Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (28 page)
She stood motionless in the center of the chamber, her eyes huge in a pale face, her chest rising and falling with each breath. She looked slender and oddly vulnerable in her short cropped hair and borrowed men's clothing. And he loved her so much in that moment, he ached with it.
It's strange, she said. I wasn't nervous, before, in the meadow. She smiled at him shyly. But I am now.
He crossed to stand before her, close enough that he could have touched her, although he did not. So am I, he whispered, returning her smile.
She breathed, her nostrils flaring. Will you take off your clothes?
His gaze caught hers and held it as he took a step back, his hands unbuckling his belt and letting it drop to the floor. His boots followed, then his chausses, the rushes whispering at his feet. He untied the laces at his neck, drawing tunic and shirt over his head at the same time. He tossed them aside and stood before her bare-chested, his eyes recapturing hers as his hands dropped to the fastening of his braies.
He saw her suck in a deep breath that lifted her breasts, the torchlight flaring in the dark pupils of her eyes as he untied his braies and shoved them down over hip and buttocks until he stood naked before her, the air cool and sweet against his hot skin.
She reached out, slowly, to lay her palm flat against his bare chest. He stood utterly still beneath her touch. Slowly, she slid her hand to his shoulder, down his upper arm, to his chest again. She said, It's a wicked thing, I know, the pleasure I take in your body. The way I long to see you. To touch you. She sighed. I can't seem to help it.
He carefully untied the laces at her throat. How can it be wicked when our bodies are God's handiwork? Shouldn't we appreciate what he has made?
A smile lit up her features. I think he made you very fine. Her breath hitched as he ran his hands down her breasts to unfasten her belt and strip away her tunic.
He undressed her slowly, his hands gentle but sure, until at last they both stood naked in the glowing light of the
torches. She took his hands and put them on her slim waist. He drew her to him, enfolding her in his arms as he buried his face in her hair. She smelled of the sun and the open air and herself, and he breathed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut at the simple, sweet joy of having her in his arms. A joy so piercing he ached.
He snagged his fingers in her hair, pressed a kiss against the smooth flesh of her neck. He felt her shudder, her hands gripping his shoulders as she turned her head, her lips seeking his.
He took her mouth in a hot, wet kiss of passion and possession and wild, desperate longing. Then he bent, catching her behind the knees to swing her up into his arms and carry her to that big, curtained bed.
Together they fell across the coverlet, the fur cool and sleek and wickedly sensual against his bare flesh. He rolled with her until she lay flat on her back and he above her, their lips close but not touching, his gaze locked with hers, their breath rasping shallow and rapid, their bodies pressed intimately together.
He was shaking with the urge to spread her legs wide and simply bury himself inside her. But more than his own pleasure he wanted hers. Dipping his head, he rubbed his open mouth against hers, then shifted his weight to the side, keeping one leg thrown possessively over her as he touched her.
He touched her with his eyes, and his hands, and his lips. He traced the curve of first one breast, then the other, with his tongue. He sucked one wine-red peak into his mouth and smiled against her wet flesh as she cried out in pleasure, her head falling back, her neck gleaming white in the torchlight, her back lifting off the bed as she arched up against him.
He made love to her breasts, explored all her secret placesthe soft flesh below her ear, the intriguing hollows beside her pelvic bones, the silken skin behind her knees. She touched him, too, learned his man's body and what brought a catch of pleasure to his throat. He watched her face tighten with desire, her eyes go wide with wonder. Then he knelt between her legs, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his head to her, gasping as he touched her there, where her legs met. Touched her and kissed her and delighted her.
Beneath his spread hands, the flesh of her buttocks quivered, grew damp with arousal. When neither of them could stand it anymore, he slid his body up hers until he covered her, his weight braced on his outflung arms so that he could watch her face as he entered her.
She stared up at him, her eyes dark and wide and shining with love, her splayed hands gripping his shoulders, her fingers digging into the taut muscles of his back.
We are one, he said, his voice rough as he moved within her, his breath rasping in his throat, the muscles of his arms quivering with the need for control. Feel me, a part of you.
She sighed his name, her arms twining about his neck, her long legs coming up to wrap around his hips and hold him close to her, drawing him deeper, deeper inside her. He made love to her with his body, with his mouth, with the sweet words he whispered until passion overwhelmed them and speech became impossible. And then, when it was time, he withdrew himself from her and they were two again.
They were two, and though he held her in his arms, pulling her tight up against him, she wept, and the night around them seemed suddenly cool and dark and lonely.
*
He awoke in the early hours of the dawn to find her watching him, her eyes wide and solemn. He pulled her to him, and she came hotly into his arms. He took her in swift, savage lust, a coupling of gasping breaths and wet, sucking bodies, of desperate need and unsure tomorrows.
Then they rose and put on their clothes and left the hall.
