The Dark Knight (53 page)

“I would have thought you had figured some small part of that out by now.” Mordecai looked pointedly toward Avalene.

What did that mean? “Are you telling me that Avalene is my reward? That much I already know.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes. “Dante, you are always more aware of your surroundings than any other man, but you can be blind when you so choose to be. Have you never remarked upon our resemblance?”

“We look nothing alike.” He said it surely, knowing it was no more than the obvious truth.

Mordecai tilted his head back and looked toward the ceiling, waiting. But for what? For Dante to figure out their resemblance? They were opposites in almost every aspect; dark hair versus blond, green eyes versus blue, tall versus slight, solid versus slim … Blond, blue-eyed, slender …

Dante’s eyes widened and his gaze went to Avalene. Her eyes were already wide open as she stared at Mordecai.
“Gesù!”

“Do not worry,” he assured them, “ ’tis not as close a connection as you might fear. We are … distantly connected, but connected all the same.”

“But why—”

“I told you at the beginning that this was about balance,” Mordecai said. “The only purpose for my involvement was to make certain the two of you met. The balance that exists between you is the key; two halves of a whole. Together you are the perfect match.” The wink he gave Dante was so quick that he might have imagined it, but there was definitely a twinkle in his eye. “Your children will be … exceptional.”

Dante could only stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Now I must make certain Isabel does not ruin all of my efforts on her behalf.” He tucked his hands into his sleeves and gave them a slight bow. “If you will excuse me.”

It was not a question, and he did not wait for a reply that was obviously not coming. Both their gazes followed the magician as he left the hall. Avalene was the first to recover.

“Well, of course our children will be exceptional,” she muttered. Her voice did not sound quite steady. “Next I suppose he shall tell us that there will be health and happiness all around. I tell you, these magicians are nothing but—”

Dante caught her face in his hands and took only a brief moment to appreciate its beauty before he kissed her, staking a claim that was already his. Her response was just as enthusiastic and they were soon at the point where they left off before Mordecai’s rude interruption. Once again, the sounds of someone repeatedly clearing his throat penetrated his senses. Rami, bless him, reminding them that they were making a spectacle of themselves in the midst of the great hall. Dante didn’t care, but he supposed Avalene might.

He took a reluctant step backward, but she looked none too steady on her feet. He smiled to himself as
he wrapped one arm around her waist to steady her and then turned them toward the passageway to his quarters.

“ ’Tis time to start working on those exceptional children, my lady.”

My mother instilled in me a love of reading, a thirst for learning, and a sense of adventure. Without her influence and encouragement, I never could have become an author. She fostered the dream then helped it come true. I miss you every day, Mom.

B
Y
E
LIZABETH
E
LLIOTT

The Warlord
Scoundrel
Betrothed
The Dark Knight

Read on for an exciting
preview of Elizabeth Elliott’s next book

Available from Ballantine Books

“May I present Faulke Segrave, the only son and heir of the Baron of Carreg?” The English knight gestured for the second man to step forward, and then he cleared his throat. “May I also present Lord Faulke’s cousin, Sir Richard Segrave of Hawksforth?”

At my nod, Sir Crispin cleared his throat once more, bowed low, and then returned to his station by the door. I eyed the two newcomers.

Everyone who knew Faulke Segrave claimed he was tall and handsome with dark hair and blue eyes, and had a personality most ladies found pleasing. What stood before me was definitely tall and blue-eyed. His brows and beard might be dark beneath the dust and
dirt, but a chain mail hood covered most of his hair which made confirmation of its color difficult. The color of his beard was just as mysterious since it was caked with dried mud. As for a pleasing personality, I did not hold out much hope.

Faulke’s cousin, Richard, was a near twin in appearance as well as in filth. The men’s heights were similar, their eyes the same shade of blue, their scowls equally fierce. Everything they wore from the soles of their boots to mid-thigh was a stiff, dusty brown color, the obvious effects of being thigh-deep in mud at some point, and then there were liberal splatters of dried mud from their thighs to their shoulders. They both looked—and smelled—as if they had recently rolled through a bog.

The two Segrave men did not react to their introductions in any way, but their unwavering scowls made it plain they did not want to be here. Neither did I. Those two facts did not bode well for this meeting.

I lifted two fingers of my right hand no more than an inch and then let them settle again onto the polished wooden arm of my chair. The captain of my guard recognized the signal and stepped forward to introduce me to our visitors in his heavily accented English.

“I present to you Her Royal Highness Isabel of Ascalon, Dowager Crown Princess of Rheinbaden, Princess of England, Countess of Malden, Baroness Helmsford, Baroness Sildon, daughter of King Edward of England, and widow of Crown Prince Hartman of Rheinbaden.”

The list of titles was meant to intimidate, to make certain the Segraves understood who held the advantage between us. Gerhardt returned to his place by my side and we all waited as the Segraves stared back at us in a silence that grew more uncomfortable with each passing moment. No one in the room shifted their weight or cleared their throat or coughed. The only sounds were
the muffled chirps of songbirds from the gardens beyond the windows of my solar.

It soon became obvious that the Segraves intended to turn this silence into some sort of contest. Men were so foolish. And so predictable. They were about to learn that they would never outlast me in a contest of wills. I had played court politics all my life and knew every trick to maintain a superior bargaining position. I would do nothing to indicate I had any interest in them or in the outcome of this meeting. Instead I continued to stare at the two men just as rudely as they stared back at me, even though it was difficult to show no reaction to their appearance.

