Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (24 page)
Attica bit back a scream as de Jarnac, swearing, twisted sideways and swooped down, bending dangerously, unbelievably low from the saddle. He came up with the squalling child held by the scruff of his collar. She let out her breath in a relieved rush.
Grace ŕDieu.
Huh. De Jarnac's startlingly green eyes gleamed at her over the dark, matted head of the baby. Instead of sitting there thanking God, perhaps you could try telling me what we're going to do with a baby?
A baby
, for the love of Mary.
The child had latched on to the front of de Jarnac's hauberk with two frantic fists and buried its face into the knight's broad shoulder. Small shudders still shook the boy's thin frame, but he seemed reassured by the gentle strength of the brawny arm that held him so securely; the wailing ceased abruptly.
Attica smiled softly. I think he likes you.
A slow flush spread over the knight's high cheekbones. Well, he'd best learn to like you instead. I can't even get at my sword, let alone swing it, with him in the way.
Still smiling, she urged the roan closer and stretched out her arms toward the baby. Here. Hand him to me. The boy began to whimper again as de Jarnac loosed the little fists hold on his mail and she lifted the child gently onto her saddle bow.
Tout va bien, mon petit,
she whispered, trying to cradle the now howling, thrashing child to her. It's all right.
You're not holding him right, said de Jarnac. Put one arm under his rump and use the other hand against his back to keep him steady.
She adjusted her grip as instructed. With a gurgled
hiccup, the child burrowed his face into her chest and quieted.
She laughed. It worked. Her head fell back, her gaze meeting his over the child's head. She saw a muscle bunch in his cheek. And then it was as if a sad kind of tenderness relaxed the harsh lines of his face, and he smiled.
Attica felt her heartbeat slow as the moment stretched out, became poignant and aching with things unsaid and impossible. Her skin grew warm, her breath easing out of her parted lips in a painful sigh. And she wanted, wanted
No!
The sound of a frantic, high-pitched scream brought both their heads around.
A woman with unkempt dark hair and a contorted, grief-ravaged face came running down the road, her skirts kilted up, her arms waving frantically. No! Don't take him! She stumbled over a broken plow and went sprawling, but picked herself up and kept running. He's mine; he's my Folcard. Oh, please don't take him.
She stumbled to a halt some few feet from them, her chest heaving with the effort to suck in wind, her hands twisting in the skirt of her filthy, torn dress. Scratches covered her face and bare forearms; bits of dried leaves and twigs matted her hair. Her dark eyes were wide and wild in a pale face. Please, she said again, sinking to her knees, her cupped hands coming up beseechingly. He's my Folcard. I left him here, in the house. She nodded toward the pile of smoldering rubble beside them. I left him and my Cecily with their papa while I went into the fields. But then the soldiers came, and I hid in the woods, and A shudder shook her shoulders, and she brought up her hands to cover her face.
Oh, God.
Be at peace, woman, said de Jarnac. We do not mean to steal your child. Get up.
Her face wary and uncertain, the woman staggered to her feet as Attica urged the roan forward and held out the little boy. Folcard took one look at his mother and began to scream hysterically, his little legs pumping in the air, his arms waving so frantically, Attica almost dropped him.
The woman snatched the child to her as if she thought Attica might change her mind and take him back. Folcard, she said on a harsh expulsion of breath. Folcard. Sinking to her knees in the mud of the road, she buried her face in the child's neck and wept.
De Jarnac's big destrier fidgeted as he glanced around uncomfortably. Madame? he said after a moment. What can you tell us of the army that did this?
For a moment, Attica didn't think the woman was capable of answering. She simply rocked back and forth, her baby clutched to her chest, her eyes squeezed shut as she said his name over and over.
My good woman, said de Jarnac.
The woman's head fell back, her eyes opening, as if she had only just become aware that they were still there. The army? Her face contorted horribly. God save us. They say that the conference at La Ferté-Bernard has collapsed; that's why Philip's army is on the march. He has taken La Ferté-Bernard and Montfordand Beaumont and Ballon as well. But we never expected them to come here. Not here.
Unable to look at the woman's grief-stricken face, Attica let her gaze wanderthen regretted it when her attention was caught by a pair of large, wooden-soled shoes thrusting out from beneath the burned timbers of the house beside them. When she looked closer, she could make out stout legs, encased in torn hose and lying deathly still.
Here, surely, was the woman's husband. And the little hand just visible beside his must belong to Cecily. Swallowing hard, Attica jerked her gaze away.
And King Henry? de Jarnac was asking. His voice sounded rough and impersonal, but the woman responded to it.
Henry? The woman's face hardened with something that might have been anger. They say he has fled to Le Mans.
De Jarnac lifted his head, his gaze sweeping the hills on the far side of the valley as he gathered his reins.
What are we going to do? asked Attica, watching him. We can't simply ride off and leave her here alone with the child.
His head swiveled toward her, his eyes narrowing. What do you suggest? he asked dryly. That we take her with us? But he dropped his gaze to the woman in the road. Are there others of the village left alive?
Struggling to swallow a sob, the woman nodded. Those who were in the fields. Most of us fled to the woods. It was only those still in the village She turned to stare at what was left of her home, and Attica saw the woman's face crumple, become old.
How will she bear it? Attica thought. How does anyone bear such anguish and loss and horror? How?
Attica. Attica?
She realized he'd said her name twice. She looked up into his face to find him watching her with narrowed, empty eyes. The wind blew his dark hair against the hard masculine planes of his face, and he was like a stranger to her. A cold, deadly stranger.
I've done this
, he'd said, his big hand with its bloodstained glove sweeping in an arc over the burned hovels,
the slaughtered livestock, the slaughtered children.
I've done this
. She sucked in a breath of tainted air that seemed to shudder her frame.
