Claire Delacroix (38 page)

Simon chuckled and sipped indulgently of his ale.

Bayard sang on, undeterred. A hermit aided the unhappy couple, suggesting that they never make their intimacy clear to the king, and they followed his advice. Iseut was rejoined with the king amid much rejoicing and Tristran was dispatched to the service of the King of Galloway for a year and a day.

Bayard told how the barons did not rest easy, for they feared that Tristran would take vengeance from them for what he and Iseut had endured at their behest. One last time, they tried to reveal the truth of his wife’s infidelity to the king, and King Mark, in his annoyance, told Iseut of this.

Iseut embraced this challenge, telling her spouse that she would welcome the chance to clear her name for all time. She demanded that King Arthur and his valiant knights meet their household at the Perilous Ford, for she would have witnesses of her pledge that could not be contested within King Mark’s court.

And to this, both and king and barons agreed.

Bayard halted and Esmeraude was as dismayed as the rest of the company. “How could Iseut prove her innocence when she was guilty?” she demanded.

Bayard spared her a smile. “Show me your favor, Esmeraude, and I shall confess all of the tale this very night.”

Esmeraude shook her head. “Nay. I shall not wed a man for the ending of a tale.” She held his gaze, daring him to grant her the confession she knew he understood that she desired.

Bayard stared back at her, his eyes a brilliant blue, though he said no more. Esmeraude felt caught by his gaze, and it seemed to her that he would compel her to look within his heart for herself.

“A fine sentiment,” Simon said approvingly. “A woman should wed for security and wealth and
honesty
.” The two knights exchanged hostile glances.

“I would wed for a tale!” Annelise cried and the company laughed, the moment of tension passing. They returned to their tankards and their gossip and Jacqueline began telling the children that ’twas time they retired.

Bayard sauntered closer, his gaze fixed upon Esmeraude. She felt as if she could not move, could not so much as take a breath. “Would you grant a man a kiss in exchange for a tale?”

He was so certain that he would win that kiss - and worse, that he could change her decision simply with his touch - that Esmeraude was determined to disappoint him, just as he had disappointed her.

“’Tis a fine idea!” she said and rose to her feet.

Simon cleared his throat. “Perhaps I shall share a tale, after all.”

“’Tis too late for the children,” Jacqueline said firmly. “And ’twould be unfair to recount a tale in their absence.”

Simon pursed his lips and Bayard’s smile widened. He arched a brow at Esmeraude, so certain was he of what gift she would bestow and upon whom she would bestow it.

So Esmeraude stood and gestured to Calum. “Come, Calum, you have won the favor of my kiss for your tale of Ceinn-beithe. ’Twas always a favorite of mine, but you have told it uncommonly well. I have always had a fondness for a tale that rewards true love.”

She kissed Calum with gusto, directly beneath Bayard’s scowling gaze. Some of the company laughed. Bayard waited, toe tapping, but Esmeraude did not spare him so much as a glance before she turned toward the solar and her cold pallet.

Let Bayard de Villonne think about
that
!

* * *

Enough was enough.

Bayard had been patient in granting Esmeraude time to assess her various suitors, having no doubt that she would choose him in the end. He had been chivalrous in defending her virtue before his cousins and brothers.

And for what? That she might grant the favor of her kiss to yet another suitor? That she might smile at Simon, the most untrustworthy man he had ever had the misfortune to meet? Nay! That was not part of Bayard’s plan.

’Twas time to make a bold move. He could not afford to linger so long in these lands, waiting upon the assent of a woman who had no logical reason to decline his suit.

’Twas time for Esmeraude to accept him.

This night, his chivalry would banish the last of her resistance. ’Twas risky, what he would do, for it cost him an advantage, but Esmeraude would understand that he trusted her. And trust, all knew, was closely akin to love. ’Twas the closest he could come to the sweet confession she desired.

As Bayard left the hall, he hoped ’twould be enough.

He eyed the way the vine had grown along the walls, stunned by its zealous progress. The lord was on the crest of the wall again, and men were trying valiantly to cut the vine back, all to no avail. It seemed to turn aside their blades, as if wrought of some matter stronger than the stuff of plants.

There was another reason to be gone - that cursed vine would bar the gates soon enough and there would be naught any man could do about the matter.

Bayard fetched his saddlebags and found what he sought within them, then crossed the bailey. There was one window to the solar, though ’twas set high in the wall. He listened to the sounds carrying from the solar, the snoring of men and maids, the sparkle of a lady’s laughter, the richness of a man’s chuckle. He heard children mumble sleepily and women sigh. There was an occasional patter of bare feet on stone, followed by a subdued splash of a bucket being put to use.

And of course, the incessant sound of lovemaking. Truly, he had never visited a hall where men and maids made merry with such frequency or such enthusiasm. It did not make his own celibacy any easier to bear.

But that would end on this night.

Gradually, the rustle of activity faded, and only the whisper of deep breathing drifted through the window. Bayard waited. Night sounds filled the bailey of Airdfinnan: the regular pacing of the sentries along the high walls, the muted rush of the river Finnan, the distant hoot of an owl. Bayard stood until the entire keep seemed cloaked in the gossamer of dreams, and then he began to hum.

’Twas the tune of his song of Iseut and Tristran. He hummed it low, daring to hope that Esmeraude was as sleepless as he in this keep. He missed her warmth against him, and these days and nights apart had only made his ache for her touch more keen.

Bayard hummed through a pair of verses to no response, then halted to consider his course. He frowned, then hummed somewhat louder through another, knowing he did not imagine a new edge in his voice.

