it to the heavens. I can’t, but, God, how I want to. I love her, Luke. I’m unbearably in love with her. I used to laugh at the jongleurs and their silly romantic cansos. Now, finally, I truly know what it means to be in—”
“Oh, hell.” Luke expelled a great and weary sigh.
“What’s the matter?”
“Have you told her how you feel?”
Three weeks had passed since his revelation the day they’d stumbled across the cave, but he hadn’t yet been able to work up the courage to declare himself. “I will, soon. I just—”
“Don’t. Have you told anyone else?”
“Nay. Well...just Father Gregoire. Her mother would be—”
“Good. See that you keep your mouth shut.”
Alex frowned at Luke’s sharp tone. He’d waited weeks to confide in his beloved brother, conscious of the danger—mostly to Nicki—should they be found out. Now he wished he’d kept his counsel.
From across the hall, Nicki glanced in his direction, then abruptly looked away. Her mother must be close at hand. He scanned the hall, swarming with servants setting up tables and the guests mysteriously summoned by Peter that morning for dinner and a “special announcement.” Presently he spied Lady Sybila de St. Clair, who dominated her otherwise strong-willed daughter’s actions—even her thoughts, it seemed—with steely authority. Ever the grim widow, Nicki’s mother was enshrouded in one of her several black tunics, her hair concealed beneath a white couvre-chef. The severe hooded headdress, and that dour expression, ruined any beauty she might once have possessed and added years to her age. How could a girl as incandescently lovely as Nicki have been born of such a creature?
“That’s why you’ve lost interest in your training this summer,” Luke muttered disapprovingly. “You’ve been mooning over a girl.”
“I’m not just ‘mooning over’ her, I love her. And I haven’t lost interest in my training.” Alex was already celebrated for his mastery of the sword, despite his youth—perhaps because of it. He would not let his skills rust away. “I’ve simply taken some time to myself this summer, before we have to report to Duke William.”
“Does Lady Nicolette know that you’ll be leaving Périgeaux in two weeks to wield your sword for the duke? That you have no home and no immediate prospects of one?”
“Of course. I tell Nicki everything. I can talk to her—”
Luke grimaced. “‘Nicki?’ Don’t let anyone else hear you call her that. For God’s sake, Alex. What are you thinking of, courting a lady of her rank when you can offer her nothing? Have you lost your senses entirely?”
“Absolutely. I’m in love. Have you never been in love?”
“I’m a soldier.”
“‘Tisn’t an answer.”
Luke’s expression sobered. “Yes it is. We’re landless knights, both of us. ‘Tis best that we form no attachments of any kind—I’ve told you this a hundred times. Some day your sword and my crossbow may earn us property, but until then we’re unmarriageable, and you’d best remember that.”
“I know I can’t marry.”
Luke’s eyes flashed. “Then you have no business dallying with a highborn lady like Nicolette de St. Clair.”
“I’m not ‘dallying’ with her, for God’s sake!” Alex whispered furiously. “I love her. I respect her. She’s a pure young girl, and I’ve done naught but hold her hand.” Luke would probably laugh if he knew how deeply it had moved Alex the first time he’d closed his hand around hers—how it moved him still, just to touch her in that chaste and simple way.
“Young girl?” Luke said. “She’s older than you.”
“By only two years,” Alex said defensively. “And she looks younger than nineteen.” He watched her smile at some jest of Alyce’s. It was a smile he hadn’t seen before—reticent, almost melancholy. But then, she still tended toward an almost grave sort of decorum when other people—notably her mother—were hovering about. It was only when they were alone together in their cave that she seemed truly at ease, not the proper and unapproachable Nicolette St. Clair, but Nicki—his Nicki.