Oh, God
We must go, he said, a strange, bitter glitter kindling in the depths of his eyes, as if he knew what she was thinking. But then, perhaps he did. He said her thoughts always showed on her face.
Her throat felt too tight to speak. Gathering her reins, she nodded, her knees urging the roan forward.
They rode in silence between the rows of smoldering cottages, past the sprawled, bloody, violated bodies of the men, women, and children who had once lived in them. Past the guard dogs with their ripped bellies, and the bags of spilled grain, soaked with blood, and the broken sickles and hoes.
Eventually the scenes of violence faded into the distance. Yet long after they'd left the ruined valley and begun to climb through the sweet green grass of the hills, she imagined she could still smell the place. The stench of burned thatch and rotting flesh seemed to cling to her, choking her. She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut against the rising nausea, then opened them again abruptly when her mind's eye began to replay for her that hideous panorama of spilled blood and mindless destruction and grotesquely mutilated bodies.
And one little girl's small, lifeless hand.
With a strangled cry, she reined in, practically throwing herself from the saddle. She took two stumbling steps away, then hunched over and vomited into the daisy-strewn grass of the hillside.
Her body quivered painfully with each heave. Her throat burned, and she had to brace her hands against her spread knees to steady herself. She felt hot and shivery at the
same time, and it was as if the warm blue sky and wind-feathered trees had disappeared and her world had narrowed down to the memories of that village and her own physical reaction to them.
She heard footsteps behind her, felt strong arms come around her waist from behind, warm and comforting. The low murmur of his voice was gentle and soothing in her ear. When the sickness she couldn't seem to control hit her again, she wrapped her hands around his brawny forearms and let him support her while the shudders wracked her frame.
And then, when it was all over, she turned in his arms and wept.
They rode in a silence filled only with the squeak of saddle leather and the muffled clomp of their horses hooves hitting the soft grass. In the end, it came to be too much for her, and she swung her head to look at him. What do we do now? she asked.
He squinted up at the sun, and she realized he'd changed their bearing. Whereas before they'd been headed east, now they were tracking south. We ride to Le Mans. And hope there's not an army in our way. He cast her a quick, appraising glance. Are you all right?
She felt her cheeks heat with a flush. I'm all right, she said, her voice raspy. It won't happen again.
No. That's the kind of reaction you have only once.
She looked at him. He sat his horse with the graceful ease of a born horseman, one gloved hand resting on his lean hip, his back straight and tall. She could not begin to imagine this hard, ruthless man vomiting with shock at the sight of a dead child.
Did you have it? That kind of reaction, I mean.
He met her gaze squarely, his lips curling up into that mocking smile of his. But in his face she thought she could trace the shadow of an old vulnerability, a phantom that was there and then gone. Everyone does, he said simply, and spurred the destrier on ahead.
Toward sunset, they dropped down from a hillside thickly wooded with intermingled beech and birch, and came into a stretch of open meadow near a stream.
A party of some fifteen or twenty men and women wearing the somber gray robes and broad hats of pilgrims were camped on the high ground just beyond the ford. They looked up, their faces wary, as Damion spurred his horse across the stream, with Attica behind him. Smoke drifted up from several scattered cooking fires, wafted by a breeze carrying the rich aromas of burning wood and roasting meat and simmering potage.
One man moved away from the others, a man wearing the rusty black habit of a priest. Faint strands of gray streaked the dark brown of his hair, but his frame was big boned and tough, his face sun darkened, his eyes hard. He looked more like a middle-aged knight than a priest, and as he moved, Damion noticed that the man's right sleeve swung empty at his side.
Good evening, Father, said Damion, reining in the bay charger. We come in peace and mean you no harm.
The priest regarded him through still, enigmatic gray eyes. You'll be wanting to camp with us for the night. He swept his hand in a welcoming gesture toward the fires. Come and join us in our evening meal. A strong sword arm would be most welcome, should any straggling soldiers chance to pass our way.
Damion reached down to pat his horse's sweaty neck. You have encountered Philip's army?
Dieu merci
, no; but we have seen their work. The priest shook back the left sleeve of his habit to extend a hand rough with old calluses left by years of swordplay. I am Father Sebastian. I was leading this group of good pilgrims from Caen to the shrine of Saint Martin in Tours. A faint smile touched his lips. However, it seems our timing was infelicitous. They say that Henry has retreated to Le Mans, and Philip marches on Tours at this very moment.
So I had heard. Resting one elbow on his high pommel, Damion bent to clasp the man's left hand in his own. Damion de Jarnac. He nodded toward Attica, who was doing her best to hover inconspicuously in the background. And this is Atticus d'Alérion, my squire.
De Jarnac? The older man's powerful grip tightened, and he did not immediately release Damion's hand. Ah, I thought so. You have much the look of your brother.
Damion flung back his head, his jaw clenching with the effort to control himself beneath the priest's watchful eye. You knew Simon?
Before I took the cloth, I was a man of the sword. Your brother and I were squires together.
Damion eased his hand from the man's grasp and straightened to gather the bay's reins. I will understand, he said, his gaze focused fiercely on the man's face, if you preferred that we ride on.
Father Sebastian laid a restraining hand on the bay's bridle. My son, whatever I might have been in the past, I am now a man of God. And God's mercy is as infinite as his capacity to forgive. Please. Get down and join us. Later, perhaps, we shall speak of your brother. I have stories to tell that you might not have heard.
The setting sun streaked the sky with long, rippling trails of gold and pink and vivid orange that faded almost abruptly to aquamarine, then to a deep, rich purple sprinkled with stars. The air filled with the creak-creak of crickets and the lower, more somber croaking of a frog in the stream, while from somewhere in the wood-covered hills behind them came the trill of a solitary nightingale so achingly beautiful that Attica felt her heart catch.
