Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (25 page)
would surely die if he didn't do something, something to ease this coiling tension within her.
Attica His voice was a warm, tortured whisper against the wet flesh of her throat as he suddenly held himself so still, she could feel the tiny, violent shudders ripping through him.
She clutched him to her, her hands clenching his tunic. No. Don't stop. Not this time.
He raised his head to look down at her, color riding high on the sharp line of his cheekbones, his eyes dark with anguish. I'm not worth this sacrifice. This risk. He shook his head from side to side. You don't really know me. You don't know the things I've done.
Her head jerked in denial, her breath as raspy as his. I know you. I know you've killed. I've
seen
you kill.
He closed his war-scarred hands over hers. You don't know the worst of it.
She raised their entwined hands to her lips and kissed his clenched knuckles, her eyes locked with his. Don't you see? It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
He tightened his grip on her until it almost hurt, then let her go. It matters to me.
Why? She felt a rush of panic squeeze her. She wanted to pound her fists against his broad, fighting-man's chest. She wanted to take his head in her arms and cradle him against her breast like a hurt and needy child. She wanted to do somethinganything to stop him from turning away from her like this. Why? she said again. Because you think it your
duty
to protect me? From
you
?
He stood with his body held taut, his features lost to her sight by distance and the shadows of the night. Yes.
A ragged laugh tore out of her, a laugh that twisted and caught on the pain in her chest so that it came out
sounding almost like a sob. Behold my black knight. She hugged herself to keep from shaking. My dark horseman, who claims to scorn the conventions of chivalry, when in reality he is all that is good and noble and honorable
His head jerked. Don't try to make me into something I'm not.
No. Listen to me. You think that whatever you did to your brother changes all that, makes it meaningless. But it doesn't. It doesn't.
In the sudden silence that followed her words, she could hear the gentle gurgle of the stream running broad and quiet with barely enough current here to send the water lapping against the sandy banks beside them. She saw his chest lift on an indrawn breath, saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. He swung abruptly away from her to go stand at the edge of the water. The air stirred around them, cool and sweet with dew. She stood very still, waiting.
When my mother was fourteen, he said after a moment, his deep, rich voice floating to her on a waft of breeze, her family betrothed her to a man she'd never met. A man she'd never even seen before.
He fell silent again, the night filling with tension, with the strain it took for him to say the things he was saying. Your father? she asked quietly.
He pushed his breath out through his teeth in a painful sigh. Hugh de Jarnac. He was practically old enough to be her grandfather, but the alliance was considered valuable to her family, and because she believed in honor and duty, she did not object.
What was he like?
He lifted his hand, as if reaching for something, then let it fall. I don't remember him much. To me, he was always a distant, imposing figure, gruff-voiced, mean-tempered. I
stayed out of his way. He was killed on a hunt when I was nine. I think I was relieved.
She thought about her own father, the laughing, indulgent Robert d'Alérion. It was her mother Attica had stayed away fromand still did. And your brother? she asked.
The wind died suddenly, leaving the atmosphere oddly calm and hushed. My mother was Hugh's second wife. He had a son already, by his first wife, a son who was a year older than my mother. His name was Simon.
She went to stand beside him at the water's edge, close, but not touching him, not even looking at him. So your father already had an heir.
Two, actually. Simon had been married, young, to a woman from Poitiers. She died in childbirth, giving him a son. Simon never remarried.
She looked at him then, and the fading starlight revealed to her a face almost frighteningly cold and remote. Did he love his dead wife so much?
A fierce smile curled de Jarnac's lips, showing his teeth. Hardly. He never remarried because he was in love with my mother. His father's wife. And she loved him.
Attica sucked in a quick, shocked breath. Oh, how awful for her, she whispered, her voice grating painfully in her tight throat. How awful for them both. She knew well that such a love was doomed; for a woman to marry her dead husband's son was forbidden. In the eyes of the church, such a union was considered incestuous, and punishable by death.
She couldn't seem to stop herself from reaching out to him. She was afraid he'd scorn her attempt to touch him, but he took her hand, his fingers entwining with hers to draw her closer. What did they do? she asked.
His hand still linked with hers, he brought his arms
around her from behind, holding her back to his chest so that she could not see his face. After Hugh's death, my mother's family wanted her to return to them, with her dower portion, but she refused. She claimed she stayed to help raise her son and her husband's grandson. But it wasn't long before there were rumors.
She tipped her head back against his shoulder, her hands clutching at his wrists. Did you know? Did you know how they felt about each other?
He tightened his arms around her waist, rested his cheek against her hair. Not at first. I was young, and they were discreet. Eventually, I was sent as page to the house of my uncle, and somehow he managed to keep me from hearing about it. For a time. But then, the spring after I turned thirteen, some of the older squires cornered me in the stables and taunted me with it. I half killed them.
He fell silent for a moment. She felt his breath warm against the side of her face, felt the quiver that ran through him. I almost killed those squires for what they said, yet I think that even then, deep down in my gut, I knew it for the truth. And I knew that I couldn't rest until I looked into my mother's face and watched her reaction to what I'd heard.
My uncle tried to stop me. I simply knocked him out of my way. I took one of his horses and rode for home.
She knew now what he was going to say, and she had to clench her teeth together to keep from begging him not to say it.
There was a terrible storm that night. Rain poured in sheets out of the sky, but the lightning was so fierce and continuous, it lit up the countryside almost as if it were daylight. I reached the castle just before dawn. I pounded on the postern gate until the guard opened up for me, but
the way the thunder was rumbling, no one else heard me arrive.