The lantern they’d brought to the cave had revealed yet more mysterious paintings in the giant cavity through which the water ran—and from which, it turned out, there was no further passage. It was this chamber that became their secret refuge. They stocked it with blankets to sit upon, wine to drink, and cheese to eat, and met there nearly every afternoon. They scrounged up tallow candles and lit them at the edge of the stream—dozens of them, reflecting the water onto the ornate cave walls in iridescent waves of light. Sometimes Nicki would bring along a book of verse, or one of her own poems, and read aloud to him. Oftentimes they would lie on their backs, with only their hands touching, and speculate on what the paintings meant, and who had executed them. Most of the time they talked—or rather, he did. She questioned him endlessly about himself and his fierce dedication to soldiering, but seemed reluctant to reveal much of her own past. All he really knew about her was that she lived in the castle of her uncle, a powerful Norman castellan, and was visiting her cousin Phelis to avoid a difficult family situation.
“She seems older than nineteen to me,” Luke murmured. “Not in looks, but there’s something about her, a shadow of something...as if she’s keeping a part of her under lock and key. ‘Tis almost as if she has something to hide.”
“She does—her love for me. Her mother disapproves of soldiers.”
“A sensible position. If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her anywhere near us. Has she told you she loves you?”
Alex hesitated. “Not as yet.” Like him, she was probably afraid of saying it out loud. And one couldn’t discount the stifling influence of her mother. “If you knew the lady Sybila as I do, you’d understand. ‘Twould be disastrous if she found out about us. We meet in secret, in a...a place we found near Peter’s sheep meadow to the south.”
“You do realize you’re risking her reputation if you’re found there alone with her,” Luke warned. “And what if temptation proves too much, and you do something you oughtn’t?”
“Never. She’s an innocent, an untouched maiden. And my interest in her transcends lust. I wouldn’t dream of compromising her.”
Luke smiled roguishly. “Oh, surely you’ve dreamt of it.”
Alex looked away, his face warm. Dreamt of it? He’d lain awake nights, rigid with need, imagining her body, soft and slender, beneath his, filled with a dark, unrelenting hunger for her even as he worshipped her purity. To defile that purity would be unthinkable. He’d confessed his base desires to Father Gregoire, prayed for deliverance from them—yet they grew more ungovernable with every breath he breathed.
Dinner was announced. Phelis invited her family and guests to be seated at the three long tables, which had been arranged in a horseshoe. Alex was grateful for the respite from his brother’s censure, which he hadn’t expected and found unsettling. But as he started toward the tables, Luke seized his arm, pinning him with that damnably astute gaze of his. “What you need is a woman who’s not quite so innocent.” He lowered his voice. “Tempeste mentioned you last night.”
Alex groaned. “I don’t want some unwashed tavern wench.”
Luke’s mouth quirked. “Washing is overrated.”
“That’s as may be, but I still don’t want her.”
“She seems to want you,” Luke said, grinning. “No sooner had I lowered her skirts back down than she started in about you again. Said you were almost too comely, that it was—how did she put it?—painful to look upon such beauty in a ma
n. Asked me for the hundredth time who you were saving yourself for.”
“She said all this while she was lying in bed with you?”
“Lying in sawdust on the floor of her tavern, actually.”
“Perhaps I don’t want a woman who gives herself quite so freely.”
Luke looked genuinely perplexed. “Why the devil not? For the price of two tumblers of wine, she’ll make you a man.” He grinned salaciously. “A very happy man. She really knows what she’s doing. Ask any of the fellows.”
Alex envisioned the voluptuous Tempeste, with her copious bosom and unruly auburn hair, and felt a momentary spark of lust, but swept it aside. He loved Nicolette, adored her with a reverence that left no room for other women, no matter how tempting. If his body must ache without relief to protect the purity of their love, so be it.
“You’re a bit long in the tooth not to have tasted the pleasures of the flesh,” Luke said. “By the time I was seventeen, I’d been wenching for two years. Come on—give Tempeste what she’s been begging for. ‘Twill cure you of your Lady Nicolette, I’ll wager.”
“My love for her is a blessing, not an affliction. It needs no cure.”
Luke studied Nicolette thoughtfully as she took her seat. “That remains to be seen.”
