The Last Knight (15 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
And what kind of a contest was that?
Attica pressed her lips together and shook her head, an uncomfortable warmth enflaming her cheeks.
Go on, he said. What was it?
She couldn't look at him and say it. So she swung her
head away, her gaze fixing on a blue dragonfly hovering over the breeze-ruffled surface of the pond. A pissing contest. She pushed the words out with difficulty.
He laughed then, a deep, husky laugh that brought her gaze back to his face. Her ignoble defeat hadn't seemed funny at the time, but it did now, and she laughed, too, the lighter notes of her voice entwining with his richer tones to drift away on the breeze. And then he wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring at her mouth, and she saw that his face had taken on an odd, tense quality, as if the dark skin had been pulled taut, accentuating the sharp line of his cheekbones, the strength of his jaw, the determined slant of his lips.
His fist tightened in her hair, drawing her toward him. She read desire in his face. Desire and a strange kind of wonder. And she was very much afraid that what she saw in his face was reflected in her own. Her heart pounded fiercely with want and fear and the painful knowledge of what she must do. His head dipped.
She drew back, gently pressing her fingers to his mouth, stopping him. No, she said, her voice hushed and thick. You mustn't.
His fierce green gaze caught hers and held it, and she knew a strange shifting inside her. His eyes were like the forest around them, she thought: deep and mysterious and dangerous. And for a moment she lost herself in them.
Still holding her gaze, he brought his hand up to capture hers and cradle it against his lips. There is a reason, he said, his mouth moving softly against her fingers. A reason lovely damsels are kept locked fast and well guarded in their castles, far away from dark, dangerous knights. He let his lips trail down her fingers, pressed a kiss to her
palm. You would be wise to remember what that reason is. He curled her hand into a fist still held within his own.
I don't believe I have anything to fear from you, she said, her voice husky.
She saw something leap in his eyes, something hot and reckless. Believe it, my little lordling, he said. Believe it, and guard yourself well. He kissed her hand again, his breath soft and warm against her flesh.
And let her go.
They faced each other, the wind blowing hot and dry between them. She stared at him, at the hard tilt of his mouth and the heat that still glowed like a banked fire in his eyes. He was like lightning, this man. Wild and free and dangerously, frighteningly attractive. She knew an ache in her chest, a fierce wanting for something that would never be. Should never be.
But oh, God, she had glimpsed it, and she knew with a painful kind of certainty that her life would never be quite the same again. Once, she had faced her coming marriage to Fulk with a fatalistic resignation sustained by the knowledge that her choice was the honorable one, dictated by duty and God. Only she had never truly understood either the nature or the extent of her sacrifice. Now she had been allowed to suspect what could be, what she would be giving up. And she was terribly afraid she was going to spend the rest of her life wishing and wanting and regretting.
It was after nones by the time they dropped down out of the hills into the broad valley of the Mayenne River and saw the walls of Laval in the distance.
It had taken time for them to find the frightened roan, and de Jarnac had gutted and hung the boar before leaving
the pond. And then he paused at the first hamlet they passed to tell the villagers where they might find the meat.
What are you grinning at? he asked, catching her eye upon him as he swung back into the saddle.
She let her grin broaden into an open smile. I'm looking at a dark, dangerous knight, so lost to the virtues of chivalry that he succors the helpless and goes out of his way to be generous to the poor and weak.
He grunted and cast her an exaggerated scowl that only made Attica laugh out loud.
As they crossed the valley of the Mayenne, high clouds began to appear on the horizon, bunching up to become thicker and darker. Looks like a storm coming in, said Attica, lifting her face to the wild caress of the wind.
Something in the silence that followedsome strange, tense qualitymade her swing her head to look at him.
She found him staring at her, his face oddly dark and fierce, his eyes glittering with a man's longing, a man's hunger. She felt her cheeks flush, her breath catch in her throat. But she could not look away.
He warms me with the heat of his gaze, she thought in wonder. He looks at me and my breath quickens, and I feel such stirrings within. Such wild, impossible wants
. And still she could not look away.
Thunder rumbled low and distant over the mountains behind him. His gaze swung away from her, and the moment shattered, became a memory.