I couldn't wait until morning to confront her. I ran up the stairs and threw open the doors to the hall. It woke up the men sleeping around the hearth, but I didn't care. I stormed into her chamber and found them.
Wordlessly, she turned in his arms so she could look into his drawn, pale face with its glittering, haunted eyes. He threaded his fingers through the hair at her temples, stroking her, stroking, although he kept his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the western hills.
I was only thirteen, Attica. I was too young to understand what they meant to each other. All I knew was that my mother had betrayed the memory of her husband, while my brother had betrayed his father, and me, and defiled my mother.
Unable to continue looking at him, Attica buried her face against his chest, her throat so raw it ached. Oh, God. Oh, God, no.
She felt the pounding of his heart reverberating against her cheek. I drew my sword and challenged him to fight me right there, in my mother's chamber. He refused, of course. But I was determined to make him fight me. I kept chasing him around the room, swinging my sword at him. He was naked. He grabbed stools, cloaks, anything he couldto use as a shield. But he refused to pick up his own sword and fight back. My mother was cryingscreaming
begging
me to stop.
Attica closed her eyes, her imagination conjuring up for her the crash of thunder, the flickering firelight glittering on Damion's rain-soaked cloak and gleaming along naked steel; the beautiful woman, wide-eyed and wild with fear for the two men she loved most.
She finally quit trying to reason with me and struck me on the shoulder with a water ewer. I think she was hoping to knock the sword out of my hand, but all she did was make me stagger at exactly the same moment as Simon lunged at me to try to wrest the sword from my grip. His hands were at her back now, moving in slow, relentless circles, holding her pressed blindly to him. She felt his chest lift as he breathed. The sword drove straight into his chest.
She tipped her head back, her throat tight, her words coming out in a hoarse whisper. You didn't kill him deliberately.
He gazed down at her, his face drawn and fierce. Yes I did. I wanted to kill him.
She shook her head. Not like that.
No. But he was still dead. She watched the muscles in his taut neck work as he swallowed. He was only twenty-nine years old, Attica. Two years older than I am now.
What happened to your mother? she asked quietly.
His face suddenly went cold, remote. She retired to a convent.
She let her hand creep around his neck to touch him there, at the nape of his neck, with gentle fingers. And you took the Cross?
He nodded. I left my uncle's house and joined Sir Rauve.
Have you seen her since? Your mother, I mean.
No.
The pain she felt for him was suddenly too much to bear. A rush of tears swelled her throat, spilled from beneath her hastily lowered lashes. Oh, Damion
He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. Don't weep for me, Attica. It's their tragedy, not mine. I was too young
then to understand the forces of hopeless passion and irresistible longing that drove them. But I understand it now. God help me, I understand it now.
He moved his hand, tracing her features with the tips of battle-scarred fingers that slid gently over her eyelids, down the curve of her cheek, to linger at her lips. She watched a kind of tautness come over his face, a lean, hungry look that she recognized as the hunger of a man for a woman. He stared at her, his eyes glowing as fierce as lightning. Then he sucked in a ragged sigh that shuddered his chest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand fell limply to his side. You need to go back now.
She stood unmoving before him, her heart pounding, her body trembling with yearning and love and a strange, determined boldness. Slowly, she reached up her hand to undo the clasp at her throat and let her cloak fall in a whisper to her feet. Her girdle followed, landing with a soft thump in the thick grass.
The sky was black above them, the stars fading with the coming of dawn. The wind stirred the dying night around them. She watched the white cloth of his ruined shirt flutter against the darkness of his bare neck, saw the pulse beating there wildly at the base of his throat.
She loosed the laces of her tunic and jerked it over her head.
Attica, he said, his voice low and breathy as she untied the points of her chausses. Please don't do this.
She lifted her head, her gaze locking with his as she worked methodically, stripping off boots, hose, braies, and shirt, until only the white swath of cloth that bound her breasts remained. Slowly, she unwound the binding, let it flutter to her feet like a wide, pale ribbon.
She stood naked before him. The night air skimmed
over her bare flesh, raising the fine hairs, filling her with a wild sense of freedom, of excitement. He held himself utterly still. But his eyes his eyes burned.
She reached out to him. She took his hand in hers and put it on her breast so that his palm cupped her fullness. Feel my breasts, she whispered, heavy and ripe for you.
His hand jerked in hers, and she tightened her fingers around him, eased his hand lower, skimming down over the bare flesh of her quivering belly, down between her thighs to where she burned. Feel my body, she said hoarsely, open for you.
The pale glimmer of starshine showed her the beloved planes of his face, sharp and fierce with need. She could feel the hard trembling going on inside of him as he fought to hold himself away from her. Felt, too, the moment when he lost that fight.
A groan tore out of him as he hauled her into his arms, his mouth slamming down on hers. His kiss was rough, hungry, consuming, a swirling onslaught of tongue and need and blind, hot passion. Oh, God, Attica, he said, his lips moving against hers, his breath coming in rough gasps, his hands sweeping urgently over her naked body. I don't think I can be gentle.
She clung to him, her fingers digging into the tight muscles of his shoulders, her teeth nipping at his lower lip. I don't need you to be gentle. She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull his head down to her. I simply need you.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands reveling in the feel of the taut muscles of his back beneath the cloth of his tunic as she drew him down to her. He laid his palm against her cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth beneath her chin, his mouth hovering just above hers. She could feel the need trembling inside him, feel his chest expanding against hers with each ragged breath.
I've wanted you so very badly, he said, his breath washing warm over her face.
She stared up at him, her heart pounding, her body aching with need. I'm not afraid.