* * *
Nicki evaded Alex’s gaze all through dinner—or so it seemed to him. She and her mother had been seated, along with Peter and his family, at the table that formed the crosspiece of the horseshoe, Alex and Luke along one of the legs. From where he sat, he had an unobstructed view of her, which made it easy to catch glimpses of her over his cup, or while he was talking to Milo, who sat next to her. He only wished she would glance in his direction, just once. If their eyes could but meet for a moment, it would keep his fierce longing at bay until they could be together again.
Milo, in exceptionally high spirits today, held forth over dessert about Charlemagne’s nephew, the legendary Count Roland, who lost most of his army in a disastrous encounter with the Moors.
“Roland was a fool,” Milo said, eyes sparking with mischief as he glanced toward Alex. “He should have summoned help sooner, but his idiotic pride got in the way, and his men suffered the consequences.”
“Roland was a superb military strategist,” said Alex, rising to the bait. “He got bad advice, that’s all.”
“But the final decision rested with him,” Milo countered. “He ought to have sounded his horn for help, not stood about fretting over it.”
“‘Twas a matter of honor,” Alex retorted.
Milo smirked. “I doubt the men who perished under Roland’s command that day would forgive him because of his fine display of military honor. What you call ‘honor,’ cousin, I call arrogant pride. ‘Tis more often a curse than a blessing, I would say.” Turning to Nicki, he asked, “You’ve read the new interpretation of the incident, have you not, my lady?”
“Aye. It’s beautifully written.”
Alex was pleased that Milo had chosen to draw Nicki into the exchange, relishing the opportunity to talk to her. Unfortunately, their conversation digressed to this new literary treatment, about which Alex couldn’t begin to comment, his knowledge of Roland’s tale having come from troubadours and jongleurs. It was not the first time his inability to read had kept him out of such discussions. Alex envied Milo his intellectual rapport with Nicki. He might even have been jealous, were it not for Violette, to whom his cousin was passionately—and exclusively—devoted.
Eventually Alex’s father and brothers joined the conversation, refocusing it on current military matters—specifically, the rumor that William of Normandy planned to invade Brittany.
“It must be true,” Christien said, “considering how eagerly he’s been recruiting mercenary specialists. They say he’s snapped up every crossbowman and engineer in Aquitaine.”
Luke nodded. “Flanders and Auvergne as well.”
“If he was only interested in crossbowmen and engineers,” Peter said, “how come he to sign you up, Alex?”
“Because Luke insisted.” Duke William had been eager for Luke—the ruthless Black Dragon who’d served him so valiantly during his invasion of Maine last year—to rejoin his corps of elite mercenaries for the Brittany campaign. But now that Alex was old enough and proficient enough for battle, the brothers were loath to be separated, and Luke had urged William to consider Alex as well.
“That’s not the way I hear it,” said Alex’s father. Tall, silver-haired, and imposing, Robert de Périgeaux emitted an air of wisdom and authority that inspired a kind of awe in everyone who knew him—even his own sons. “They say ‘twas your brilliant demonstration of swordplay, rather than your brother’s influence, that earned you a place in William’s army. ‘Twas the duke himself, they say, who dubbed you the White Wolf, for your sneakiness.”
“He called it stealth,” Alex corrected with a proud grin. He stole glance at Nicki to gauge her reaction to his renown, only to find her gazing into her goblet, expressionless.
“When will you and your brother be leaving to join Duke William?” Phelis asked Alex.
“A fortnight from now, my lady.”
“I wish we knew exactly what the duke has in mind,” groused Alex’s sire. “But all we get this far south is heresay and conjecture.”
Phelis turned to the lady Sybila. “Your brother Henri recruits and trains soldiers in Normandy for Duke William, does he not, my lady? He might know of the duke’s plans.”
Lady Sybila cleared her throat daintily. “If so, he has not shared such plans with me—but then he wouldn’t. Gaspar reports directly to my uncle. He would know. He knows everything.”
“Gaspar!” Peter called across the room.