The sun was just stirring over the eastern hills as they turned their horses south and rode away.
For four days they rode through the soft, luminous landscape that stretched to the Loire River and beyond. They passed wet pastures hedged with ash, splashed through marshes and heaths and wet woodlands, cut across vast undulating planes scattered with wary villages and guarded manors. The nights they spent wherever they could be alone. It was as if they moved through their own private world. A world about to end as, on the morning of the fifth day, they came to the plateau of Chinon.
Attica reined in, her head falling back as she stared up at the distant castle. Built high on a bluff, it seemed to loom over the village and river below it, a beautiful if threateningly massive fortress of sun-soaked, golden-white walls and round towers that thrust up against a hard blue sky.
I don't want you to misunderstand me on this, said Damion suddenly, his gaze still fixed on the distant castle, but I would ask that you not tell Stephen what I have learned of Philip's code.
Her sudden jerk startled the roan, so that it moved restlessly beneath her.
Mother of God
She sucked in a quick breath and steadied her horse. Surely you do not suspect him?
Stephen
?
No, of course not, he said, a muscle tightening along his jaw. But you know as well as I do that Stephen's face
is almost as easy to read as yours. I fear he would find such information difficult to keep to himself.
She let her gaze drop to the reins threaded between her fingers. As much as she didn't like it, in her heart she knew what he said was true. Stephen's eyes always blazed with wild excitement whenever he found himself embarked on what he considered a great adventure. You're right. I won't tell him.
Thank you. He paused. Attica?
She glanced up to find him watching her, his features oddly strained. The wind gusted around them, rustling the leaves of the walnut trees overhead and lifting his hair where it lay against his forehead. His face looked gaunt, tight with an agony that mirrored her own.
No matter what happens, I will always love you, he said.
I know, she said, her chest tight with pain as she watched him knee his horse forward. Toward Chinon.
She wasn't surprised, somehow, when Sergei met them some half a league from the castle.
They came upon him sitting at the edge of a flower-strewn meadow, his horse's reins in his hand, his back against the trunk of an old walnut tree, his chin resting on his chest as if he dozed. As Attica drew rein, he awoke with a jerk.
You're late, he said, pushing up with a wide, engaging grin. I expected you an hour ago.
She threw a quick glance at Damion, whose eyes crinkled with secret amusement. They would have reached Chinon an hour earlier if they hadn't decided to pause beside a pretty and very secluded pond.
How is Henry? Damion asked as Sergei scrambled up onto the back of his palfrey and urged the bay up beside them.
Ill. Very ill, said Sergei, his face suddenly serious. It's why he's come here, rather than fleeing to Normandy and England as he first planned. If he is to die, then he wants to die in Anjou.
I suppose it's natural. Damion tilted his head back as he let his gaze rove thoughtfully over the approaching battlements. He was born in Anjou.
And my brother? Attica asked.
He's well, my lady. He was at the king's side in the flight from Le Mans. I fear our departure was less than organized, he added almost apologetically to Damion. But I managed to save all your horses, sire. And your trunks. He cast a critical glance over his lord's bedraggled appearance. You look in sore need of a change of clothes.
Damion laughed, while Sergei turned his strange eyes toward Attica. I've found you a gown, too, my lady, although I had to get someone to sew a band around the hem to make it long enough.
Attica smiled her thanks. She didn't ask how he'd known she was coming, when she was supposed to have stayed in Laval.
She let her reins go slack, the roan ambling along behind the other horses as she listened with only half an ear to Damion's rapid questions and Sergei's slow, careful responses. She felt as if she were tightening up inside, tighter and tighter, the closer they came to Chinon. By the time they passed through the castle's arched gateway, she felt almost sick with mingling hope and dread.
Don't despair, my lady, said Sergei softly, his eyes warm with concern as he helped her dismount near the stables. She looked at him in surprise, but he was already turning away to address the slim, dark-haired lad who came to help with the horses.
Run and fetch the comte d'Alérion, Sergei said in a low voice.
There is no need, said the lad, nodding up the hill. He comes hither.
My father is here? Joy leapt in Attica's heart as she swung about, her gaze searching the crowded castle ward for the imposing figure of Robert d'Alérion.
Instead she saw a tall, slender young man with fair hair, his even features set in unusually serious lines as he walked toward her. But that's not the comte d'Alérion, she said, laughing with delight at the sight of her brother's handsome, beloved face. That's
She broke off as the significance of the title struck her, her throat suddenly raw, her heart pounding so hard it was like a buzz in her ears. She walked up to him.
Stephen? Where is Papa? She searched his face, her head shaking back and forth in insistent, useless denial. Tell me it isn't true. Oh, please God, tell me it isn't true.
He stared down at her, his eyes liquid with his own pain. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath, then couldn't seem to get the words out. But it didn't matter anymore because she could see the truth in his eyes.