He bent and covered her mouth with his, his lips soft but urgent as he turned his head back and forth, slanting his mouth against hers. She felt his fingers tangling in the hair at the side of her head, holding her steady as he deepened the kiss, filling her with his tongue, tracing the line of
her lips, making love to her mouth with a kind of wild desperation.
The wind eddied around them, sweet with the scent of meadow grass and stream-lapped sand and fresh with the promise of dawn. With a harsh murmur, he shifted his weight to one braced forearm, his lips still fastened to hers even as his hand swept down her body to close over her breast.
His touch on her breasts was as rough and hungry as his kiss, filling her with a need that burned, burned. His thumb swept her nipples and she gasped, squirming beneath him, her hands skimming over his back, impatient with the clothes that kept her from touching him the way he was touching her. She tugged at them, but already his hand had left her breasts to move possessively over the sensitive skin of her belly and slide between her parted thighs. He touched her there, spreading her wide, and it was as if he had enflamed every nerve of her body. She gasped into his mouth, her eyes flying wide in surprise. Then she felt his finger slip inside her, and she gasped again, her eyes squeezing shut, her body arching, her head falling back beneath a rush of intense, unbelievable sensation.
God, Attica, I'm sorry, but I can't He tore his mouth from hers, his eyes dark with a fierce, raw need as he reared up, his hands fumbling beneath tunic and shirt to yank at the ties of his braies. She saw a shudder rip through him; then his hands were at her hips, gripping her, lifting her, his face hard, intent.
She wrapped her hands around the tight, bulging muscles of his arms, her throat dry as she sucked in air. She felt something incredibly smooth and unexpectedly hard push against the soft flesh between her thighs, and as much as
she wanted this, she found she had to hold herself suddenly very still to keep from flinching away.
She saw a muscle bunch along his tight jaw. He leaned forward, his dark eyes riveted on hers. He caught her hands in his, stretched her arms over her head, pinned her beneath his weight. And pushed himself inside her.
She cried out. He caught her cry with his mouth, holding himself steady as she instinctively reared up against him. Shhh, he said, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her sweat slicked forehead. She quivered beneath him, feeling him within her, feeling his hardness, his heat, stretching her, filling her. It's only me, he whispered, and to her surprise, she felt a shaky laugh ease out of her.
He kissed her again, his hair falling forward to brush her cheek. When her trembling began to ease, he moved, pulling partway out of her only to thrust in again, deeper, harder. And she caught her breath in wonder because what she felt was not pain so much as a strange, pleasurable kind of pressure. A pleasure that coiled and built with each thrust and drag until she wanted to scream with it, scream with joyous rapture and the unbearable agony of their love.
Please, she said, her fingers digging into his shoulders, holding his chest pressed to her breasts as he moved so deep within her. Oh, please. She felt as if she were reaching for something, something that hovered bright and promising, just out of her grasp.
Ducemente, mon amanate,
he whispered, nuzzling her hair, his breath coming in hard, fast pants. He eased his hand between their bodies until it rested low on her belly, the heel of his hand pressing against her mound. Pressing, pressing, pressing her between the hardness of his hand and the hardness of his body thrusting into her, thrusting all the way to her heart.
She felt her love for him explode within her, an all-consuming, fiery wash of unbearably exquisite delight. As though through a dim haze, she saw his head fall back, his eyes squeezing shut, his face contorting as if in pain. She felt him give one last, violent thrust, deep within her. Then he reared back, the sweat-sheened muscles of his throat taut and bulging as he pulled himself out of her.
Gasping, she clutched at his arms, holding him as the shudders ripped through him. She knew he spilled his seed outside of her to keep from giving her his child. She knew it, but that did nothing to ease the sad, empty ache within her.
He wanted to hold her forever. Simply hold her.
He rolled onto his back and gathered her in his arms so that she lay on her side with her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, one hand flung across his heaving chest. His breath still came in ragged gasps. When he reached to smooth her hair from her damp forehead, his fingers shook.
He'd known this about love. That it could run so strong and deep that when combined with the heat of desire, it became dangerously overwhelming. He'd known this, yet he'd thought himself somehow different, thought he could resist. Now he knew himself humbled. And very afraid.
He felt her breasts press against him as she drew in a deep breath and pushed it out in a sigh. I keep thinking I should feel guilt, she said, her voice hushed. She turned, resting her bare forearms upon his chest so she could lift herself up and look into his face, her eyes wide and dark with emotion. But all I feel is joy. A terrible joy.
He could see her well now in the gathering light. He let his gaze rove over the delicate bones of her face, the high,
wide brow and long, aristocratic nose, the full, trembling lips and proud, strong chin. He thought he could look at her forever. He wanted to look at her forever. He wanted to look into the faces of his children, his grandchildren, and see her features, her essence, mingled with his for all time. The thought of a life without her suddenly seemed almost more than he could bear.
A terrible joy
. Yes, he thought; as great as it is, this joy is terrible, for it brings with it such fear of loss and the promise of unbearable pain.
He heard a lark's song floating sweet yet oddly sad from the wooded hills above. The morning air seemed to hurt his skin, hurt his chest as he drew in breath. With a fearful sense of urgency, he drew her up so that she lay along the length of his body. He caught her face between his hands, his lips capturing hers in a deep, desperate kiss. He had known these things about love, he thought, but he hadn't really understood. Hadn't understood at all.
It will be daybreak soon, she said, a smile in her voice as her mouth moved against his.
Do you think the good pilgrims might be shocked he ran his tongue along her lower lip fi nding us like this?
She touched his cheek and smiled. I think they might.
He sighed, his hands coursing down her bare back to cup her bottom. I want to make love to you for hours, Attica. Slowly this time. I want to touch you all over. With my hands. With my lips. With my tongue. He rubbed his partially open mouth against hers.