The differences between us might be comical under different circumstances. Their garments were covered in mud while mine smelled pleasantly of the sandalwood-lined trunks where I stored my finest clothing. I doubt they had washed their hands or faces in the last week whereas I had taken a long, leisurely bath in rosewater just that morning. I had spent hours preparing for this meeting to make certain there would be no doubt in the Segraves’ minds that they were dealing with a very wealthy, very powerful noblewoman. They looked as if someone had just dragged them from a ditch. However, beneath the mud and grime, their armor and clothing looked to be of fine quality. Not as fine as what I wore, of course, but then again, few people could afford garments like mine.

It had taken scores of seamstresses hundreds of hours to stitch delicate flowers, vines, and birds into the pink silk of my bliaut, all in gold thread. A snow white surcoat covered my gown, lined with the same pink silk and trimmed with braid made of more gold threads. Tiny pink glass beads formed the profile of an eagle with spread wings on each of my shoulders, with the eyes, beaks, and talons worked in gold beads. White, gold,
and pink silk ribbons wove around the dark plait of my hair and ended with a thick gold tassel that brushed against the floor when I stood up. On my head I wore a crenellated barbette that mimicked the shape of a crown, encrusted with seed pearls and lined with strands of white ostrich feathers that bowed and swayed with the slightest movement of my head. More gold and pearls hung from my earrings, necklace, and girdle, and thousands of seed pearls covered the long, fitted cuffs of the sleeves that encased my arms from wrist to elbow.

The cost of the jewels and clothing I wore could feed a small army for a year, or so my husband had claimed when he presented me with the wardrobe. The entire ensemble probably outweighed the Segraves’ armor, but the effect was worth a little discomfort. I had greeted kings in these garments. They were seeing me at my very best. I sincerely hoped I was seeing them at their worst.

Most people consider an audience with royalty an occasion of some importance. At the very least, they don clean clothing and shave. That the Segraves did not care enough to even bathe before we met spoke volumes.

The men continued to study us with derisive sneers, their gazes already moving beyond me to survey my people. They looked at us as if they found our cleanliness somehow ridiculous. I had insisted that everyone wear their finest court clothing, which meant my people wore the royal colors of Rheinbaden. My soldiers wore white shirts and breeches covered by pink surcoats that were emblazoned with the white Rheinbaden eagle upon their chests. My ladies also wore pink surcoats with white bliauts trimmed in pearls. More than a dozen long, colorful pennants hung from the walls. These were the banners we marched beneath during our long journey to England: marks of heraldry that announced to all we encountered that we were from the
royal court of Rheinbaden. The entire solar was awash in white, pink, and gold.

Just this morning my one and only friend in England, Avalene de Forshay, had surveyed us with a critical eye and claimed we were so radiant that only a religious painting could inspire greater awe. It was the exact effect I had hoped to create, but the mocking looks from the Segraves gave me pause. And then I recalled that most English considered pink an unmanly color. They did not understand that pink represents the color of blood mixed with snow in the Alps of Rheinbaden.

Richard leaned closer to his cousin, obviously meaning to speak under his breath, but the utter silence in the solar amplified his voice. “We should have insisted—”

Faulke cut him off with a sharp look, and then he turned to glare again at me.

Gerhardt, the captain of my guard, expressed my sentiments exactly.
“Sie sind beleidigend.”

Aye, they were insulting. I had expected no less from them, but I had hoped. Gerhardt, however, was too stoic for foolish notions such as hope. Like most of my people, the captain of my guard bore the obvious marks of his Germanic heritage; blond hair and blue eyes, tall and solidly built, and absolutely no sense of humor. I watched his hand flex on the hilt of his sword as his mouth became a flat line. Sometimes Gerhardt saw insult where none existed, but in this instance I agreed with him.

Regardless of insults, the thought of staring at each other for the remainder of the afternoon held little appeal. I let my mouth curve into what I hoped was a condescending smile, and then I spoke loudly enough for everyone in the solar to hear, confident of the Segraves’ inability to understand German.
“Soll das ein Scherz sein? Kommen. Bring uns mal zum Lachen.”

Gerhardt hesitated, and then his mouth turned upward into a painful-looking smile. My two ladies-in-waiting
managed to giggle. There were even a few guffaws from the half dozen soldiers who stood behind me. None of it sounded genuine to my ears, but the Segraves did not know us and would probably take the bait. Another political lesson was to never let an insult go unanswered. The Segraves’ deepening scowls said they did, indeed, believe they were being laughed at.

Faulke’s hands became fists at his sides and his gaze went to Gerhardt. His voice was deeper than I expected, and I found myself momentarily distracted by the sound of it. “Do
any
of you speak English?”

The room again fell silent.

One does not address a servant when their master or mistress is present. Regardless of that fact, Faulke had yet to offer a formal greeting that would acknowledge our introduction. It was insult upon insult, and it would serve him right if we all pretended ignorance. I actually toyed with the idea until Faulke took a threatening step toward Gerhardt. Political posturing was not worth spilled blood. Not yet, anyway.

I rose from my seat and saw Faulke’s eyes widen. He was taller than most men, but so am I. The wooden heels I wore allowed me to gaze squarely into his face while the barbette made me appear even taller. The expression I wore was one I practiced often in a mirror; aloof disinterest. “My subjects do not speak to
ausländers
without my permission, Lord Faulke. If you have something to say to me, I can converse in English, French, Latin, or German.”

He simply stared at me.

“I believe additional introductions are in order,” I went on in a brisk tone. “The man you just addressed is the captain of my guard and my closest advisor. Gerhardt also speaks English. My ladies, Gretchen and Hilda, along with most of my people, speak only a few words of your language, but that should not matter
since anything you wish to say to them should be said first to me.”