The pain of it hit her with a physical blow that doubled her over, her arms crossing at her stomach as she tried to suck in air. She felt Stephen's hand on her shoulder but she jerked away from him, suddenly, irrationally furious with him. Then her rage collapsed and she whirled back to bury her face against his chest, her fingers clutching at the fine cloth of his tunic. Oh, Papa, she whispered. Papa, Papa.
Stephen hesitated a moment, then folded his arms around her and held her awkwardly as the tears came and she wept for their dead father.
She felt a stranger to herself. She was not this grieving woman, staring unseeingly over the sun-drenched slate rooftops of the town of Chinon below. She found it impossible to believe that a few weeks ride to the north, at his favorite hunting lodge in Normandy, Robert d'Alérion did not still live. Impossible to believe she would never again hear his great, booming voice, or see his swift smile, that she would have to go on missing him like this for the rest of her life. The awful finality of it crushed her; it was simply too much to bear.
He died in Normandy, said Stephen, coming up beside her. Weeks ago. I sent word to Salers as soon as the news came. He braced his arms against the parapet edging the chateau's high wall walk and leaned into them. Obviously, by the time my messenger arrived, you had already gone.
Something in his voice made her turn her head to look at him. You sound as if you think I should not have left. As if I should have stayed at Châteauhaut and let Henry be taken at La Ferté-Bernard.
She watched the sudden rise of color to her brother's
high cheekbones. No, of course not. But God's teeth! I've feared you dead. Anything could have happened to you out there. Anything. His gaze swept her, from the short curls flying about her face to her torn chausses, before he turned his head away again, his jaw held tight. I know what kind of man Damion de Jarnac is, so you need not fear I suspect you of any impropriety. But you have been alone with him for the better part of two weeks, Attica. You must surely realize that people are talking He broke off and swallowed hard. Thank God Fulk of Salers hasn't decided to repudiate you. By rights he could have done so, you know.
And
demanded to keep your dowry.
She held herself very still. From the bailey below came the high-pitched whirling screech of a grinding wheel sharpening a sword. A tumult filled the air: the hoarse shouts of men stockpiling baskets of stones for use as missiles, the squeal of pigs about to be butchered, the rumble of carts bringing in bags of rye and barrels of salted fish and all the other supplies the garrison of a castle under siege might need.
How do you know Fulk has no wish to repudiate me? she asked quietly.
Stephen pushed himself upright and swung to face her. Because Yvette is here with Philip in Anjou, demanding that you be returned for your wedding.
Attica searched her brother's tightly held features. You would have this betrothal stand? You would ally our house with those capable of conspiring against their liege lord?
His face suddenly went white. The marriage alliance has already been made, Attica. Even Henry understands that. Were we to try to withdraw from it now, we should have Salers as our enemy rather than our ally. And if that were to happen, we could easily end up losing every estate we have in Brittany. Of course this betrothal must stand.
She stared at him, noticing for the first time how these past months had changed him. He'd grown leaner, she thought; leaner and harder. He was only twenty-one, yet the two parallel lines that used to appear between his eyes only when he was worried or concentrating had become permanent now.
She said, You told me once that you did not favor this scheme of Father's, to wed me to Fulk. That you thought it wrong of him to ask such a thing of me.
He shoved the splayed fingers of one hand through his fine, tousled hair, sweeping it back from his forehead in a distracted gesture she remembered from their childhood. I did think so at the timeas your brother. But now, as the comte d'Alérion, I understand why Father felt he had to do it.
Stephen, she said, her voice low and throbbing with controlled emotion. I do not wish to marry Fulk of Salers.
She saw something blaze up, hot and intransigent, in the depths of his normally gentle gray eyes. You agreed to this betrothal, Attica.
I agreed only because I didn't know, she wanted to scream. I didn't know, then, what I would be giving up. I didn't know.
You agreed to it, he said again, leaning into her, and you said your betrothal vows. This marriage is as if done, Attica. As your soul belongs to God, your loyalty and your body belong to the man who will be your lord and husband. And whether you wish it or not, sister, that man is Fulk.
From where he stood beside the king, Damion could see her with her brother up on the battlements. He didn't like the angry set of d'Alérion's shoulders or the controlled way Attica held herself, as if she were reaching down inside herself for the strength to endure.
If he had to, thought Damion, he would fight the world to make her his. But he didn't see how he was going to fight Attica herself.
You have served me well, de Jarnac, said Henry, giving Damion's shoulder a staggering buffet that jerked his attention back to the king. Were it not for the warning brought by your squire, Philip and Richard should have taken me at La Ferté-Bernard like a pigeon in a knave's net. You shall be rewarded well.
It is Attica d'Alérion who deserves your thanks, not I, Your Grace. She's the one who first discovered the plot against you, and risked much to warn you of it.