The lark sang again.
Tonight, she said with a laugh as he groaned and pressed his forehead against hers.
And in a bed, he added, the grass rustling beneath him
as he shifted uncomfortably. Tonight we need to find a bed.
A reddish glow stained the pale horizon as they walked back to the pilgrims camp. The lush, knee-high meadow grass whispered about them, its sweet scent reminding Attica of summers past and the lost, happy hours of her childhood. She tightened her grip on Damion's hand. He turned his head to her and smiled.
Love bloomed in her heart, filling her with wild joy and an aching dread that tugged at her happiness. She told herself Stephen would support her when she approached their father on the subject of her marriage. She told herself that a man as loyal to his liege lord as Robert d'Alérion would never honor a marriage alliance made with a house that could turn traitor. She told herself that Old King Henry would reward Damion for his loyalty, reward him so handsomely that her father would see an alliance with him as valuable. She told herself these things because she needed to be able to hope. If she couldn't hope, she thought, she just might curl up into a little ball and die.
The pungent smell of woodsmoke drifted across the meadow along with the crackle of recently kindled fires and the faint murmur of anxious voices. She hadn't expected to find the camp already astir. Beside her, Damion stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the far hills.
Apprehension bloomed within her, deep and ominous. What is it? she asked, touching his arm.
He nodded toward the distant red glow. The sun doesn't rise in the south, Attica.
She followed his gaze, her grip on him tightening. What can it mean?
He shook his head, but something in his face told her he knew. He knew only too well.
Damion She broke off at the sight of a weary horse, its heaving flanks stained dark and flecked with foam, its head hanging in exhaustion as it was led toward the river. She saw a grim-faced, dusty man slumped beside one of the fires, talking to Father Sebastian. The one-armed priest looked up and saw them. He nodded at something the man said, then touched his shoulder as if in comfort and walked toward them.
Surely that cannot be Tours? Damion asked as the one-armed priest came up to them. It is too near.
The older man shook his head. No. It seems Philip's move against Tours was only a feint. He has turned and attacked Henry at Le Mans instead. Attica saw dark shadows shift, deep in the older man's eyes, as if he were remembering other cities, cities he himself had helped to sack. They say the citadel still holds out. But the city itself is in flames.
And Henry? Attica asked.
The priest turned to her. He rides for Normandy. The nobles here have all deserted him, all but for the handful of his household knights who ride with him.
Stephen
, she thought, fear stealing her breath so that she could only nod when the priest excused himself and returned to the anxious pilgrims.
Don't worry about Stephen, Damion said, as if she had spoken aloud. Henry must have managed to escape Le Mans before Philip's forces were able to lay siege to the city. Stephen will be with him.
She turned to stare again at that hellish glow in the south. She was aware of a fine trembling within her, as if her entire world were shaking apart. What do we do now?
Ride for Normandy. What else?
He took her hand in his and together they walked toward the stretch of meadow where the tethered horses grazed in the pale light of early dawn. All around them the birds were awakening, fluttering through the dark silhouettes of the trees to rise up against the pearly sky, their voices blending into the heartrending song of dawn. Attica let her head fall back, watching them. She didn't understand how the world around her could seem so comfortingly calm and familiar, the new day so full of glorious promise, when her life as she knew it was collapsing.
There is a convent, Damion said slowly, not far from here. SainteGenevičve-sur-Sarthe. He paused, his head turned toward where the roan grazed, its tail flicking back and forth. I would go there before we turn north.
She looked at him in surprise. A convent?
An odd tension vibrated in the air as she waited for him to answer her. The abbess is Isabelle d'Anjou, he said at last, the name coming out unnaturally harsh and strained. I need to talk to her. About this French code.
Once, Isabelle d'Anjou had been a famous patroness of troubadours; more than a patronessa poet and musician in her own right. Something niggled at Attica's memory, something that sent an indefinable frisson of uneasiness over her. I had thought Isabelle d'Anjou dead since I was a small child, she said, reaching out to run her hand over the roan's warm, satiny withers.
No. She only took the veil.
The roan lifted its head and swung about to nuzzle Attica's hair, its breath blowing hot and grassy against her face. Attica caught the horse's nose in her hands. You know her?
I know her. He sounded as if he would like to have
left it at that, but he seemed to think he should perhaps say more. If there is a system to indicate the length of notes, she will have heard of it.
Henry has been defeated, Attica said, her gaze fixed firmly on the horse beside her. What difference can deciphering the French code possibly make now?
It's not over yet. If Henry rides to Normandy, it is because he intends to raise an army there. There and in England. He'll not give up. Not as long as he lives.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she let them trail over the roan's velvety soft muzzle.
If she couldn't hope
Her chest suddenly felt tight, as if she had forgotten to breathe. But when she sucked in a deep draught of air, it only hurt worse. If Henry is deposed, she said softly, my father will need the marriage alliance with Salers to secure his favor with Richard. He will never allow me to break my betrothal.
Then I'll just have to make sure Henry isn't deposed, won't I?
She had been avoiding looking at him, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from turning now. He stared back at her, his green eyes brittle, the bones of his face standing out painfully sharp beneath the dark skin. She wished she hadn't looked.
She swung away from him to stand very still, her shoulders taut, her gaze fixed on a pair of pure white geese, their wings beating the clear dawn air as they rose from the surface of the slowly flowing stream. She was aware of him coming up behind her, although he didn't touch her in any way. Together they watched the geese take flight to soar above the meadow.
They say geese mate for life. If they lose their mate,
they don't take another. They simply live the rest of their lives alone. He paused. Have you heard that?