She sat in the warm glow of one of the pilgrims fires, a horn of ale clutched almost forgotten in her hand as she sleepily admired the way the ruddy light of the dancing flames glinted on the auburn highlights in de Jarnac's dark hair and glazed the powerful bones of his face. One of the pilgrimsa slim, fair-haired boy of about sixteen with a harp slung over his shoulderhad cornered the knight shortly after supper and proceeded to talk his ear off about vers and plainchant and cansos. Quietly amused, Attica simply leaned back against her saddle and listened.
If there is a way to indicate the length of notes, said the harpist, his fair eyebrows drawn together in earnest concentration, I do not know it. But as to the other, I have heard something
De Jarnac, his head nodding encouragingly, drained his wine cup and reached for more. He had been drinking steadily through the evening, Attica had noticed, although it didn't seem to have affected him in any wayexcept, perhaps, to intensify that coiled, almost lethal quality that hung about him always.
She sensed a wild, restless edge to him tonight that worried her. It was as if the mention of his brother had laid open an old, festering wound deep inside him. Glancing down, he caught her watching him and flashed her a wide, reckless smile. But his eyes remained brooding and dangerous.
Her gaze sought out Father Sebastian where he crouched on the far side of the fire before an old woman so bent and crippled, she could walk only with the aid of two canes. He had one of the woman's twisted feet in his lap and was massaging the instep while he spoke to her, his voice a gentle murmur on the night wind.
He must make a good priest, Attica thought, this man who knew life in all its joys and sorrows and agonies, who knew all the weaknesses and temptations and failings of men, yet still believed in the mercy of God and knew how to forgive.
And she found herself wondering exactly what Damion de Jarnac had done, that needed God's forgiveness.
I have heard of an abbot in Rome who has improved upon the brilliant system of notation created by the Saintly Guido, continued the fair-haired stripling in an eager voice. I believe he has added a seventh note, a
si
named, of course, for Sancte Ioannes.
Her attention caught, Attica swung her head to look at the young harpist who stood on the far side of de Jarnac. She had assumed Damion to be simply enduring the youth's
enthusiastic discourse on music. Now she realized she'd been wrong. Far from humoring him, de Jarnac had been systematically and very deliberately pumping the young harpist for information.
She drained the remaining ale in her cup and set it aside. She would have spoken then, only she realized de Jarnac's body had suddenly tensed, his head lifting as his fierce gaze fixed on something across the fire.
She swung about to follow his gaze and saw that Father Sebastian had left the crippled woman and now stood alone on the edge of the fire's light. His long black habit flapped in the wind as he stood, motionless and silent, as if waiting for someone.
De Jarnac set aside the wine ewer and cup. Excuse me, he said to the boy, although his gaze never left the dark, one-armed figure across the fire.
Attica started to scramble to her feet, but de Jarnac put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. It's late. You should sleep, he said quietly, not looking at her any more than he'd looked at the young musician.
She stared up into his taut, shadowed face. So should you.
He shook his head. There is someone with whom I must speak first.
His hand left her shoulder. She watched him walk away from her, the fire gleaming on the gilded spurs at his bootheels. Just beyond the circle of light, he paused beside the priest. She couldn't be certain, but she didn't think anything was said between them. Still, they turned together and walked off into the night, a tall, devil-haunted young knight who did not believe in the mercy of God, and the knight-turned-priest, who did.
*
Enthroned in the carved chair she had brought from Châteauhaut, Yvette let her bemused gaze drift over the collection of swords, daggers, maces, and lances that decorated the inner wall of Renouf Blissot's solar at Laval Castle. She could appreciate their fine workmanship, and she knew the value of their inlaid gold and silver and precious jewels, but she could see no beauty in these objects of death. It seemed a strange decoration.
Part of your collection appears to be missing, she said, noticing an empty hook.
My niece took it, said Renouf Blissot. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate she didn't leave it in my back.
Yvette brought her attention back to the small, dark-haired man who sat on a three-legged stool beside the exquisite silver candelabra that graced the oak table in the center of the room. He was a handsome man, Renouf Blissot, with his slim, wiry body and flashing gray eyes. But obviously not, she thought with a sigh, as competent as one would think in looking at him.
How difficult is it? Gaspard demanded, flinging his arms wide in that way he had as he paced up and down the solar, creating enough wind with his passing to flicker the torches in their wall brackets. How difficult is it to keep one nineteen-year-old woman securely locked up?
Renouf propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. You tell me, Gaspard, he said, his sardonic gaze following the other man's energetic perambulations. You lost her before I did.
Gaspard whirled to point an accusatory finger at Yvette. I told you. Didn't I tell you we should have come quicker? Why you must drag half the contents of the castle about with you, every time you travel
Yvette selected a sweetmeat from the silver tray at her side and popped it into her mouth. Do sit down, Gaspard. You're fatiguing yourself unnecessarily.
They fled east, of course, said Renouf Blissot, swiveling sideways to stretch his legs out before him. Toward La Ferté-Bernard. A few days ago they killed two of my knightsat least, one assumes it was de Jarnac's handiwork. Whoever it was took one horse and one set of armor, and left the rest. No one has seen them since. He shifted his gaze toward Yvette. Did you know of Richard and Philip's plans for the conference?
No. De Harcourt spoke to us of the alliance against Henry, but only in the most general terms.
Renouf grunted. Too bad he wasn't as discreet with Attica.
Do you know what documents he carried in that breviary? Gaspard asked, helping himself to a cup of wine.
The castellan shook his head. No. But if they were for John, the results could be disastrous if they fall into the wrong hands.
I think we must assume they already have, said Yvette, pushing to her feet. It's late. I shall retire now to that pleasant chamber you have prepared for us. She glanced at her husband, who had his nose deep in a wine cup. Don't stay up late, Gaspard. We leave early.