So your squire tells me. A peculiarly harried expression came over the old king's face. Although if she could have contrived to warn me without bringing the viscomtesse de Salers down on my head, I should have been even more grateful. Crossing his boxer's arms across his broad chest, he went to stand at the edge of the terrace, his bowed horseman's legs braced wide as he watched some of his knights tilting at the quintain in the yard below. The afternoon wind tossed his short-cropped hair about his head, the bold ginger threaded now with gray and thinning noticeably at the back. Tell me truly, he said after a moment. Has my son John joined the others against me?
I know he has been approached, said Damion, choosing his words very, very carefully.
Henry's hand closed into a tight fist that jerked up, then relaxed. Well, he would be, wouldn't he? The question is, were the letters patent you discovered confirmation of an agreement already reached or simply a temptation to treason?
That I do not know, Your Grace.
A liver-colored bitch, one of the many hounds always to
be found cavorting at Henry's heels, jumped up to put her front paws on the king's thigh, and whimper. He fondled her ears absently, his attention swinging back to the men. The air filled with dust and the thunder of galloping hooves, the
thwunk
of lances hitting the quintain, the men's hoarse shouts of encouragement. Look at them, said Henry. Beneath its scattering of freckles, his skin showed gray and pasty in the golden sunshine. You say one of them may be conspiring with Richard against me. He pulled the hound's ears thoughtfully. But you don't tell me which one.
Damion thrust his fingertips beneath his belt as he considered his next words. There may be a way to discover it, he said, his gaze on the practice yard. He would not look at the battlements above, would not think of the possibility that the man betraying Henrybetraying them allcould be Attica's brother. Philip communicates with his adherents by means of a musical code. A code I have broken.
A musical code? Snapping his fingers to call the hound, Henry turned to stroll along the river wall. Illness had slowed his characteristically restless, impetuous movements, Dam-ion noticed; the king walked as if breathless and in pain. Any other man would have taken to his bed long since, but not Henry. Is such a thing possible? he asked.
Yes, said Damion as they crossed the drawbridge to the central fortress, chickens squawking and fluttering out of the way of Henry's ponderous stride. The genius of the system lies in the ability of its messengers to pass unremarked from place to place. I understand there is a band of wandering minstrels in the castle right now, preparing to perform at tonight's banquet.
Henry stopped so abruptly that the small page following behind with a cup of ale almost ran into the king's heels. God's bones, he roared, his eyes flashing with a quick
flare of temper. I shall have them seized and put to the torture immediately. If there is a traitor in my household, I shall know his name before nightfall. His name, and his game.
Your Grace, said Damion calmly, the minstrels know their songs, but not the messages they contain or even the code itself. It's doubtful they know who amongst all those seated at your table is actually in contact with Philip.
Henry rested his fists on his hips, his round head jutting forward intimidatingly. Are you saying I should let the knaves go?
I am saying that if you allow the jongleurs to play unmolested, then Philip will remain none the wiser to what we have discovered and we may continue to intercept his messages.
The king grunted in disbelief. Out of an entire evening's entertainment, how can you possibly know which melody contains a message?
The coded melodies always begin with the same series of notes. I'll know.
Huh. Henry seized the cup of ale from the trembling boy and drank deeply, his eyes narrowing in thought. You will sit beside me at the banquet tonight, de Jarnac, he said after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. We will let these damned traitorous jongleurs play. And then perhaps we shall see whether or not one of my men deserves to have his head on a pike, decorating my castle gate.
Yes, Your Grace, said Damion, bowing. For one moment he allowed his gaze to drift back to the battlements. But Attica and her brother had disappeared.
She sat beside the grassy banks of the castle's moat, her heart heavy with worry as she watched a couple of knaves
work to haul in the wicker eel traps and empty them into baskets. It was early evening now, the light spilling across the countryside in a rich, golden flood.
The water here ran clear, kept fresh by a stream that spilled into the Vienne. She drew her knees up to her chest, conscious of the heavy folds of soft midnight blue wool about her ankles, the weight of her woman's girdle lying low on her hips. It seemed strange, somehow, to be dressed as a woman again. She felt feminine, almost beautiful even, and yet, disturbingly, less free. A breeze swelled, shifting the tall reeds beside her with a faint sigh that sounded sweet and soft and vaguely melancholy.
And she knew he was there.
She turned her head, a smile touching her lips as she watched de Jarnac cut across the meadow, his stride lean and long-legged, the wind stirring the dark hair on his bare head. He wore a woolen tunic of rich brown trimmed at the neck and cuffs with bands of fine cream work embroidery. His chainse showed white at his throat, contrasting vividly with the dark tan of his skin. He looked magnificent.
He sank down into the grass at her side, a sparkle lighting up the depths of his green eyes as he let his gaze travel over her own finery in a way that reminded her how seldom he had seen her dressed as a woman. Sergei said I should find you here.
She wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them closer. I won't ask how Sergei knew.