The cathedral city of Laval rose up before them on the crown of a low hill on the western slopes of the river. Side by side, they rode toward it through cleared pastures and vineyards, through gardens and orchards and ripening fields. The traffic on the road became increasingly thick as they joined the steady stream of fair-goers headed for Laval: knights and their ladies on richly caparisoned palfries; black-robed
monks on trotting donkeys; farmers in roughly woven tunics, their feet brown and bare in the dusty road.
Have you ever been to the fair at Laval? de Jarnac asked.
Only once. She steadied the roan as a flock of geese fluttered, honking in protest, out of her way. My mother brought my brother and me when we were children. It's not as large as the Champagne fairs, of course. But many merchants come here on their way to the Hot Fair in Troyes.
By now they had reached the cleared space before the town walls to find the open meadows filled with brightly striped tents and wooden stalls and a colorful, noisy, shifting sea of people. A stiltwalker in a bright yellow-and-red-skirted tunic trundled by on wooden legs taller than de Jarnac's head. Attica threw the white-masked lute player behind him a coin and laughed when he tilted his head and yapped like a happy dog. Pepe the stiltwalker thanks you! he called after them.
They entered the town between the twin towers of the porte de Rennes, the clatter of their horses hooves on the cobbles echoing loudly through the dark archway. The gate opened onto a wide, sunny street paved with smooth stones and swarming with people. Housewives haggled over fluttering chickens and squealing pigs. Peddlers hawked their wareswine and sweetmeats, garlic and milk and cheese. Shrieking children chased hoops and balls and each other. Attica let the tired roan follow de Jarnac's bay through the press, the smells of the city rising up to envelop her manure and woodsmoke, cellar-stale damp air, and the rich, tantalizing aromas of roasting meats and baking bread.
He reined in at the entrance to a side lane running up the hill toward the castle and waited for her. You've grown very quiet, he said as she rode abreast of him.
She tilted back her head, studying the outline of the
castle above them. I'm trying to decide what I should tell my uncle.
He nudged his bay forward, and they turned into the lane. Most of the houses here were three and four storied, built mostly of timber post and beam, their upper floors jutting out to cast the lane into shadow, their ground floors forming shops with horizontal wooden shutters thrown open to make a counter and the awnings above. Why shouldn't you tell him what you came here to tell him? de Jarnac asked, his attention seemingly caught by the shop they were passing.
She drew up the roan as it stumbled over some malodorous rubbish in the street. I came here to ask Renouf to send a warning to my brother. But the sense of urgency is gone now, isn't it, when you keep the breviary and ride to La Ferté-Bernard yourself.
He swung to look at her. Attica I know you must tell your uncle about Olivier de Harcourt because you can hardly justify your coming here in any other way. But I ask that you not let him know where I am going, or why, or about the breviary. Let him send his men to La Ferté-Bernard; it will do no harm.
But why would you not want She broke off, her head jerking, her eyes widening with comprehension. No. She kept her voice steady with difficulty. You are wrong. My uncle is Henry's man. He would never betray you.
His gaze never faltered. Possibly. Perhaps even probably. But why take a risk?
She held herself stiffly. Why should I trust you more than I trust my own uncle?
Because I didn't kill you.
At that moment the dark lane emptied out abruptly into a sunwashed square with a fountain and a long, low stone trough. Small knots of townswomen with buckets and
pitchers dangling empty from their fingers loitered near the pool while others moved away with stately grace, their full jars carefully balanced atop their heads. A chestnut horse tethered near the trough lifted its head and whinnied at Attica in recognition.
She slid from her saddle to run her hand over the gelding's satiny withers. Chantilly? She staggered as the horse gave her a welcoming nudge with its velvety white nose. What are you doing here?
Waiting for you, said de Jarnac, coming up behind her, her saddle over his arm.
Laughing softly, she turned to catch a glimpse of a lithe, fair-haired boy with flashing dark eyes who stepped back and tucked something out of sight up his sleeve. Then the chestnut butted its head against her hip, momentarily reclaiming her attention. When she looked again, the squire along with the roan she'd been riding had both disappeared.
Why would you have killed me? she asked as de Jarnac tightened the girth on her saddle.
What? Spanning her waist with his big hands, he threw her up onto the chestnut's back and handed her the reins.
