Claire Delacroix (33 page)

If she truly intended to forget this man, Esmeraude knew that she should flee Airdfinnan and leave her weakness behind. But she could not leave her sister with a company of guests, guests here at Esmeraude’s own behest, not when Jacqueline was so close to the arrival of her child. She was snared, as surely as if the thorny vine had grown across the gate itself.

On that fourth night, Esmeraude was determined to give the two knights their due again. But after the meal when all called for a tale, Bayard turned and crooked a finger at Annelise. The girl slipped from her seat and skipped across the floor with determination.

She halted beside Bayard expectantly. “Will you sing your tale on this night?” she demanded, as she had demanded twenty times a day since he had halted. “Will you tell us what the king saw?”

Bayard coughed and touched his throat. “I need a magic wish,” he whispered hoarsely, then looked inquiringly at Annelise.

“From me?” she asked, eyes wide.

Bayard nodded.

“But I know naught of magic!”

Bayard arched a brow and rose from the bench. He dropped to one knee before the little girl, and Esmeraude caught her breath at the bright blue of his eyes. He made some mischief, ’twas clear, but Esmeraude could not interrupt any deed that delighted her niece so.

“You need know naught of magic to make it,” Jacqueline said in response to her daughter’s enquiring glance. “Indeed, you have only to believe that magic can be done. ’Tis oft said that the fervid wish of a maiden can come true when the moon is full.”

“Is it?” Annelise eyed the knight. “The fog hides the moon.”

Bayard nodded emphatically. “’Tis full,” he whispered. “I know ’tis the time.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, Annelise placed her fingertips upon his throat. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and the knight kept his expression solemn.

Jacqueline cast a smile Esmeraude’s way and Esmeraude knew that this knight had won her sister’s favor by his indulgence of her child. Esmeraude smiled herself when she looked back at her niece, who was pleased with her part in this.

“Then I wish, with all my heart and soul, and all my fingers and toes, and every part of me that can wish, that your voice will return, and your throat will be healed, and you will sing the rest of the tale for us all, right this very moment.” Annelise took a deep breath after her lengthy wish and stepped back.

Bayard cleared his throat with more vigor than before. He frowned and coughed a little, then let his voice rumble in his throat. He glanced up at Annelise, as if surprised himself to hear any sound. Annelise gasped and clasped her hands together, clearly holding her breath while she waited. Her eyes were wide and shining. Esmeraude bit back her smile as she watched.

The knight made a tremendous display of gradually regaining his voice, one which delighted all of the children. Esmeraude had not expected him to be so playful and she watched with pleasure.

“Why, why, it has worked!” Bayard finally declared. “My voice is healed, by your own dictate. My lady fair, I thank you!”

Annelise let out a most unladylike hoot when the knight bowed low before her. The assembly cheered and Esmeraude clapped along with many others.

Annelise, however, was concerned with the crux of the matter. “Will you sing now?”

“Of course!” Bayard kissed the child’s hand with an elegant flourish. “The wish of the maiden who healed me is mine own command.”

Annelise yelled in triumph, a somewhat undignified response but an honest one. She scampered back to her seat at the board and folded her hands together, waiting impatiently for him to begin. She was not the only one who was charmed, for Esmeraude liked this game of Bayard’s.

He would make a good father.

Bayard winked suddenly at her, as if he had heard her thoughts and agreed. Esmeraude caught her breath, surprised anew by the way his glance could make her pulse leap. But ’twas more than that, more than the attraction between them.

She loved Bayard, loved him with all her heart.

Aye, she loved how mischievous he could be, yet how resolute he was in defending what he knew to be right. She loved his honor and his integrity, she loved how determined he was to make her feel like a queen and how he did not seek to change her at all. He was both tender and strong, solemn and humorous, he was clever and an able warrior, he was gallant and he sang with uncommon ardor.

Bayard was all Esmeraude had ever dreamed of finding in a husband. He was, indeed, her destiny and the only man, she suspected, who could ever make her happy.

Save for the issue of his not believing in love. Esmeraude was not one to retreat from a challenge, not when her life’s happiness was at stake. The realization of the fullness of her own love only made her more determined to change his thinking.

Indeed, winning this knight’s heart for her own might prove to be the greatest adventure of all.

Bayard turned to the company and continued his song.

Esmeraude thought furiously. Surely a man who argued for magic could be persuaded of the merit of love? Esmeraude listened avidly to his song, seeking some hint of Bayard’s thoughts in the tale he had chosen.

Bayard sang of the ill-fated couple’s meeting in the woods beneath the king’s watchful eye. King Mark did not witness any impropriety between the lovers, it turned out, for Iseut had glimpsed his reflection in the pool of the fountain beneath the tree. She then engaged in harmless conversation with Tristran that night and thus fooled her husband into thinking there was naught illicit between them.

The entire company sighed with relief, but this reprieve was not destined to last. Aye, the dwarf Frocin was determined to bring the truth to light and the barons were resolved to discredit Tristran. They persuaded the king to give Tristran an order to carry to King Arthur with first light. They insisted that Tristran would lie one last time with his lady before he left.

Esmeraude bit her lip, knowing ’twas true, and feared that the lovers would now be revealed. Perhaps Bayard favored this tale because the lovers were doomed to misery. Perhaps Bayard meant this to be a lesson in the price of infidelity. Perhaps Bayard meant to show her that the price of love was too high.

How she hated not knowing!

A sentry came into the hall and whispered into Angus’ ear. Angus frowned, then murmured an excuse to Jacqueline before he rose and departed. Esmeraude did not pay much attention, as Angus was always leaving the board to ensure the security of his holding. No doubt a raven had landed upon the walls or some such. Esmeraude had interest only in Bayard’s tale.