Damion laughed softly. No, don't. He sobered quickly, his gaze searching her face. I take it your brother still favors your betrothal to Fulk?
She nodded, turning half away to stare off across the river. I will speak to him again tomorrow, after he has had time to think about it more calmly. He is angry now. He's been so
afraid that something must have happened to me on the road here. She paused. I have not told him of our feelings for one another. I fear that would only enrage him further.
There was a heavy silence. Then de Jarnac said, And if Stephen still insists you fulfill the marriage agreement? Have you thought what you will do then, Attica?
She hugged herself tighter, as if she could somehow hold herself together, as if she could keep her worldkeep
herself
from flying apart. Then I shall approach Henry and throw myself on his mercy. Stephen would never forgive her for it, of course. Her heart ached with the pain that thought brought, but she knew she could bear it, if the alternative was to lose Damion. The problem was, she didn't know what she would do if Henry refused to support her. She was afraid Damion would ask her that, but he didn't.
Attica?
She swung her head to find him watching her, his face taut with desire and need. Reaching up, he touched her cheek with his fingertips, his eyes taking on that hooded, sleepy look she knew so well. His head dipped toward her. Beside them, one of the knaves called out to the other, then laughed as the eel trap they were emptying fell into the water with a splash. Damion flashed her a quick smile and let his hand drop.
I must get back, he said, pushing to his feet. Henry is an impatient taskmaster.
She rested her chin on her hands, her breath easing out of her in a long sigh as she watched him stand up. I was sitting here, wishing we'd never had to come to this place. That we could simply have kept riding, just the two of us, forever.
Our forever will come, he said. You'll see. But then he left her there, to her thoughts, and to the lonely whispers of the wind.
*
She stayed beside the stream for a long time, reluctant to return to the crowded ladies chamber where she had been given a place. Slowly, the shadows began to lengthen and the church bells to ring. She knew it was time to go.
She had just risen to her feet when she heard a woman's voice behind her saying, I've been looking for you.
Attica turned to find herself confronting a handsome woman in her early twenties, richly gowned in crimson silk trimmed with gold braid. I have brought you this, said the woman, holding out a circlet of fine gold, wrought into the shape of entwined leaves and flowers with centers of precious and semiprecious stones. Standing on tiptoe, the woman placed the circlet on Attica's short-cropped hair, then stepped back, her head tilting critically to one side. There, the effect with the curls around your face is quite pretty.
Attica put up one hand to touch the gold circlet. But you mustn't lend me something so fine.
The woman smiled and shook her head. It's not a loan. It's a gift from Henry. An expression of his gratitude for your loyalty and courage. She held out her hand. I am Alice of France. I hear your name has been joined to mine on the list of reluctant brides to be handed over to their anxious grooms.
It's strange, she said. I wasn't nervous, before, in the meadow. She smiled at him shyly. But I am now.
He crossed to stand before her, close enough that he could have touched her, although he did not. So am I, he whispered, returning her smile.
She breathed, her nostrils flaring. Will you take off your clothes?
His gaze caught hers and held it as he took a step back, his hands unbuckling his belt and letting it drop to the floor. His boots followed, then his chausses, the rushes whispering at his feet. He untied the laces at his neck, drawing tunic and shirt over his head at the same time. He tossed them aside and stood before her bare-chested, his eyes recapturing hers as his hands dropped to the fastening of his braies.
He saw her suck in a deep breath that lifted her breasts, the torchlight flaring in the dark pupils of her eyes as he untied his braies and shoved them down over hip and buttocks until he stood naked before her, the air cool and sweet against his hot skin.
She reached out, slowly, to lay her palm flat against his bare chest. He stood utterly still beneath her touch. Slowly, she slid her hand to his shoulder, down his upper arm, to his chest again. She said, It's a wicked thing, I know, the pleasure I take in your body. The way I long to see you. To touch you. She sighed. I can't seem to help it.
He carefully untied the laces at her throat. How can it be wicked when our bodies are God's handiwork? Shouldn't we appreciate what he has made?
A smile lit up her features. I think he made you very fine. Her breath hitched as he ran his hands down her breasts to unfasten her belt and strip away her tunic.
He undressed her slowly, his hands gentle but sure, until at last they both stood naked in the glowing light of the
torches. She took his hands and put them on her slim waist. He drew her to him, enfolding her in his arms as he buried his face in her hair. She smelled of the sun and the open air and herself, and he breathed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut at the simple, sweet joy of having her in his arms. A joy so piercing he ached.
He snagged his fingers in her hair, pressed a kiss against the smooth flesh of her neck. He felt her shudder, her hands gripping his shoulders as she turned her head, her lips seeking his.
He took her mouth in a hot, wet kiss of passion and possession and wild, desperate longing. Then he bent, catching her behind the knees to swing her up into his arms and carry her to that big, curtained bed.