Gaspard sucked in a quick breath of surprise that caused him to inhale some of the wine and fall to coughing. Leave? he said when he was able.
Yvette paused with her hand on the solar door. If Attica has fled to Henry, it may not be easy to get her back. We'll continue on to La Ferté-Bernard and lay our case before Philip. He is, after all, Henry's liege.
But I don't want her now, said Fulk, rising suddenly
from the window embrasure where he had been playing with a couple of half-grown puppies. You can't expect me to wed her now, after she's been with this knight. His lip curled as if he had smelled something foul. Another man's leavings?
Don't be a fool, snapped Yvette. You repudiate Attica now and we will have Robert d'Alérion as our sworn enemy rather than our ally. She let go of the door to point a warning finger at her son. You'll wed her all right, boy. Even if she's quick with child by this rogue knight, you will wed her, and make no mistake about that.
Attica awoke to the dark stillness that comes over the world in those hours just before the first lightening of dawn.
The fire had burned down to a pile of pale white ashes, but the night was not cold. She rolled onto her back, her head turning against the soft velvet of the folded surcoat she used as a pillow, her gaze searching for de Jarnac's familiar form beside her.
She was alone.
Pushing herself up on her elbows, she drew in a deep breath of night-scented air, her eyes narrowing as she searched the huddled, sleeping forms of the pilgrims. Impossible to tell if Father Sebastian was among them. She lay down again, trying to close her eyes and go back to sleep. But she could not rest easy.
Sitting up quietly, she pulled on her boots and then, wrapping the cloak around her, arose from the hard ground. She walked with no particular destination in mind, her footsteps carrying her almost aimlessly toward the stream.
Away from the camp, the night seemed even darker and lonelier. She could hear the wind stirring the trees up on the hill and sighing through the meadow grass. But the
creatures of the night had all quieted. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the new day.
She saw him then, a solitary figure standing tall and broad-shouldered on a low rise overlooking the stream. She walked toward him, her footfalls muffled by the long, dew-dampened meadow grass. He had his back to her. He didn't turn as she came up behind him, but he knew she was there, for he said, his tone harsh, You shouldn't be out here.
The very air between them seemed to crackle and heat with a mutually intense physical awareness, an aching need that brought a flush to her face and made her body suddenly, quiveringly sensitive. She knew she hovered on the edge of something beautiful and dangerous, knew she should turn around and leave him here, alone in the darkness, before it was too late. Instead, she took a step that brought her right up beside him. Everyone in the camp is asleep.
He stood perfectly still. That's not what I meant, and you know it.
She stared up at his hard profile. I don't believe you'll hurt me, she said, although it was a lie. He had already hurt her by riding into her world and showing her what life and love could be like. What it could be like if she were someone else. He would hurt her even more the day her honor and sense of duty forced her to say good-bye to him.
He looked at her then, and she saw something flash in his eyes, something wild and dangerous that was there, then hidden beneath the deceptively lazy droop of his lids. It would hurt you, he said, his voice low and rough. What we would do together. It could destroy you.
I know, she said simply.
The breeze, restless and cool and scented with ripe grass
and damp earth, danced around them to flutter her short hair against her face. He reached out, his battle-hardened hand gently brushing her cheek as he tucked the stray curls behind her ear.
He stared down at her, and his face took on that intense, heated look she'd come to know. She stood breathless and still beneath his touch, her heart beating so hard and fast, she could feel her pulse thrumming against his fingertips as they lingered at the tender flesh at the side of her neck.
I know, she said again, her voice an aching whisper. And I don't care.
She saw his head jerk, his nostrils flaring wide and proud. You think you know. His hand clenched in the hair at the base of her head to draw her closer, until she could feel the heat of his body, enveloping her, see the fire in his eyes, scorching her. You think you know, and you think you don't care. But you can't begin to imagine what could come of this.
Perhaps not. She breathed in the scent of him, the scent of woodsmoke and leather and deadly polished steel. But I know what my life will be like without this. I don't think I could bear it. She leaned into him, her hands splayed against his strong chest. She could feel the fine trembling going on inside him, feel the battle he fought with himself. The strain of it accentuated the harsh lines of his face, making him look more dangerous and beautiful than ever.
She saw his jaw tighten, the creases in his cheeks deepening as he held himself rigid beneath her touch. Attica, please
She pressed her fingertips to his lips, stopping his words, tracing the line of that hard mouth, watching it part on a harshly expelled breath.
Damion,
she whispered, her hands sliding over his beard-stubbled cheeks to bracket his
face, her gaze locking with his. She could see her own desire, reflected in the glowing depths of his eyes. See the need.
And then it was as if something within him tore loose, something that had been holding him back. With a harsh groan, he swept his hands down her spine and crushed her to him, his mouth slamming down on hers. She opened her mouth to his kiss, to him, and heard a low, primitive growl reverberate in the depths of his chest as he moved his lips across hers, deepened the kiss, filled her being with the feel of him, the taste of him, the essence of him.
And the essence of him was fire. She clung to him, breathed in that fire, so raw and passionate, it swept away all control. His tongue mated with hers, and the kiss became something urgent, something all-consuming. It was as if he entered her blood stream, pounded through her, became part of her.
With a low, keening moan, she pressed herself against him, her arms twining around his neck, her breasts flattening against his hard chest. She was desperate to get closer to him, hated the clothes that kept them apart. She wanted to slide her naked body against his, to run her fingers over his smooth, hot flesh, to touch him, all of him.
She knew he had the same need, for his hands were all over her. Through the cloth of her tunic, his fingers found her taut nipples and coaxed from them an exquisite sensation somewhere between pain and ecstasy.