Gaspar Le Taureau looked up from the corner table at which he dined with his two brutish underlings, Vicq and Leone. One of Henri de St. Clair’s most trusted soldiers, Gaspar, along with his men, had escorted Sybila and Nicolette on their journey from Normandy. He attended them—in particular Lady Sybila—like a huge, good-natured bear trained to anticipate needs and follow orders to the letter. He was especially adept at concocting the many tonics Sybila was forever dosing herself with—sleeping potions, headache powders, infusions of camomile to soothe her nerves, decoctions of anjelica to ward off evil spirits.
“Join us, won’t you?” Peter invited.
Gaspar looked toward his mistress. Lady Sybila nodded, and he rose obediently to his feet. Vicq and Leone stood also, which did not surprise Alex. They followed Gaspar around with the slavish constancy of dogs, while in appearance they more closely resembled a pair of hulking apes Alex had seen once in a cage at the Poitiers court. That their weapon of choice, like Gaspar’s, seemed to be the club, only reinforced their air of brutality.
Waving his men back down, Gaspar crossed the hall.
“Have a seat.” Peter indicated a vacant spot on the bench next to Luke. Sybila nodded, and Gaspar sat.
“We were wondering,” Peter began, “whether you might have been privy to any conversations between your lord Henri and Duke William regarding the Brittany matter. Mind you, we’re not asking you to betray any confidences...”
“He’s going to invade,” Gaspar said, “if that’s what you’re asking, sire.”
This statement was met with a collective murmur. Alex whooped, eager to test his mettle in a real battle. Nicki looked sharply in his direction, then dropped her gaze once more.
His father shook his head. “I fear for the success of this endeavor. ‘Tis particularly troubling, in that my sons will be participating in it.”
“Fear not, Father,” Luke soothed. “We’re skilled knights—no harm will come to us. And ‘tis an opportunity to prove ourselves to Duke William before he assumes the throne of England.”
“They tell me England is a green and fertile land,” Alex said.
“‘Tis a cold and rainy island,” sniffed the Lady Sybila. “Populated by barbarians. I’ve been there once, and would never set foot there again.”
&nbs
p; Alex nodded in a cursory way to acknowledge the sour sentiment, but said, “‘Twill suit me, I’m sure—and my brother. We could stay here, but then we would remain landless. If we follow the duke to England and serve him well, he’ll most likely grant us English holdings.”
“Eventually,” their father sighed. “It could take a very long time for you to earn estates. I might not see you for years.”
“‘Tis our best hope for land,” Luke gently reminded him.
When the family’s patriarch, Lord Berengar, died, the old system of partible inheritance called for his substantial property in Périgeaux to be split into two contiguous estates under the control of his two sons, who eventually had sons of their own. But while Alex’s generation was growing to manhood, primogeniture—succession by the eldest son—was swiftly replacing the old system, which had fragmented the Frankish empire’s great holdings among numerous offspring. Therefore, the two adjacent estates in Périgeaux were to be split no further; they would be inherited in their entirety by Christien and Peter, respectively. The younger sons—Alex, Luke, and their cousin, Milo—had known from infancy that they would one day be left landless.
Alex and Luke had prepared for this day by training to become stipendiary knights, in the hope of earning estates elsewhere. Milo, having rejected first a religious, and then a military, vocation, was left with no prospects other than to live under his brother’s roof, which Alex knew he found vexing. He’d been stewing about his predicament quite a bit in recent months, robbing him of his usual good humor. Alex was gratified to find his cousin so animated this afternoon. Perhaps he’d found some way out of the situation. More likely he was simply learning to live with it.
“An impressive scheme for earning land,” Milo said, executing one of his mocking little bows toward his cousins. “Unfortunately, it all hinges on William the Bastard actually rising to the throne of England.”
“Of course he will,” Alex said. “Edward of England has promised him the throne. Then England and Normandy will be united under the rule of one man—a man my brother and I will have served faithfully, and who will no doubt reward us with rich English estates.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 109