Together they fell across the coverlet, the fur cool and sleek and wickedly sensual against his bare flesh. He rolled with her until she lay flat on her back and he above her, their lips close but not touching, his gaze locked with hers, their breath rasping shallow and rapid, their bodies pressed intimately together.
He was shaking with the urge to spread her legs wide and simply bury himself inside her. But more than his own pleasure he wanted hers. Dipping his head, he rubbed his open mouth against hers, then shifted his weight to the side, keeping one leg thrown possessively over her as he touched her.
He touched her with his eyes, and his hands, and his lips. He traced the curve of first one breast, then the other, with his tongue. He sucked one wine-red peak into his mouth and smiled against her wet flesh as she cried out in pleasure, her head falling back, her neck gleaming white in the torchlight, her back lifting off the bed as she arched up against him.
He made love to her breasts, explored all her secret placesthe soft flesh below her ear, the intriguing hollows beside her pelvic bones, the silken skin behind her knees. She touched him, too, learned his man's body and what brought a catch of pleasure to his throat. He watched her face tighten with desire, her eyes go wide with wonder. Then he knelt between her legs, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his head to her, gasping as he touched her there, where her legs met. Touched her and kissed her and delighted her.
Beneath his spread hands, the flesh of her buttocks quivered, grew damp with arousal. When neither of them could stand it anymore, he slid his body up hers until he covered her, his weight braced on his outflung arms so that he could watch her face as he entered her.
She stared up at him, her eyes dark and wide and shining with love, her splayed hands gripping his shoulders, her fingers digging into the taut muscles of his back.
We are one, he said, his voice rough as he moved within her, his breath rasping in his throat, the muscles of his arms quivering with the need for control. Feel me, a part of you.
She sighed his name, her arms twining about his neck, her long legs coming up to wrap around his hips and hold him close to her, drawing him deeper, deeper inside her. He made love to her with his body, with his mouth, with the sweet words he whispered until passion overwhelmed them and speech became impossible. And then, when it was time, he withdrew himself from her and they were two again.
They were two, and though he held her in his arms, pulling her tight up against him, she wept, and the night around them seemed suddenly cool and dark and lonely.
*
He awoke in the early hours of the dawn to find her watching him, her eyes wide and solemn. He pulled her to him, and she came hotly into his arms. He took her in swift, savage lust, a coupling of gasping breaths and wet, sucking bodies, of desperate need and unsure tomorrows.
Then they rose and put on their clothes and left the hall.
The sun was just stirring over the eastern hills as they turned their horses south and rode away.
For four days they rode through the soft, luminous landscape that stretched to the Loire River and beyond. They passed wet pastures hedged with ash, splashed through marshes and heaths and wet woodlands, cut across vast undulating planes scattered with wary villages and guarded manors. The nights they spent wherever they could be alone. It was as if they moved through their own private world. A world about to end as, on the morning of the fifth day, they came to the plateau of Chinon.
Attica reined in, her head falling back as she stared up at the distant castle. Built high on a bluff, it seemed to loom over the village and river below it, a beautiful if threateningly massive fortress of sun-soaked, golden-white walls and round towers that thrust up against a hard blue sky.
I don't want you to misunderstand me on this, said Damion suddenly, his gaze still fixed on the distant castle, but I would ask that you not tell Stephen what I have learned of Philip's code.
Her sudden jerk startled the roan, so that it moved restlessly beneath her.
Mother of God
She sucked in a quick breath and steadied her horse. Surely you do not suspect him?
Stephen
?
No, of course not, he said, a muscle tightening along his jaw. But you know as well as I do that Stephen's face
is almost as easy to read as yours. I fear he would find such information difficult to keep to himself.
She let her gaze drop to the reins threaded between her fingers. As much as she didn't like it, in her heart she knew what he said was true. Stephen's eyes always blazed with wild excitement whenever he found himself embarked on what he considered a great adventure. You're right. I won't tell him.
Thank you. He paused. Attica?
She glanced up to find him watching her, his features oddly strained. The wind gusted around them, rustling the leaves of the walnut trees overhead and lifting his hair where it lay against his forehead. His face looked gaunt, tight with an agony that mirrored her own.
No matter what happens, I will always love you, he said.
I know, she said, her chest tight with pain as she watched him knee his horse forward. Toward Chinon.
She wasn't surprised, somehow, when Sergei met them some half a league from the castle.
They came upon him sitting at the edge of a flower-strewn meadow, his horse's reins in his hand, his back against the trunk of an old walnut tree, his chin resting on his chest as if he dozed. As Attica drew rein, he awoke with a jerk.
You're late, he said, pushing up with a wide, engaging grin. I expected you an hour ago.
She threw a quick glance at Damion, whose eyes crinkled with secret amusement. They would have reached Chinon an hour earlier if they hadn't decided to pause beside a pretty and very secluded pond.