He tore his mouth from hers, his lips and tongue trailing fire down her throat, sucking, licking, stoking that clenching need deep, deep in her belly. Her breath caught on a small cry, her head falling back, her eyes wide and glazed as she stared at the night sky above them. She thought she
Grace ŕDieu.
Huh. De Jarnac's startlingly green eyes gleamed at her over the dark, matted head of the baby. Instead of sitting there thanking God, perhaps you could try telling me what we're going to do with a baby?
A baby
, for the love of Mary.
The child had latched on to the front of de Jarnac's hauberk with two frantic fists and buried its face into the knight's broad shoulder. Small shudders still shook the boy's thin frame, but he seemed reassured by the gentle strength of the brawny arm that held him so securely; the wailing ceased abruptly.
Attica smiled softly. I think he likes you.
A slow flush spread over the knight's high cheekbones. Well, he'd best learn to like you instead. I can't even get at my sword, let alone swing it, with him in the way.
Still smiling, she urged the roan closer and stretched out her arms toward the baby. Here. Hand him to me. The boy began to whimper again as de Jarnac loosed the little fists hold on his mail and she lifted the child gently onto her saddle bow.
Tout va bien, mon petit,
she whispered, trying to cradle the now howling, thrashing child to her. It's all right.
You're not holding him right, said de Jarnac. Put one arm under his rump and use the other hand against his back to keep him steady.
She adjusted her grip as instructed. With a gurgled
hiccup, the child burrowed his face into her chest and quieted.
She laughed. It worked. Her head fell back, her gaze meeting his over the child's head. She saw a muscle bunch in his cheek. And then it was as if a sad kind of tenderness relaxed the harsh lines of his face, and he smiled.
Attica felt her heartbeat slow as the moment stretched out, became poignant and aching with things unsaid and impossible. Her skin grew warm, her breath easing out of her parted lips in a painful sigh. And she wanted, wanted
No!
The sound of a frantic, high-pitched scream brought both their heads around.
A woman with unkempt dark hair and a contorted, grief-ravaged face came running down the road, her skirts kilted up, her arms waving frantically. No! Don't take him! She stumbled over a broken plow and went sprawling, but picked herself up and kept running. He's mine; he's my Folcard. Oh, please don't take him.
She stumbled to a halt some few feet from them, her chest heaving with the effort to suck in wind, her hands twisting in the skirt of her filthy, torn dress. Scratches covered her face and bare forearms; bits of dried leaves and twigs matted her hair. Her dark eyes were wide and wild in a pale face. Please, she said again, sinking to her knees, her cupped hands coming up beseechingly. He's my Folcard. I left him here, in the house. She nodded toward the pile of smoldering rubble beside them. I left him and my Cecily with their papa while I went into the fields. But then the soldiers came, and I hid in the woods, and A shudder shook her shoulders, and she brought up her hands to cover her face.
Oh, God.
Be at peace, woman, said de Jarnac. We do not mean to steal your child. Get up.
Her face wary and uncertain, the woman staggered to her feet as Attica urged the roan forward and held out the little boy. Folcard took one look at his mother and began to scream hysterically, his little legs pumping in the air, his arms waving so frantically, Attica almost dropped him.
The woman snatched the child to her as if she thought Attica might change her mind and take him back. Folcard, she said on a harsh expulsion of breath. Folcard. Sinking to her knees in the mud of the road, she buried her face in the child's neck and wept.
De Jarnac's big destrier fidgeted as he glanced around uncomfortably. Madame? he said after a moment. What can you tell us of the army that did this?
For a moment, Attica didn't think the woman was capable of answering. She simply rocked back and forth, her baby clutched to her chest, her eyes squeezed shut as she said his name over and over.
My good woman, said de Jarnac.
The woman's head fell back, her eyes opening, as if she had only just become aware that they were still there. The army? Her face contorted horribly. God save us. They say that the conference at La Ferté-Bernard has collapsed; that's why Philip's army is on the march. He has taken La Ferté-Bernard and Montfordand Beaumont and Ballon as well. But we never expected them to come here. Not here.
Unable to look at the woman's grief-stricken face, Attica let her gaze wanderthen regretted it when her attention was caught by a pair of large, wooden-soled shoes thrusting out from beneath the burned timbers of the house beside them. When she looked closer, she could make out stout legs, encased in torn hose and lying deathly still.
Here, surely, was the woman's husband. And the little hand just visible beside his must belong to Cecily. Swallowing hard, Attica jerked her gaze away.
And King Henry? de Jarnac was asking. His voice sounded rough and impersonal, but the woman responded to it.
Henry? The woman's face hardened with something that might have been anger. They say he has fled to Le Mans.
De Jarnac lifted his head, his gaze sweeping the hills on the far side of the valley as he gathered his reins.
What are we going to do? asked Attica, watching him. We can't simply ride off and leave her here alone with the child.
His head swiveled toward her, his eyes narrowing. What do you suggest? he asked dryly. That we take her with us? But he dropped his gaze to the woman in the road. Are there others of the village left alive?
Struggling to swallow a sob, the woman nodded. Those who were in the fields. Most of us fled to the woods. It was only those still in the village She turned to stare at what was left of her home, and Attica saw the woman's face crumple, become old.
How will she bear it? Attica thought. How does anyone bear such anguish and loss and horror? How?
Attica. Attica?
She realized he'd said her name twice. She looked up into his face to find him watching her with narrowed, empty eyes. The wind blew his dark hair against the hard masculine planes of his face, and he was like a stranger to her. A cold, deadly stranger.
I've done this
, he'd said, his big hand with its bloodstained glove sweeping in an arc over the burned hovels,
the slaughtered livestock, the slaughtered children.
I've done this
. She sucked in a breath of tainted air that seemed to shudder her frame.
Oh, God
We must go, he said, a strange, bitter glitter kindling in the depths of his eyes, as if he knew what she was thinking. But then, perhaps he did. He said her thoughts always showed on her face.