Attica His voice was a warm, tortured whisper against the wet flesh of her throat as he suddenly held himself so still, she could feel the tiny, violent shudders ripping through him.
She clutched him to her, her hands clenching his tunic. No. Don't stop. Not this time.
He raised his head to look down at her, color riding high on the sharp line of his cheekbones, his eyes dark with anguish. I'm not worth this sacrifice. This risk. He shook his head from side to side. You don't really know me. You don't know the things I've done.
Her head jerked in denial, her breath as raspy as his. I know you. I know you've killed. I've
seen
you kill.
He closed his war-scarred hands over hers. You don't know the worst of it.
She raised their entwined hands to her lips and kissed his clenched knuckles, her eyes locked with his. Don't you see? It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
He tightened his grip on her until it almost hurt, then let her go. It matters to me.
Why? She felt a rush of panic squeeze her. She wanted to pound her fists against his broad, fighting-man's chest. She wanted to take his head in her arms and cradle him against her breast like a hurt and needy child. She wanted to do somethinganything to stop him from turning away from her like this. Why? she said again. Because you think it your
duty
to protect me? From
you
?
He stood with his body held taut, his features lost to her sight by distance and the shadows of the night. Yes.
A ragged laugh tore out of her, a laugh that twisted and caught on the pain in her chest so that it came out
sounding almost like a sob. Behold my black knight. She hugged herself to keep from shaking. My dark horseman, who claims to scorn the conventions of chivalry, when in reality he is all that is good and noble and honorable
His head jerked. Don't try to make me into something I'm not.
No. Listen to me. You think that whatever you did to your brother changes all that, makes it meaningless. But it doesn't. It doesn't.
In the sudden silence that followed her words, she could hear the gentle gurgle of the stream running broad and quiet with barely enough current here to send the water lapping against the sandy banks beside them. She saw his chest lift on an indrawn breath, saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. He swung abruptly away from her to go stand at the edge of the water. The air stirred around them, cool and sweet with dew. She stood very still, waiting.
When my mother was fourteen, he said after a moment, his deep, rich voice floating to her on a waft of breeze, her family betrothed her to a man she'd never met. A man she'd never even seen before.
He fell silent again, the night filling with tension, with the strain it took for him to say the things he was saying. Your father? she asked quietly.
He pushed his breath out through his teeth in a painful sigh. Hugh de Jarnac. He was practically old enough to be her grandfather, but the alliance was considered valuable to her family, and because she believed in honor and duty, she did not object.
What was he like?
He lifted his hand, as if reaching for something, then let it fall. I don't remember him much. To me, he was always a distant, imposing figure, gruff-voiced, mean-tempered. I
stayed out of his way. He was killed on a hunt when I was nine. I think I was relieved.
She thought about her own father, the laughing, indulgent Robert d'Alérion. It was her mother Attica had stayed away fromand still did. And your brother? she asked.
The wind died suddenly, leaving the atmosphere oddly calm and hushed. My mother was Hugh's second wife. He had a son already, by his first wife, a son who was a year older than my mother. His name was Simon.
She went to stand beside him at the water's edge, close, but not touching him, not even looking at him. So your father already had an heir.
Two, actually. Simon had been married, young, to a woman from Poitiers. She died in childbirth, giving him a son. Simon never remarried.
She looked at him then, and the fading starlight revealed to her a face almost frighteningly cold and remote. Did he love his dead wife so much?
A fierce smile curled de Jarnac's lips, showing his teeth. Hardly. He never remarried because he was in love with my mother. His father's wife. And she loved him.
Attica sucked in a quick, shocked breath. Oh, how awful for her, she whispered, her voice grating painfully in her tight throat. How awful for them both. She knew well that such a love was doomed; for a woman to marry her dead husband's son was forbidden. In the eyes of the church, such a union was considered incestuous, and punishable by death.
She couldn't seem to stop herself from reaching out to him. She was afraid he'd scorn her attempt to touch him, but he took her hand, his fingers entwining with hers to draw her closer. What did they do? she asked.
His hand still linked with hers, he brought his arms
around her from behind, holding her back to his chest so that she could not see his face. After Hugh's death, my mother's family wanted her to return to them, with her dower portion, but she refused. She claimed she stayed to help raise her son and her husband's grandson. But it wasn't long before there were rumors.
She tipped her head back against his shoulder, her hands clutching at his wrists. Did you know? Did you know how they felt about each other?
He tightened his arms around her waist, rested his cheek against her hair. Not at first. I was young, and they were discreet. Eventually, I was sent as page to the house of my uncle, and somehow he managed to keep me from hearing about it. For a time. But then, the spring after I turned thirteen, some of the older squires cornered me in the stables and taunted me with it. I half killed them.
He fell silent for a moment. She felt his breath warm against the side of her face, felt the quiver that ran through him. I almost killed those squires for what they said, yet I think that even then, deep down in my gut, I knew it for the truth. And I knew that I couldn't rest until I looked into my mother's face and watched her reaction to what I'd heard.
My uncle tried to stop me. I simply knocked him out of my way. I took one of his horses and rode for home.
She knew now what he was going to say, and she had to clench her teeth together to keep from begging him not to say it.
There was a terrible storm that night. Rain poured in sheets out of the sky, but the lightning was so fierce and continuous, it lit up the countryside almost as if it were daylight. I reached the castle just before dawn. I pounded on the postern gate until the guard opened up for me, but
the way the thunder was rumbling, no one else heard me arrive.
I couldn't wait until morning to confront her. I ran up the stairs and threw open the doors to the hall. It woke up the men sleeping around the hearth, but I didn't care. I stormed into her chamber and found them.