How is Henry? Damion asked as Sergei scrambled up onto the back of his palfrey and urged the bay up beside them.
Ill. Very ill, said Sergei, his face suddenly serious. It's why he's come here, rather than fleeing to Normandy and England as he first planned. If he is to die, then he wants to die in Anjou.
I suppose it's natural. Damion tilted his head back as he let his gaze rove thoughtfully over the approaching battlements. He was born in Anjou.
And my brother? Attica asked.
He's well, my lady. He was at the king's side in the flight from Le Mans. I fear our departure was less than organized, he added almost apologetically to Damion. But I managed to save all your horses, sire. And your trunks. He cast a critical glance over his lord's bedraggled appearance. You look in sore need of a change of clothes.
Damion laughed, while Sergei turned his strange eyes toward Attica. I've found you a gown, too, my lady, although I had to get someone to sew a band around the hem to make it long enough.
Attica smiled her thanks. She didn't ask how he'd known she was coming, when she was supposed to have stayed in Laval.
She let her reins go slack, the roan ambling along behind the other horses as she listened with only half an ear to Damion's rapid questions and Sergei's slow, careful responses. She felt as if she were tightening up inside, tighter and tighter, the closer they came to Chinon. By the time they passed through the castle's arched gateway, she felt almost sick with mingling hope and dread.
Don't despair, my lady, said Sergei softly, his eyes warm with concern as he helped her dismount near the stables. She looked at him in surprise, but he was already turning away to address the slim, dark-haired lad who came to help with the horses.
Run and fetch the comte d'Alérion, Sergei said in a low voice.
There is no need, said the lad, nodding up the hill. He comes hither.
My father is here? Joy leapt in Attica's heart as she swung about, her gaze searching the crowded castle ward for the imposing figure of Robert d'Alérion.
Instead she saw a tall, slender young man with fair hair, his even features set in unusually serious lines as he walked toward her. But that's not the comte d'Alérion, she said, laughing with delight at the sight of her brother's handsome, beloved face. That's
She broke off as the significance of the title struck her, her throat suddenly raw, her heart pounding so hard it was like a buzz in her ears. She walked up to him.
Stephen? Where is Papa? She searched his face, her head shaking back and forth in insistent, useless denial. Tell me it isn't true. Oh, please God, tell me it isn't true.
He stared down at her, his eyes liquid with his own pain. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath, then couldn't seem to get the words out. But it didn't matter anymore because she could see the truth in his eyes.
The pain of it hit her with a physical blow that doubled her over, her arms crossing at her stomach as she tried to suck in air. She felt Stephen's hand on her shoulder but she jerked away from him, suddenly, irrationally furious with him. Then her rage collapsed and she whirled back to bury her face against his chest, her fingers clutching at the fine cloth of his tunic. Oh, Papa, she whispered. Papa, Papa.
Stephen hesitated a moment, then folded his arms around her and held her awkwardly as the tears came and she wept for their dead father.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
She felt a stranger to herself. She was not this grieving woman, staring unseeingly over the sun-drenched slate rooftops of the town of Chinon below. She found it impossible to believe that a few weeks ride to the north, at his favorite hunting lodge in Normandy, Robert d'Alérion did not still live. Impossible to believe she would never again hear his great, booming voice, or see his swift smile, that she would have to go on missing him like this for the rest of her life. The awful finality of it crushed her; it was simply too much to bear.
He died in Normandy, said Stephen, coming up beside her. Weeks ago. I sent word to Salers as soon as the news came. He braced his arms against the parapet edging the chateau's high wall walk and leaned into them. Obviously, by the time my messenger arrived, you had already gone.
Something in his voice made her turn her head to look at him. You sound as if you think I should not have left. As if I should have stayed at Châteauhaut and let Henry be taken at La Ferté-Bernard.
She watched the sudden rise of color to her brother's
high cheekbones. No, of course not. But God's teeth! I've feared you dead. Anything could have happened to you out there. Anything. His gaze swept her, from the short curls flying about her face to her torn chausses, before he turned his head away again, his jaw held tight. I know what kind of man Damion de Jarnac is, so you need not fear I suspect you of any impropriety. But you have been alone with him for the better part of two weeks, Attica. You must surely realize that people are talking He broke off and swallowed hard. Thank God Fulk of Salers hasn't decided to repudiate you. By rights he could have done so, you know.
And
demanded to keep your dowry.
She held herself very still. From the bailey below came the high-pitched whirling screech of a grinding wheel sharpening a sword. A tumult filled the air: the hoarse shouts of men stockpiling baskets of stones for use as missiles, the squeal of pigs about to be butchered, the rumble of carts bringing in bags of rye and barrels of salted fish and all the other supplies the garrison of a castle under siege might need.
How do you know Fulk has no wish to repudiate me? she asked quietly.