You said I should trust you because you didn't kill me, she said, watching him vault easily into his own saddle. What did you mean?
His eyes crinkled with amusement as he laid his reins against the bay's sweat-darkened neck and turned into the winding, shadowed rue leading to the castle. If I were part of the conspiracy against King Henry, or at least interested in aiding it for my own gain, then I would have killed you to keep you quiet. Since you're still alive and here to tell your tale to your uncle, you can take it as a given that I'm not involved. The amusement left his face. It's only your kinship with Renouf Blissot that causes you to trust him.
Isn't that enough? Attica asked softly.
When it comes to treasonand your brother's life I'd say no.
She rode beside him in silence for a moment, thinking about it, before she said, Yet, if you should prove to be right about my uncleif he has indeed sided with Richard and Philipthen haven't you put yourself in danger by bringing me here?
He glanced at her. Now you sound as if you do suspect him.
No. But you do.
From the doorstep of a house on their right, a serving woman tossed a bucketful of slops to a couple of hogs rutting in the gutter. I said I would see you safely delivered to Laval. He let his bay dance fastidiously around the mess, then added, Besides, in my experience, grand ladies are not normally in the habit of confiding their secrets to their escorts. Renouf Blissot is unlikely to give me a second thought, Attica. I'm just a humble knight-errant, strong of arm and short of brain.
She let out a trill of laughter. Knight-errant you may be, and strong of arm. But humble and short of brain you are not.
You don't need to tell your uncle that.
The pale walls of the castle rose up before them. Attica checked her horse. I could tell him, she said quietly. The chestnut shook its head, bothered by flies, and she patted its glossy neck. He is my kinsman. Are you so certain I wouldn't that you are willing to hazard your life on it?
He swung his head to look at her. You won't tell him.
She met his gaze. I could say something unintentionally. Something stupid.
He nudged his horse forward into the sunlit open space before the gate. You're not stupid.
Wordlessly, she followed him into the Forecourt. The massive, stone-built walls of the castle loomed over them, and she tilted back her head, her gaze drifting over the familiar battlements. She became aware of a sense of heavy melancholy, pressing in on her, weighting her down, hurting her chest. It seemed so strange; she'd spent the past two days desperate to reach this place. Now she was here, and she wished she weren't.
The chestnut cavorted beneath her, as if sensing her reluctance. She steadied him unthinkingly, her gaze shifting to the dark knight riding ahead of her. She had felt such fear these past two days. She could still feel the residue of her fear, like a buzz beneath her flesh. And yet she'd also felt gloriously alive. Alive and free. In a few moments it would all be coming to an end. She would be safely within her uncle's care and tomorrow, or the next day, she would be returning to Châteauhaut. She would never see Damion de Jarnac again. And in one month's time she would become the wife of Fulk the Fat and spend the rest of her days as his viscomtesse.
The pain in her chest increased until it seemed as if she were smothering, as if the ominous weight of the future were crushing her. She sucked in a deep, gasping breath, but there was no escaping it. No escaping what would happen. No escaping this truth she had now acknowledged to herself: She did not want the life that stretched out before her.
Once, she had consoled herself with the knowledge that her sacrifice would serve the interests of her house, that this was the way of her world. Once, she had resigned herself to her fate. But the past two days had shattered that resigned complacency. And she was very much afraid she could spend the rest of her life trying to regain it.
The tunnel-like arch of the castle gateway rose up before her, blocking out the light. She glanced back at the sunlit forecourt, aware of a spiraling sense of despair. If she were a different person, she thought fleetingly, she might seek to escape her fate. But she was who she was, and she knew she could not live with herself, were she to shirk her responsibility to her family and attempt to escape the vow she had made to Fulk. She could not live without honor.
She felt de Jarnac's eyes on her and turned her head to meet his gaze. He waited for her on his big bay, a dark knight, tall and lean and so splendid, he made her heart ache just looking at him. In some ways he frightened her still. He was so fierce and ruthless, so enigmatic and hard. Yet she knew him better now, knew that he could be not only kind and generous but also astonishingly honorable. And she felt an intense, useless wish that she could have come to know him better. That she might somehow have gained a glimpse into his dark, secret man's heart.