Wordlessly, she turned in his arms so she could look into his drawn, pale face with its glittering, haunted eyes. He threaded his fingers through the hair at her temples, stroking her, stroking, although he kept his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the western hills.
I was only thirteen, Attica. I was too young to understand what they meant to each other. All I knew was that my mother had betrayed the memory of her husband, while my brother had betrayed his father, and me, and defiled my mother.
Unable to continue looking at him, Attica buried her face against his chest, her throat so raw it ached. Oh, God. Oh, God, no.
She felt the pounding of his heart reverberating against her cheek. I drew my sword and challenged him to fight me right there, in my mother's chamber. He refused, of course. But I was determined to make him fight me. I kept chasing him around the room, swinging my sword at him. He was naked. He grabbed stools, cloaks, anything he couldto use as a shield. But he refused to pick up his own sword and fight back. My mother was cryingscreaming
begging
me to stop.
Attica closed her eyes, her imagination conjuring up for her the crash of thunder, the flickering firelight glittering on Damion's rain-soaked cloak and gleaming along naked steel; the beautiful woman, wide-eyed and wild with fear for the two men she loved most.
She finally quit trying to reason with me and struck me on the shoulder with a water ewer. I think she was hoping to knock the sword out of my hand, but all she did was make me stagger at exactly the same moment as Simon lunged at me to try to wrest the sword from my grip. His hands were at her back now, moving in slow, relentless circles, holding her pressed blindly to him. She felt his chest lift as he breathed. The sword drove straight into his chest.
She tipped her head back, her throat tight, her words coming out in a hoarse whisper. You didn't kill him deliberately.
He gazed down at her, his face drawn and fierce. Yes I did. I wanted to kill him.
She shook her head. Not like that.
No. But he was still dead. She watched the muscles in his taut neck work as he swallowed. He was only twenty-nine years old, Attica. Two years older than I am now.
What happened to your mother? she asked quietly.
His face suddenly went cold, remote. She retired to a convent.
She let her hand creep around his neck to touch him there, at the nape of his neck, with gentle fingers. And you took the Cross?
He nodded. I left my uncle's house and joined Sir Rauve.
Have you seen her since? Your mother, I mean.
No.
The pain she felt for him was suddenly too much to bear. A rush of tears swelled her throat, spilled from beneath her hastily lowered lashes. Oh, Damion
He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. Don't weep for me, Attica. It's their tragedy, not mine. I was too young
then to understand the forces of hopeless passion and irresistible longing that drove them. But I understand it now. God help me, I understand it now.
He moved his hand, tracing her features with the tips of battle-scarred fingers that slid gently over her eyelids, down the curve of her cheek, to linger at her lips. She watched a kind of tautness come over his face, a lean, hungry look that she recognized as the hunger of a man for a woman. He stared at her, his eyes glowing as fierce as lightning. Then he sucked in a ragged sigh that shuddered his chest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand fell limply to his side. You need to go back now.
She stood unmoving before him, her heart pounding, her body trembling with yearning and love and a strange, determined boldness. Slowly, she reached up her hand to undo the clasp at her throat and let her cloak fall in a whisper to her feet. Her girdle followed, landing with a soft thump in the thick grass.
The sky was black above them, the stars fading with the coming of dawn. The wind stirred the dying night around them. She watched the white cloth of his ruined shirt flutter against the darkness of his bare neck, saw the pulse beating there wildly at the base of his throat.
She loosed the laces of her tunic and jerked it over her head.
Attica, he said, his voice low and breathy as she untied the points of her chausses. Please don't do this.
She lifted her head, her gaze locking with his as she worked methodically, stripping off boots, hose, braies, and shirt, until only the white swath of cloth that bound her breasts remained. Slowly, she unwound the binding, let it flutter to her feet like a wide, pale ribbon.
She stood naked before him. The night air skimmed
over her bare flesh, raising the fine hairs, filling her with a wild sense of freedom, of excitement. He held himself utterly still. But his eyes his eyes burned.
She reached out to him. She took his hand in hers and put it on her breast so that his palm cupped her fullness. Feel my breasts, she whispered, heavy and ripe for you.
His hand jerked in hers, and she tightened her fingers around him, eased his hand lower, skimming down over the bare flesh of her quivering belly, down between her thighs to where she burned. Feel my body, she said hoarsely, open for you.
The pale glimmer of starshine showed her the beloved planes of his face, sharp and fierce with need. She could feel the hard trembling going on inside of him as he fought to hold himself away from her. Felt, too, the moment when he lost that fight.
A groan tore out of him as he hauled her into his arms, his mouth slamming down on hers. His kiss was rough, hungry, consuming, a swirling onslaught of tongue and need and blind, hot passion. Oh, God, Attica, he said, his lips moving against hers, his breath coming in rough gasps, his hands sweeping urgently over her naked body. I don't think I can be gentle.
She clung to him, her fingers digging into the tight muscles of his shoulders, her teeth nipping at his lower lip. I don't need you to be gentle. She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull his head down to her. I simply need you.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
She wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands reveling in the feel of the taut muscles of his back beneath the cloth of his tunic as she drew him down to her. He laid his palm against her cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth beneath her chin, his mouth hovering just above hers. She could feel the need trembling inside him, feel his chest expanding against hers with each ragged breath.
I've wanted you so very badly, he said, his breath washing warm over her face.
She stared up at him, her heart pounding, her body aching with need. I'm not afraid.