Her throat felt too tight to speak. Gathering her reins, she nodded, her knees urging the roan forward.
They rode in silence between the rows of smoldering cottages, past the sprawled, bloody, violated bodies of the men, women, and children who had once lived in them. Past the guard dogs with their ripped bellies, and the bags of spilled grain, soaked with blood, and the broken sickles and hoes.
Eventually the scenes of violence faded into the distance. Yet long after they'd left the ruined valley and begun to climb through the sweet green grass of the hills, she imagined she could still smell the place. The stench of burned thatch and rotting flesh seemed to cling to her, choking her. She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut against the rising nausea, then opened them again abruptly when her mind's eye began to replay for her that hideous panorama of spilled blood and mindless destruction and grotesquely mutilated bodies.
And one little girl's small, lifeless hand.
With a strangled cry, she reined in, practically throwing herself from the saddle. She took two stumbling steps away, then hunched over and vomited into the daisy-strewn grass of the hillside.
Her body quivered painfully with each heave. Her throat burned, and she had to brace her hands against her spread knees to steady herself. She felt hot and shivery at the
same time, and it was as if the warm blue sky and wind-feathered trees had disappeared and her world had narrowed down to the memories of that village and her own physical reaction to them.
She heard footsteps behind her, felt strong arms come around her waist from behind, warm and comforting. The low murmur of his voice was gentle and soothing in her ear. When the sickness she couldn't seem to control hit her again, she wrapped her hands around his brawny forearms and let him support her while the shudders wracked her frame.
And then, when it was all over, she turned in his arms and wept.
They rode in a silence filled only with the squeak of saddle leather and the muffled clomp of their horses hooves hitting the soft grass. In the end, it came to be too much for her, and she swung her head to look at him. What do we do now? she asked.
He squinted up at the sun, and she realized he'd changed their bearing. Whereas before they'd been headed east, now they were tracking south. We ride to Le Mans. And hope there's not an army in our way. He cast her a quick, appraising glance. Are you all right?
She felt her cheeks heat with a flush. I'm all right, she said, her voice raspy. It won't happen again.
No. That's the kind of reaction you have only once.
She looked at him. He sat his horse with the graceful ease of a born horseman, one gloved hand resting on his lean hip, his back straight and tall. She could not begin to imagine this hard, ruthless man vomiting with shock at the sight of a dead child.
Did you have it? That kind of reaction, I mean.
He met her gaze squarely, his lips curling up into that mocking smile of his. But in his face she thought she could trace the shadow of an old vulnerability, a phantom that was there and then gone. Everyone does, he said simply, and spurred the destrier on ahead.
Toward sunset, they dropped down from a hillside thickly wooded with intermingled beech and birch, and came into a stretch of open meadow near a stream.
A party of some fifteen or twenty men and women wearing the somber gray robes and broad hats of pilgrims were camped on the high ground just beyond the ford. They looked up, their faces wary, as Damion spurred his horse across the stream, with Attica behind him. Smoke drifted up from several scattered cooking fires, wafted by a breeze carrying the rich aromas of burning wood and roasting meat and simmering potage.
One man moved away from the others, a man wearing the rusty black habit of a priest. Faint strands of gray streaked the dark brown of his hair, but his frame was big boned and tough, his face sun darkened, his eyes hard. He looked more like a middle-aged knight than a priest, and as he moved, Damion noticed that the man's right sleeve swung empty at his side.
Good evening, Father, said Damion, reining in the bay charger. We come in peace and mean you no harm.
The priest regarded him through still, enigmatic gray eyes. You'll be wanting to camp with us for the night. He swept his hand in a welcoming gesture toward the fires. Come and join us in our evening meal. A strong sword arm would be most welcome, should any straggling soldiers chance to pass our way.
Damion reached down to pat his horse's sweaty neck. You have encountered Philip's army?
Dieu merci
, no; but we have seen their work. The priest shook back the left sleeve of his habit to extend a hand rough with old calluses left by years of swordplay. I am Father Sebastian. I was leading this group of good pilgrims from Caen to the shrine of Saint Martin in Tours. A faint smile touched his lips. However, it seems our timing was infelicitous. They say that Henry has retreated to Le Mans, and Philip marches on Tours at this very moment.
So I had heard. Resting one elbow on his high pommel, Damion bent to clasp the man's left hand in his own. Damion de Jarnac. He nodded toward Attica, who was doing her best to hover inconspicuously in the background. And this is Atticus d'Alérion, my squire.
De Jarnac? The older man's powerful grip tightened, and he did not immediately release Damion's hand. Ah, I thought so. You have much the look of your brother.
Damion flung back his head, his jaw clenching with the effort to control himself beneath the priest's watchful eye. You knew Simon?
Before I took the cloth, I was a man of the sword. Your brother and I were squires together.
Damion eased his hand from the man's grasp and straightened to gather the bay's reins. I will understand, he said, his gaze focused fiercely on the man's face, if you preferred that we ride on.
Father Sebastian laid a restraining hand on the bay's bridle. My son, whatever I might have been in the past, I am now a man of God. And God's mercy is as infinite as his capacity to forgive. Please. Get down and join us. Later, perhaps, we shall speak of your brother. I have stories to tell that you might not have heard.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
The setting sun streaked the sky with long, rippling trails of gold and pink and vivid orange that faded almost abruptly to aquamarine, then to a deep, rich purple sprinkled with stars. The air filled with the creak-creak of crickets and the lower, more somber croaking of a frog in the stream, while from somewhere in the wood-covered hills behind them came the trill of a solitary nightingale so achingly beautiful that Attica felt her heart catch.