Attica pressed her lips together and shook her head, an uncomfortable warmth enflaming her cheeks.
Go on, he said. What was it?
She couldn't look at him and say it. So she swung her
head away, her gaze fixing on a blue dragonfly hovering over the breeze-ruffled surface of the pond. A pissing contest. She pushed the words out with difficulty.
He laughed then, a deep, husky laugh that brought her gaze back to his face. Her ignoble defeat hadn't seemed funny at the time, but it did now, and she laughed, too, the lighter notes of her voice entwining with his richer tones to drift away on the breeze. And then he wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring at her mouth, and she saw that his face had taken on an odd, tense quality, as if the dark skin had been pulled taut, accentuating the sharp line of his cheekbones, the strength of his jaw, the determined slant of his lips.
His fist tightened in her hair, drawing her toward him. She read desire in his face. Desire and a strange kind of wonder. And she was very much afraid that what she saw in his face was reflected in her own. Her heart pounded fiercely with want and fear and the painful knowledge of what she must do. His head dipped.
She drew back, gently pressing her fingers to his mouth, stopping him. No, she said, her voice hushed and thick. You mustn't.
His fierce green gaze caught hers and held it, and she knew a strange shifting inside her. His eyes were like the forest around them, she thought: deep and mysterious and dangerous. And for a moment she lost herself in them.
Still holding her gaze, he brought his hand up to capture hers and cradle it against his lips. There is a reason, he said, his mouth moving softly against her fingers. A reason lovely damsels are kept locked fast and well guarded in their castles, far away from dark, dangerous knights. He let his lips trail down her fingers, pressed a kiss to her
palm. You would be wise to remember what that reason is. He curled her hand into a fist still held within his own.
I don't believe I have anything to fear from you, she said, her voice husky.
She saw something leap in his eyes, something hot and reckless. Believe it, my little lordling, he said. Believe it, and guard yourself well. He kissed her hand again, his breath soft and warm against her flesh.
And let her go.
They faced each other, the wind blowing hot and dry between them. She stared at him, at the hard tilt of his mouth and the heat that still glowed like a banked fire in his eyes. He was like lightning, this man. Wild and free and dangerously, frighteningly attractive. She knew an ache in her chest, a fierce wanting for something that would never be. Should never be.
But oh, God, she had glimpsed it, and she knew with a painful kind of certainty that her life would never be quite the same again. Once, she had faced her coming marriage to Fulk with a fatalistic resignation sustained by the knowledge that her choice was the honorable one, dictated by duty and God. Only she had never truly understood either the nature or the extent of her sacrifice. Now she had been allowed to suspect what could be, what she would be giving up. And she was terribly afraid she was going to spend the rest of her life wishing and wanting and regretting.
It was after nones by the time they dropped down out of the hills into the broad valley of the Mayenne River and saw the walls of Laval in the distance.
It had taken time for them to find the frightened roan, and de Jarnac had gutted and hung the boar before leaving
the pond. And then he paused at the first hamlet they passed to tell the villagers where they might find the meat.
What are you grinning at? he asked, catching her eye upon him as he swung back into the saddle.
She let her grin broaden into an open smile. I'm looking at a dark, dangerous knight, so lost to the virtues of chivalry that he succors the helpless and goes out of his way to be generous to the poor and weak.
He grunted and cast her an exaggerated scowl that only made Attica laugh out loud.
As they crossed the valley of the Mayenne, high clouds began to appear on the horizon, bunching up to become thicker and darker. Looks like a storm coming in, said Attica, lifting her face to the wild caress of the wind.
Something in the silence that followedsome strange, tense qualitymade her swing her head to look at him.
She found him staring at her, his face oddly dark and fierce, his eyes glittering with a man's longing, a man's hunger. She felt her cheeks flush, her breath catch in her throat. But she could not look away.
He warms me with the heat of his gaze, she thought in wonder. He looks at me and my breath quickens, and I feel such stirrings within. Such wild, impossible wants
. And still she could not look away.
Thunder rumbled low and distant over the mountains behind him. His gaze swung away from her, and the moment shattered, became a memory.