He bent and covered her mouth with his, his lips soft but urgent as he turned his head back and forth, slanting his mouth against hers. She felt his fingers tangling in the hair at the side of her head, holding her steady as he deepened the kiss, filling her with his tongue, tracing the line of
her lips, making love to her mouth with a kind of wild desperation.
The wind eddied around them, sweet with the scent of meadow grass and stream-lapped sand and fresh with the promise of dawn. With a harsh murmur, he shifted his weight to one braced forearm, his lips still fastened to hers even as his hand swept down her body to close over her breast.
His touch on her breasts was as rough and hungry as his kiss, filling her with a need that burned, burned. His thumb swept her nipples and she gasped, squirming beneath him, her hands skimming over his back, impatient with the clothes that kept her from touching him the way he was touching her. She tugged at them, but already his hand had left her breasts to move possessively over the sensitive skin of her belly and slide between her parted thighs. He touched her there, spreading her wide, and it was as if he had enflamed every nerve of her body. She gasped into his mouth, her eyes flying wide in surprise. Then she felt his finger slip inside her, and she gasped again, her eyes squeezing shut, her body arching, her head falling back beneath a rush of intense, unbelievable sensation.
God, Attica, I'm sorry, but I can't He tore his mouth from hers, his eyes dark with a fierce, raw need as he reared up, his hands fumbling beneath tunic and shirt to yank at the ties of his braies. She saw a shudder rip through him; then his hands were at her hips, gripping her, lifting her, his face hard, intent.
She wrapped her hands around the tight, bulging muscles of his arms, her throat dry as she sucked in air. She felt something incredibly smooth and unexpectedly hard push against the soft flesh between her thighs, and as much as
she wanted this, she found she had to hold herself suddenly very still to keep from flinching away.
She saw a muscle bunch along his tight jaw. He leaned forward, his dark eyes riveted on hers. He caught her hands in his, stretched her arms over her head, pinned her beneath his weight. And pushed himself inside her.
She cried out. He caught her cry with his mouth, holding himself steady as she instinctively reared up against him. Shhh, he said, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her sweat slicked forehead. She quivered beneath him, feeling him within her, feeling his hardness, his heat, stretching her, filling her. It's only me, he whispered, and to her surprise, she felt a shaky laugh ease out of her.
He kissed her again, his hair falling forward to brush her cheek. When her trembling began to ease, he moved, pulling partway out of her only to thrust in again, deeper, harder. And she caught her breath in wonder because what she felt was not pain so much as a strange, pleasurable kind of pressure. A pleasure that coiled and built with each thrust and drag until she wanted to scream with it, scream with joyous rapture and the unbearable agony of their love.
Please, she said, her fingers digging into his shoulders, holding his chest pressed to her breasts as he moved so deep within her. Oh, please. She felt as if she were reaching for something, something that hovered bright and promising, just out of her grasp.
Ducemente, mon amanate,
he whispered, nuzzling her hair, his breath coming in hard, fast pants. He eased his hand between their bodies until it rested low on her belly, the heel of his hand pressing against her mound. Pressing, pressing, pressing her between the hardness of his hand and the hardness of his body thrusting into her, thrusting all the way to her heart.
She felt her love for him explode within her, an all-consuming, fiery wash of unbearably exquisite delight. As though through a dim haze, she saw his head fall back, his eyes squeezing shut, his face contorting as if in pain. She felt him give one last, violent thrust, deep within her. Then he reared back, the sweat-sheened muscles of his throat taut and bulging as he pulled himself out of her.
Gasping, she clutched at his arms, holding him as the shudders ripped through him. She knew he spilled his seed outside of her to keep from giving her his child. She knew it, but that did nothing to ease the sad, empty ache within her.
He wanted to hold her forever. Simply hold her.
He rolled onto his back and gathered her in his arms so that she lay on her side with her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, one hand flung across his heaving chest. His breath still came in ragged gasps. When he reached to smooth her hair from her damp forehead, his fingers shook.
He'd known this about love. That it could run so strong and deep that when combined with the heat of desire, it became dangerously overwhelming. He'd known this, yet he'd thought himself somehow different, thought he could resist. Now he knew himself humbled. And very afraid.
He felt her breasts press against him as she drew in a deep breath and pushed it out in a sigh. I keep thinking I should feel guilt, she said, her voice hushed. She turned, resting her bare forearms upon his chest so she could lift herself up and look into his face, her eyes wide and dark with emotion. But all I feel is joy. A terrible joy.
He could see her well now in the gathering light. He let his gaze rove over the delicate bones of her face, the high,
wide brow and long, aristocratic nose, the full, trembling lips and proud, strong chin. He thought he could look at her forever. He wanted to look at her forever. He wanted to look into the faces of his children, his grandchildren, and see her features, her essence, mingled with his for all time. The thought of a life without her suddenly seemed almost more than he could bear.
A terrible joy
. Yes, he thought; as great as it is, this joy is terrible, for it brings with it such fear of loss and the promise of unbearable pain.
He heard a lark's song floating sweet yet oddly sad from the wooded hills above. The morning air seemed to hurt his skin, hurt his chest as he drew in breath. With a fearful sense of urgency, he drew her up so that she lay along the length of his body. He caught her face between his hands, his lips capturing hers in a deep, desperate kiss. He had known these things about love, he thought, but he hadn't really understood. Hadn't understood at all.
It will be daybreak soon, she said, a smile in her voice as her mouth moved against his.
Do you think the good pilgrims might be shocked he ran his tongue along her lower lip fi nding us like this?
She touched his cheek and smiled. I think they might.
He sighed, his hands coursing down her bare back to cup her bottom. I want to make love to you for hours, Attica. Slowly this time. I want to touch you all over. With my hands. With my lips. With my tongue. He rubbed his partially open mouth against hers.