She sat in the warm glow of one of the pilgrims fires, a horn of ale clutched almost forgotten in her hand as she sleepily admired the way the ruddy light of the dancing flames glinted on the auburn highlights in de Jarnac's dark hair and glazed the powerful bones of his face. One of the pilgrimsa slim, fair-haired boy of about sixteen with a harp slung over his shoulderhad cornered the knight shortly after supper and proceeded to talk his ear off about vers and plainchant and cansos. Quietly amused, Attica simply leaned back against her saddle and listened.
If there is a way to indicate the length of notes, said the harpist, his fair eyebrows drawn together in earnest concentration, I do not know it. But as to the other, I have heard something
De Jarnac, his head nodding encouragingly, drained his wine cup and reached for more. He had been drinking steadily through the evening, Attica had noticed, although it didn't seem to have affected him in any wayexcept, perhaps, to intensify that coiled, almost lethal quality that hung about him always.
She sensed a wild, restless edge to him tonight that worried her. It was as if the mention of his brother had laid open an old, festering wound deep inside him. Glancing down, he caught her watching him and flashed her a wide, reckless smile. But his eyes remained brooding and dangerous.
Her gaze sought out Father Sebastian where he crouched on the far side of the fire before an old woman so bent and crippled, she could walk only with the aid of two canes. He had one of the woman's twisted feet in his lap and was massaging the instep while he spoke to her, his voice a gentle murmur on the night wind.
He must make a good priest, Attica thought, this man who knew life in all its joys and sorrows and agonies, who knew all the weaknesses and temptations and failings of men, yet still believed in the mercy of God and knew how to forgive.
And she found herself wondering exactly what Damion de Jarnac had done, that needed God's forgiveness.
I have heard of an abbot in Rome who has improved upon the brilliant system of notation created by the Saintly Guido, continued the fair-haired stripling in an eager voice. I believe he has added a seventh note, a
si
named, of course, for Sancte Ioannes.
Her attention caught, Attica swung her head to look at the young harpist who stood on the far side of de Jarnac. She had assumed Damion to be simply enduring the youth's
enthusiastic discourse on music. Now she realized she'd been wrong. Far from humoring him, de Jarnac had been systematically and very deliberately pumping the young harpist for information.
She drained the remaining ale in her cup and set it aside. She would have spoken then, only she realized de Jarnac's body had suddenly tensed, his head lifting as his fierce gaze fixed on something across the fire.
She swung about to follow his gaze and saw that Father Sebastian had left the crippled woman and now stood alone on the edge of the fire's light. His long black habit flapped in the wind as he stood, motionless and silent, as if waiting for someone.
De Jarnac set aside the wine ewer and cup. Excuse me, he said to the boy, although his gaze never left the dark, one-armed figure across the fire.
Attica started to scramble to her feet, but de Jarnac put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. It's late. You should sleep, he said quietly, not looking at her any more than he'd looked at the young musician.
She stared up into his taut, shadowed face. So should you.
He shook his head. There is someone with whom I must speak first.
His hand left her shoulder. She watched him walk away from her, the fire gleaming on the gilded spurs at his bootheels. Just beyond the circle of light, he paused beside the priest. She couldn't be certain, but she didn't think anything was said between them. Still, they turned together and walked off into the night, a tall, devil-haunted young knight who did not believe in the mercy of God, and the knight-turned-priest, who did.
*
Enthroned in the carved chair she had brought from Châteauhaut, Yvette let her bemused gaze drift over the collection of swords, daggers, maces, and lances that decorated the inner wall of Renouf Blissot's solar at Laval Castle. She could appreciate their fine workmanship, and she knew the value of their inlaid gold and silver and precious jewels, but she could see no beauty in these objects of death. It seemed a strange decoration.
Part of your collection appears to be missing, she said, noticing an empty hook.
My niece took it, said Renouf Blissot. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate she didn't leave it in my back.
Yvette brought her attention back to the small, dark-haired man who sat on a three-legged stool beside the exquisite silver candelabra that graced the oak table in the center of the room. He was a handsome man, Renouf Blissot, with his slim, wiry body and flashing gray eyes. But obviously not, she thought with a sigh, as competent as one would think in looking at him.
How difficult is it? Gaspard demanded, flinging his arms wide in that way he had as he paced up and down the solar, creating enough wind with his passing to flicker the torches in their wall brackets. How difficult is it to keep one nineteen-year-old woman securely locked up?
Renouf propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. You tell me, Gaspard, he said, his sardonic gaze following the other man's energetic perambulations. You lost her before I did.
Gaspard whirled to point an accusatory finger at Yvette. I told you. Didn't I tell you we should have come quicker? Why you must drag half the contents of the castle about with you, every time you travel
Yvette selected a sweetmeat from the silver tray at her side and popped it into her mouth. Do sit down, Gaspard. You're fatiguing yourself unnecessarily.
They fled east, of course, said Renouf Blissot, swiveling sideways to stretch his legs out before him. Toward La Ferté-Bernard. A few days ago they killed two of my knightsat least, one assumes it was de Jarnac's handiwork. Whoever it was took one horse and one set of armor, and left the rest. No one has seen them since. He shifted his gaze toward Yvette. Did you know of Richard and Philip's plans for the conference?
No. De Harcourt spoke to us of the alliance against Henry, but only in the most general terms.
Renouf grunted. Too bad he wasn't as discreet with Attica.
Do you know what documents he carried in that breviary? Gaspard asked, helping himself to a cup of wine.
The castellan shook his head. No. But if they were for John, the results could be disastrous if they fall into the wrong hands.
I think we must assume they already have, said Yvette, pushing to her feet. It's late. I shall retire now to that pleasant chamber you have prepared for us. She glanced at her husband, who had his nose deep in a wine cup. Don't stay up late, Gaspard. We leave early.
Gaspard sucked in a quick breath of surprise that caused him to inhale some of the wine and fall to coughing. Leave? he said when he was able.