The cathedral city of Laval rose up before them on the crown of a low hill on the western slopes of the river. Side by side, they rode toward it through cleared pastures and vineyards, through gardens and orchards and ripening fields. The traffic on the road became increasingly thick as they joined the steady stream of fair-goers headed for Laval: knights and their ladies on richly caparisoned palfries; black-robed
monks on trotting donkeys; farmers in roughly woven tunics, their feet brown and bare in the dusty road.
Have you ever been to the fair at Laval? de Jarnac asked.
Only once. She steadied the roan as a flock of geese fluttered, honking in protest, out of her way. My mother brought my brother and me when we were children. It's not as large as the Champagne fairs, of course. But many merchants come here on their way to the Hot Fair in Troyes.
By now they had reached the cleared space before the town walls to find the open meadows filled with brightly striped tents and wooden stalls and a colorful, noisy, shifting sea of people. A stiltwalker in a bright yellow-and-red-skirted tunic trundled by on wooden legs taller than de Jarnac's head. Attica threw the white-masked lute player behind him a coin and laughed when he tilted his head and yapped like a happy dog. Pepe the stiltwalker thanks you! he called after them.
They entered the town between the twin towers of the porte de Rennes, the clatter of their horses hooves on the cobbles echoing loudly through the dark archway. The gate opened onto a wide, sunny street paved with smooth stones and swarming with people. Housewives haggled over fluttering chickens and squealing pigs. Peddlers hawked their wareswine and sweetmeats, garlic and milk and cheese. Shrieking children chased hoops and balls and each other. Attica let the tired roan follow de Jarnac's bay through the press, the smells of the city rising up to envelop her manure and woodsmoke, cellar-stale damp air, and the rich, tantalizing aromas of roasting meats and baking bread.
He reined in at the entrance to a side lane running up the hill toward the castle and waited for her. You've grown very quiet, he said as she rode abreast of him.
She tilted back her head, studying the outline of the
castle above them. I'm trying to decide what I should tell my uncle.
He nudged his bay forward, and they turned into the lane. Most of the houses here were three and four storied, built mostly of timber post and beam, their upper floors jutting out to cast the lane into shadow, their ground floors forming shops with horizontal wooden shutters thrown open to make a counter and the awnings above. Why shouldn't you tell him what you came here to tell him? de Jarnac asked, his attention seemingly caught by the shop they were passing.
She drew up the roan as it stumbled over some malodorous rubbish in the street. I came here to ask Renouf to send a warning to my brother. But the sense of urgency is gone now, isn't it, when you keep the breviary and ride to La Ferté-Bernard yourself.
He swung to look at her. Attica I know you must tell your uncle about Olivier de Harcourt because you can hardly justify your coming here in any other way. But I ask that you not let him know where I am going, or why, or about the breviary. Let him send his men to La Ferté-Bernard; it will do no harm.
But why would you not want She broke off, her head jerking, her eyes widening with comprehension. No. She kept her voice steady with difficulty. You are wrong. My uncle is Henry's man. He would never betray you.
His gaze never faltered. Possibly. Perhaps even probably. But why take a risk?
She held herself stiffly. Why should I trust you more than I trust my own uncle?
Because I didn't kill you.
At that moment the dark lane emptied out abruptly into a sunwashed square with a fountain and a long, low stone trough. Small knots of townswomen with buckets and
pitchers dangling empty from their fingers loitered near the pool while others moved away with stately grace, their full jars carefully balanced atop their heads. A chestnut horse tethered near the trough lifted its head and whinnied at Attica in recognition.
She slid from her saddle to run her hand over the gelding's satiny withers. Chantilly? She staggered as the horse gave her a welcoming nudge with its velvety white nose. What are you doing here?
Waiting for you, said de Jarnac, coming up behind her, her saddle over his arm.
Laughing softly, she turned to catch a glimpse of a lithe, fair-haired boy with flashing dark eyes who stepped back and tucked something out of sight up his sleeve. Then the chestnut butted its head against her hip, momentarily reclaiming her attention. When she looked again, the squire along with the roan she'd been riding had both disappeared.
Why would you have killed me? she asked as de Jarnac tightened the girth on her saddle.
What? Spanning her waist with his big hands, he threw her up onto the chestnut's back and handed her the reins.