What if Esmeraude refused him for the lack of a confession of love? Women could be whimsical - was this what kept her from accepting him? Would she deny him for the one pledge he could not make?

Simon, he knew well, would lie to win Esmeraude and never think twice of the morality of that. Would she believe him? Would she accept Simon, on the basis of a lie, and refuse Bayard?

Nay! He could not permit that to happen. Bayard hummed more diligently, cradling his gift against his chest. He put every measure of his determination into the music he wrought, and hoped that Esmeraude would answer his summons.

But none came to the window.

He hummed another trio of verses, his gaze fixed upon the dark square of the window. There was not so much as a flutter there, not so much as a whisper of sound.

Esmeraude must be asleep. Bayard frowned and restlessly turned the burden he carried, sparing a glance to the foggy sky as he wondered what to do. He was not accustomed to failure. He dared not hum louder, lest he awaken others. It seemed he wasted his efforts in this, though he had thought it a perfect plan.

He decided to try one last time, then retire himself if his lady did not respond. He turned to address his song to the window again, and his breath caught in his throat.

Esmeraude was there.

Bayard knew he stared, for he had not expected Esmeraude to heed him now. She might have been a vision wrought of the dim luminescence of the fog. He stared, too, because Esmeraude was so lovely that the breath caught within his chest. She had unbound her hair and it shimmered where it fell over her shoulders, the light from the fog making her look ethereal and unreal.

Then she smiled, with all the mischief of his Esmeraude, and Bayard’s heart clenched with painful vigor. He strode to the window, intent upon claiming his victory. “I have brought you a gift, my Esmeraude.”

“Because I am vexed with you?”

This puzzled him. “Why would you be vexed with me?”

Esmeraude sighed with exasperation. “If I must explain myself, then I shall be doubly vexed.”

“You did not care for the tale?”

“I did not care for your conviction that love is an illness from which men and women should be healed.”

Bayard smiled with a confidence he did not quite feel. “Ah, but why did Tristran and Iseut still care for each other’s futures, if there was no love between them?”

“Perhaps they became friends,” Esmeraude retorted coldly. “I thought you regaled me with a tale of true love, once obstructed, then running true.”

Bayard considered this, then sang the next verse pitched low, hoping it won her favor.

But Iseut found that Mark’s embrace,

Tristran’s sweet kiss did not replace.

The old potion meant naught at all,

For Tristran held her heart in thrall.

Esmeraude clutched the sill. “So she did love him, and he loved her, despite the fading of the potion?”

“They loved to the grave and beyond.”

“Then they never were wedded to each other and never found happiness together?”

Bayard shook his head, feeling that the tale suddenly showed a most dire lack. Esmeraude shook her head and made to retreat, as if she despaired of him, and he stepped forward before she disappeared.

“You have not asked what I brought.”

Esmeraude regarded him. “There is only one thing I desire of you, Bayard, and that is a confession of love.”

Bayard stepped closer and laid claim to her hand. “I will not lie to you, Esmeraude,” he said quietly. “I will not pledge that I feel some sentiment that I do not. Indeed, it has oft been said that a man should be measured by his deeds, not by his words.”

“What is that to mean?”

“When we met, I had thought ’twould be prudent to have proof of what we shared, lest others might doubt what had passed between us.” Bayard removed a white garment from where ’twas tucked beneath his arm and offered it to Esmeraude. “But what has passed between us should remain between us, from that night through to eternity.”

He knew the moment that Esmeraude realized that what he held was her errant chemise. “You took it!”

He nodded. “I did not mean to lose you, Esmeraude, and still I do not.” He handed her the garment and she clutched it to her chest. “But I would show you that I am not a man to shame you before even your own family. I took your maidenhead and do not deny it, but there is no reason for any other to know that we anticipated the vows that we shall make to each other.”

Esmeraude stared at him and said naught. “So, you surrender the proof of your advantage,” she mused and he knew it should have sorely troubled him that she understood his thinking so well as that. “Have you abandoned your quest for my hand then?” she asked with alarm. “Is that why you return this?”

“Of course not.” He was uncommonly relieved that the lady did not retreat. “But ’tis your garment and graced, I would guess, by your embroidery and it rightfully belongs with you.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “I thank you.”

“And I thank you, my Esmeraude, for choosing me as the man to introduce you to pleasure,” he murmured, his gaze unswerving. “I ask you to think upon what is the right choice for you, and, no less, the deeds of a man upon whom you can rely in every instance.”

“Is that why you pursue me with such diligence? For the sake of your duty and honor alone?”

“’Tis no small thing.” A smile touched his lips, then faded when the lady did not smile herself. “Use your wits, Esmeraude,” he counseled gently. “And choose the man who can best provide the life you desire. I have sufficient wealth to keep you and an estate to call my own. I will defend you with my blade and my body and my word, I will meet you abed with passion, I will raise our children with honor. There is naught else that a woman of good sense might desire of her spouse.”

“A woman might desire love of her spouse.”

Bayard held her gaze steadily. “But what is the difference, Esmeraude, between the words and the deeds? And which, in the end, is of greater value? I have heard in this hall of your father, who spoke of love and acted with indifference. Is the inverse case not one that will see your future better assured?”

The lady studied him, then leaned out the window until their faces were nigh touching. “Nay, ’twill not. I will not permit you or any other man to break my heart.” She kissed his brow, as one would kiss a child, then retreated to the shadows of the solar.

“Esmeraude!” Bayard hissed. There was no reply, and he repeated his call, clutching the sill with his hand.

But his lady was gone. He turned and leaned back against the wall, wondering whether ’twas his competitiveness alone that had him so desperate to win this quest.