The lark sang again.
Tonight, she said with a laugh as he groaned and pressed his forehead against hers.
And in a bed, he added, the grass rustling beneath him
as he shifted uncomfortably. Tonight we need to find a bed.
A reddish glow stained the pale horizon as they walked back to the pilgrims camp. The lush, knee-high meadow grass whispered about them, its sweet scent reminding Attica of summers past and the lost, happy hours of her childhood. She tightened her grip on Damion's hand. He turned his head to her and smiled.
Love bloomed in her heart, filling her with wild joy and an aching dread that tugged at her happiness. She told herself Stephen would support her when she approached their father on the subject of her marriage. She told herself that a man as loyal to his liege lord as Robert d'Alérion would never honor a marriage alliance made with a house that could turn traitor. She told herself that Old King Henry would reward Damion for his loyalty, reward him so handsomely that her father would see an alliance with him as valuable. She told herself these things because she needed to be able to hope. If she couldn't hope, she thought, she just might curl up into a little ball and die.
The pungent smell of woodsmoke drifted across the meadow along with the crackle of recently kindled fires and the faint murmur of anxious voices. She hadn't expected to find the camp already astir. Beside her, Damion stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the far hills.
Apprehension bloomed within her, deep and ominous. What is it? she asked, touching his arm.
He nodded toward the distant red glow. The sun doesn't rise in the south, Attica.
She followed his gaze, her grip on him tightening. What can it mean?
He shook his head, but something in his face told her he knew. He knew only too well.
Damion She broke off at the sight of a weary horse, its heaving flanks stained dark and flecked with foam, its head hanging in exhaustion as it was led toward the river. She saw a grim-faced, dusty man slumped beside one of the fires, talking to Father Sebastian. The one-armed priest looked up and saw them. He nodded at something the man said, then touched his shoulder as if in comfort and walked toward them.
Surely that cannot be Tours? Damion asked as the one-armed priest came up to them. It is too near.
The older man shook his head. No. It seems Philip's move against Tours was only a feint. He has turned and attacked Henry at Le Mans instead. Attica saw dark shadows shift, deep in the older man's eyes, as if he were remembering other cities, cities he himself had helped to sack. They say the citadel still holds out. But the city itself is in flames.
And Henry? Attica asked.
The priest turned to her. He rides for Normandy. The nobles here have all deserted him, all but for the handful of his household knights who ride with him.
Stephen
, she thought, fear stealing her breath so that she could only nod when the priest excused himself and returned to the anxious pilgrims.
Don't worry about Stephen, Damion said, as if she had spoken aloud. Henry must have managed to escape Le Mans before Philip's forces were able to lay siege to the city. Stephen will be with him.
She turned to stare again at that hellish glow in the south. She was aware of a fine trembling within her, as if her entire world were shaking apart. What do we do now?
Ride for Normandy. What else?
He took her hand in his and together they walked toward the stretch of meadow where the tethered horses grazed in the pale light of early dawn. All around them the birds were awakening, fluttering through the dark silhouettes of the trees to rise up against the pearly sky, their voices blending into the heartrending song of dawn. Attica let her head fall back, watching them. She didn't understand how the world around her could seem so comfortingly calm and familiar, the new day so full of glorious promise, when her life as she knew it was collapsing.
There is a convent, Damion said slowly, not far from here. SainteGenevičve-sur-Sarthe. He paused, his head turned toward where the roan grazed, its tail flicking back and forth. I would go there before we turn north.
She looked at him in surprise. A convent?
An odd tension vibrated in the air as she waited for him to answer her. The abbess is Isabelle d'Anjou, he said at last, the name coming out unnaturally harsh and strained. I need to talk to her. About this French code.
Once, Isabelle d'Anjou had been a famous patroness of troubadours; more than a patronessa poet and musician in her own right. Something niggled at Attica's memory, something that sent an indefinable frisson of uneasiness over her. I had thought Isabelle d'Anjou dead since I was a small child, she said, reaching out to run her hand over the roan's warm, satiny withers.
No. She only took the veil.
The roan lifted its head and swung about to nuzzle Attica's hair, its breath blowing hot and grassy against her face. Attica caught the horse's nose in her hands. You know her?
I know her. He sounded as if he would like to have
left it at that, but he seemed to think he should perhaps say more. If there is a system to indicate the length of notes, she will have heard of it.
Henry has been defeated, Attica said, her gaze fixed firmly on the horse beside her. What difference can deciphering the French code possibly make now?
It's not over yet. If Henry rides to Normandy, it is because he intends to raise an army there. There and in England. He'll not give up. Not as long as he lives.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she let them trail over the roan's velvety soft muzzle.
If she couldn't hope
Her chest suddenly felt tight, as if she had forgotten to breathe. But when she sucked in a deep draught of air, it only hurt worse. If Henry is deposed, she said softly, my father will need the marriage alliance with Salers to secure his favor with Richard. He will never allow me to break my betrothal.
Then I'll just have to make sure Henry isn't deposed, won't I?
She had been avoiding looking at him, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from turning now. He stared back at her, his green eyes brittle, the bones of his face standing out painfully sharp beneath the dark skin. She wished she hadn't looked.
She swung away from him to stand very still, her shoulders taut, her gaze fixed on a pair of pure white geese, their wings beating the clear dawn air as they rose from the surface of the slowly flowing stream. She was aware of him coming up behind her, although he didn't touch her in any way. Together they watched the geese take flight to soar above the meadow.
They say geese mate for life. If they lose their mate,
they don't take another. They simply live the rest of their lives alone. He paused. Have you heard that?
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