You said I should trust you because you didn't kill me, she said, watching him vault easily into his own saddle. What did you mean?
His eyes crinkled with amusement as he laid his reins against the bay's sweat-darkened neck and turned into the winding, shadowed rue leading to the castle. If I were part of the conspiracy against King Henry, or at least interested in aiding it for my own gain, then I would have killed you to keep you quiet. Since you're still alive and here to tell your tale to your uncle, you can take it as a given that I'm not involved. The amusement left his face. It's only your kinship with Renouf Blissot that causes you to trust him.
Isn't that enough? Attica asked softly.
When it comes to treasonand your brother's life I'd say no.
She rode beside him in silence for a moment, thinking about it, before she said, Yet, if you should prove to be right about my uncleif he has indeed sided with Richard and Philipthen haven't you put yourself in danger by bringing me here?
He glanced at her. Now you sound as if you do suspect him.
No. But you do.
From the doorstep of a house on their right, a serving woman tossed a bucketful of slops to a couple of hogs rutting in the gutter. I said I would see you safely delivered to Laval. He let his bay dance fastidiously around the mess, then added, Besides, in my experience, grand ladies are not normally in the habit of confiding their secrets to their escorts. Renouf Blissot is unlikely to give me a second thought, Attica. I'm just a humble knight-errant, strong of arm and short of brain.
She let out a trill of laughter. Knight-errant you may be, and strong of arm. But humble and short of brain you are not.
You don't need to tell your uncle that.
The pale walls of the castle rose up before them. Attica checked her horse. I could tell him, she said quietly. The chestnut shook its head, bothered by flies, and she patted its glossy neck. He is my kinsman. Are you so certain I wouldn't that you are willing to hazard your life on it?
He swung his head to look at her. You won't tell him.
She met his gaze. I could say something unintentionally. Something stupid.
He nudged his horse forward into the sunlit open space before the gate. You're not stupid.
Wordlessly, she followed him into the Forecourt. The massive, stone-built walls of the castle loomed over them, and she tilted back her head, her gaze drifting over the familiar battlements. She became aware of a sense of heavy melancholy, pressing in on her, weighting her down, hurting her chest. It seemed so strange; she'd spent the past two days desperate to reach this place. Now she was here, and she wished she weren't.
The chestnut cavorted beneath her, as if sensing her reluctance. She steadied him unthinkingly, her gaze shifting to the dark knight riding ahead of her. She had felt such fear these past two days. She could still feel the residue of her fear, like a buzz beneath her flesh. And yet she'd also felt gloriously alive. Alive and free. In a few moments it would all be coming to an end. She would be safely within her uncle's care and tomorrow, or the next day, she would be returning to Châteauhaut. She would never see Damion de Jarnac again. And in one month's time she would become the wife of Fulk the Fat and spend the rest of her days as his viscomtesse.
The pain in her chest increased until it seemed as if she were smothering, as if the ominous weight of the future were crushing her. She sucked in a deep, gasping breath, but there was no escaping it. No escaping what would happen. No escaping this truth she had now acknowledged to herself: She did not want the life that stretched out before her.
Once, she had consoled herself with the knowledge that her sacrifice would serve the interests of her house, that this was the way of her world. Once, she had resigned herself to her fate. But the past two days had shattered that resigned complacency. And she was very much afraid she could spend the rest of her life trying to regain it.
The tunnel-like arch of the castle gateway rose up before her, blocking out the light. She glanced back at the sunlit forecourt, aware of a spiraling sense of despair. If she were a different person, she thought fleetingly, she might seek to escape her fate. But she was who she was, and she knew she could not live with herself, were she to shirk her responsibility to her family and attempt to escape the vow she had made to Fulk. She could not live without honor.
She felt de Jarnac's eyes on her and turned her head to meet his gaze. He waited for her on his big bay, a dark knight, tall and lean and so splendid, he made her heart ache just looking at him. In some ways he frightened her still. He was so fierce and ruthless, so enigmatic and hard. Yet she knew him better now, knew that he could be not only kind and generous but also astonishingly honorable. And she felt an intense, useless wish that she could have come to know him better. That she might somehow have gained a glimpse into his dark, secret man's heart.
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