Yvette paused with her hand on the solar door. If Attica has fled to Henry, it may not be easy to get her back. We'll continue on to La Ferté-Bernard and lay our case before Philip. He is, after all, Henry's liege.
But I don't want her now, said Fulk, rising suddenly
from the window embrasure where he had been playing with a couple of half-grown puppies. You can't expect me to wed her now, after she's been with this knight. His lip curled as if he had smelled something foul. Another man's leavings?
Don't be a fool, snapped Yvette. You repudiate Attica now and we will have Robert d'Alérion as our sworn enemy rather than our ally. She let go of the door to point a warning finger at her son. You'll wed her all right, boy. Even if she's quick with child by this rogue knight, you will wed her, and make no mistake about that.
Attica awoke to the dark stillness that comes over the world in those hours just before the first lightening of dawn.
The fire had burned down to a pile of pale white ashes, but the night was not cold. She rolled onto her back, her head turning against the soft velvet of the folded surcoat she used as a pillow, her gaze searching for de Jarnac's familiar form beside her.
She was alone.
Pushing herself up on her elbows, she drew in a deep breath of night-scented air, her eyes narrowing as she searched the huddled, sleeping forms of the pilgrims. Impossible to tell if Father Sebastian was among them. She lay down again, trying to close her eyes and go back to sleep. But she could not rest easy.
Sitting up quietly, she pulled on her boots and then, wrapping the cloak around her, arose from the hard ground. She walked with no particular destination in mind, her footsteps carrying her almost aimlessly toward the stream.
Away from the camp, the night seemed even darker and lonelier. She could hear the wind stirring the trees up on the hill and sighing through the meadow grass. But the
creatures of the night had all quieted. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the new day.
She saw him then, a solitary figure standing tall and broad-shouldered on a low rise overlooking the stream. She walked toward him, her footfalls muffled by the long, dew-dampened meadow grass. He had his back to her. He didn't turn as she came up behind him, but he knew she was there, for he said, his tone harsh, You shouldn't be out here.
The very air between them seemed to crackle and heat with a mutually intense physical awareness, an aching need that brought a flush to her face and made her body suddenly, quiveringly sensitive. She knew she hovered on the edge of something beautiful and dangerous, knew she should turn around and leave him here, alone in the darkness, before it was too late. Instead, she took a step that brought her right up beside him. Everyone in the camp is asleep.
He stood perfectly still. That's not what I meant, and you know it.
She stared up at his hard profile. I don't believe you'll hurt me, she said, although it was a lie. He had already hurt her by riding into her world and showing her what life and love could be like. What it could be like if she were someone else. He would hurt her even more the day her honor and sense of duty forced her to say good-bye to him.
He looked at her then, and she saw something flash in his eyes, something wild and dangerous that was there, then hidden beneath the deceptively lazy droop of his lids. It would hurt you, he said, his voice low and rough. What we would do together. It could destroy you.
I know, she said simply.
The breeze, restless and cool and scented with ripe grass
and damp earth, danced around them to flutter her short hair against her face. He reached out, his battle-hardened hand gently brushing her cheek as he tucked the stray curls behind her ear.
He stared down at her, and his face took on that intense, heated look she'd come to know. She stood breathless and still beneath his touch, her heart beating so hard and fast, she could feel her pulse thrumming against his fingertips as they lingered at the tender flesh at the side of her neck.
I know, she said again, her voice an aching whisper. And I don't care.
She saw his head jerk, his nostrils flaring wide and proud. You think you know. His hand clenched in the hair at the base of her head to draw her closer, until she could feel the heat of his body, enveloping her, see the fire in his eyes, scorching her. You think you know, and you think you don't care. But you can't begin to imagine what could come of this.
Perhaps not. She breathed in the scent of him, the scent of woodsmoke and leather and deadly polished steel. But I know what my life will be like without this. I don't think I could bear it. She leaned into him, her hands splayed against his strong chest. She could feel the fine trembling going on inside him, feel the battle he fought with himself. The strain of it accentuated the harsh lines of his face, making him look more dangerous and beautiful than ever.
She saw his jaw tighten, the creases in his cheeks deepening as he held himself rigid beneath her touch. Attica, please
She pressed her fingertips to his lips, stopping his words, tracing the line of that hard mouth, watching it part on a harshly expelled breath.
Damion,
she whispered, her hands sliding over his beard-stubbled cheeks to bracket his
face, her gaze locking with his. She could see her own desire, reflected in the glowing depths of his eyes. See the need.
And then it was as if something within him tore loose, something that had been holding him back. With a harsh groan, he swept his hands down her spine and crushed her to him, his mouth slamming down on hers. She opened her mouth to his kiss, to him, and heard a low, primitive growl reverberate in the depths of his chest as he moved his lips across hers, deepened the kiss, filled her being with the feel of him, the taste of him, the essence of him.
And the essence of him was fire. She clung to him, breathed in that fire, so raw and passionate, it swept away all control. His tongue mated with hers, and the kiss became something urgent, something all-consuming. It was as if he entered her blood stream, pounded through her, became part of her.
With a low, keening moan, she pressed herself against him, her arms twining around his neck, her breasts flattening against his hard chest. She was desperate to get closer to him, hated the clothes that kept them apart. She wanted to slide her naked body against his, to run her fingers over his smooth, hot flesh, to touch him, all of him.
She knew he had the same need, for his hands were all over her. Through the cloth of her tunic, his fingers found her taut nipples and coaxed from them an exquisite sensation somewhere between pain and ecstasy.
He tore his mouth from hers, his lips and tongue trailing fire down her throat, sucking, licking, stoking that clenching need deep, deep in her belly. Her breath caught on a small cry, her head falling back, her eyes wide and glazed as she stared at the night sky above them. She thought she
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