King Mark deliberately left his bed that evening before Tristran’s departure, leaving his wife there and his favored courtiers - including Tristran - on their pallets in the chamber. The malicious dwarf spread four deniers’ worth of flour around the bed, knowing that Tristran’s footprints would show. But Tristran had seen this deed and leapt over the flour to woo his lady.

The knight was sorely wounded in the thigh though, and did not note that the wound began to bleed as they loved that night. When the king’s footfall echoed on the stair outside the chamber, Tristran leapt over the flour to his own bed. The blood of his wound dripped on the bed linens and in the flour, revealing his deed to all.

And now discovered, the pair were sentenced to die.

The entire company cried out in consternation, Esmeraude among them. She stood, knowing that here was her chance to glean some of his deeper meaning, and her cheeks warmed when Bayard turned to her.

“This is too cruel a tale,” she said. “Though the pair had been adulterous, their crime did not deserve such harsh punishment.”

“I but tell the tale. I did not imagine it.” Bayard shrugged. “That is a task best left to the bards.”

“You could change it!”

“‘Twould not be right.”

“You could choose another tale.”

Annelise cried out at this suggestion, and Bayard’s smile broadened. He held Esmeraude’s gaze with resolve and his voice dropped low. “Would you truly prefer that I cease this tale now?”

Esmeraude flushed, hating that she was so easily read. “I would not have the children haunted by dreams of their wicked fortune,” she said carefully.

“Aye, tell us more!” Annelise entreated.

Bayard blew Esmeraude a kiss. “By my lady’s command, I shall continue on the morrow. A voice, like a fine instrument, must be granted good care.” And he winked at her, knowing full well that he had captured her curiosity.

He crossed the floor, claimed her hand, and kissed its back. “Dream of me, my Esmeraude,” he whispered, a flame that reminded her of their intimacy dancing in his sapphire gaze. “For I know that I shall dream of you.”

“Because you love me?” she dared to ask.

Bayard laughed and turned away. “Nay, never that,” he said so merrily that she could not take offense. “I but see the good sense of our match.”

Esmeraude watched him cross the hall. What a vexing and irresistible man! Indeed, the imprint of Bayard’s lips upon her flesh burned all that night, leaving Esmeraude to toss and turn upon her cold pallet and recall Bayard’s hands upon her.

Oh, she had to win his heart or die in the attempt!

* * *

Célie rose early on the morn after Bayard continued his song, as was her wont. She loved being in the kitchens while the bread was being baked and she enjoyed watching the bustle of a new day begin there.

Truth be told, there was a lightness in her step these days. She was pleased with her charge, for she had never dreamed that Esmeraude could be so adept in the administration of a household. Indeed, the child had never shown the slightest inclination to learn of such duties, and had oft tapped her toe impatiently while her own mother gave her useful advice.

But clearly, Esmeraude simply had need of a motivation. She was deeply fond of Jacqueline, and Jacqueline could not have been more round with child. To help her sister, Esmeraude reviewed meal plans with the cook, checked the weekly inventory with the
châtelain
, and offered counsel for those hens disinclined to surrender their eggs.

Célie had never guessed that Esmeraude had listened to so much of what she had been told. The maid was proud of the ward she oft considered nigh her own child and did not miss the considering regard of more than one suitor at this display of Esmeraude’s organizational skills and good sense.

She did not doubt that Esmeraude would be vexed if she had realized that Bayard de Villonne was most pleased of all. Célie contentedly sipped her ale in the kitchen, certain that he was not only good for Esmeraude but sufficiently stubborn to win both her heart and her hand.

He was a perfect match for her.

By the vigor with which Esmeraude ignored the knight, Célie would have wagered the conquest was nigh completed. She helped herself to another cup of ale, well content with what she perceived she alone had wrought.

The moment was marred when Rodney, the bald mercenary granted the confidence of the lord of Airdfinnan for reasons Célie could not comprehend, joined her at the board. He harrumphed when he discovered that the pitcher of ale was half empty, then poured himself a cup as if ’twas hard won.

“There is plenty left for a temperate soul,” Célie said, already prepared for an argument with this one. Whenever she encountered Rodney, he chose to begin a quarrel with her. In Célie’s opinion, ’twas a mark of his poor breeding.

“And why would one accept the assessment of an intemperate soul in that?”

Célie straightened. “Do you imply that I drink overmuch?”

“There is naught to imply.” Rodney shrugged in that particularly irksome manner he had. “The pitcher is always brought full, ’tis now nigh empty, and you alone sit before it.” He looked pointedly to her belly, then met her gaze in challenge. “There seems to be none spilled upon the floor.”

“Others were here earlier!”

He nodded as if indulging a child or a woman in her dotage who could not be trusted to recall matters aright. “Of course.” He sipped, then licked his lips before slanting a glance her way. “So, is it you who have brought witchery to our hall, or is it your mistress?”

Célie choked on her ale. “What witchery?”

“Look around yourself, woman! Have you not seen the thorned vine that grows from the garden?”

“Vines do grow in gardens,” she reminded him coolly.

“Aye, but not vines that have been nigh dead for half a century. ’Tis witchery, naught other than that, which has this vine growing the height of twenty men in a single night.”

Célie felt her eyes widen, though she would have dearly loved to appear insouciant before this particular man. “Truly?”

He snorted. “Do not pretend to know naught of it. I know how women are. You know things, dark things that no man should know. You traffic in secrets, you women, and meddle in the natural ways of the world. ’Tis witchery that makes that vine grow and ’twas witchery that began the very night you and Esmeraude arrived. I at least have sufficient wits about me to see the truth!” He downed his ale and summoned another pitcher.

Célie swirled her ale in her cup and stared down at it, knowing that she would never persuade Rodney to abandon his view. “It grows at night?”