Stephen pushed himself upright and swung to face her. Because Yvette is here with Philip in Anjou, demanding that you be returned for your wedding.
Attica searched her brother's tightly held features. You would have this betrothal stand? You would ally our house with those capable of conspiring against their liege lord?
His face suddenly went white. The marriage alliance has already been made, Attica. Even Henry understands that. Were we to try to withdraw from it now, we should have Salers as our enemy rather than our ally. And if that were to happen, we could easily end up losing every estate we have in Brittany. Of course this betrothal must stand.
She stared at him, noticing for the first time how these past months had changed him. He'd grown leaner, she thought; leaner and harder. He was only twenty-one, yet the two parallel lines that used to appear between his eyes only when he was worried or concentrating had become permanent now.
She said, You told me once that you did not favor this scheme of Father's, to wed me to Fulk. That you thought it wrong of him to ask such a thing of me.
He shoved the splayed fingers of one hand through his fine, tousled hair, sweeping it back from his forehead in a distracted gesture she remembered from their childhood. I did think so at the timeas your brother. But now, as the comte d'Alérion, I understand why Father felt he had to do it.
Stephen, she said, her voice low and throbbing with controlled emotion. I do not wish to marry Fulk of Salers.
She saw something blaze up, hot and intransigent, in the depths of his normally gentle gray eyes. You agreed to this betrothal, Attica.
I agreed only because I didn't know, she wanted to scream. I didn't know, then, what I would be giving up. I didn't know.
You agreed to it, he said again, leaning into her, and you said your betrothal vows. This marriage is as if done, Attica. As your soul belongs to God, your loyalty and your body belong to the man who will be your lord and husband. And whether you wish it or not, sister, that man is Fulk.
From where he stood beside the king, Damion could see her with her brother up on the battlements. He didn't like the angry set of d'Alérion's shoulders or the controlled way Attica held herself, as if she were reaching down inside herself for the strength to endure.
If he had to, thought Damion, he would fight the world to make her his. But he didn't see how he was going to fight Attica herself.
You have served me well, de Jarnac, said Henry, giving Damion's shoulder a staggering buffet that jerked his attention back to the king. Were it not for the warning brought by your squire, Philip and Richard should have taken me at La Ferté-Bernard like a pigeon in a knave's net. You shall be rewarded well.
It is Attica d'Alérion who deserves your thanks, not I, Your Grace. She's the one who first discovered the plot against you, and risked much to warn you of it.
So your squire tells me. A peculiarly harried expression came over the old king's face. Although if she could have contrived to warn me without bringing the viscomtesse de Salers down on my head, I should have been even more grateful. Crossing his boxer's arms across his broad chest, he went to stand at the edge of the terrace, his bowed horseman's legs braced wide as he watched some of his knights tilting at the quintain in the yard below. The afternoon wind tossed his short-cropped hair about his head, the bold ginger threaded now with gray and thinning noticeably at the back. Tell me truly, he said after a moment. Has my son John joined the others against me?
I know he has been approached, said Damion, choosing his words very, very carefully.
Henry's hand closed into a tight fist that jerked up, then relaxed. Well, he would be, wouldn't he? The question is, were the letters patent you discovered confirmation of an agreement already reached or simply a temptation to treason?
That I do not know, Your Grace.
A liver-colored bitch, one of the many hounds always to
be found cavorting at Henry's heels, jumped up to put her front paws on the king's thigh, and whimper. He fondled her ears absently, his attention swinging back to the men. The air filled with dust and the thunder of galloping hooves, the
thwunk
of lances hitting the quintain, the men's hoarse shouts of encouragement. Look at them, said Henry. Beneath its scattering of freckles, his skin showed gray and pasty in the golden sunshine. You say one of them may be conspiring with Richard against me. He pulled the hound's ears thoughtfully. But you don't tell me which one.
Damion thrust his fingertips beneath his belt as he considered his next words. There may be a way to discover it, he said, his gaze on the practice yard. He would not look at the battlements above, would not think of the possibility that the man betraying Henrybetraying them allcould be Attica's brother. Philip communicates with his adherents by means of a musical code. A code I have broken.
A musical code? Snapping his fingers to call the hound, Henry turned to stroll along the river wall. Illness had slowed his characteristically restless, impetuous movements, Dam-ion noticed; the king walked as if breathless and in pain. Any other man would have taken to his bed long since, but not Henry. Is such a thing possible? he asked.
Yes, said Damion as they crossed the drawbridge to the central fortress, chickens squawking and fluttering out of the way of Henry's ponderous stride. The genius of the system lies in the ability of its messengers to pass unremarked from place to place. I understand there is a band of wandering minstrels in the castle right now, preparing to perform at tonight's banquet.
Henry stopped so abruptly that the small page following behind with a cup of ale almost ran into the king's heels. God's bones, he roared, his eyes flashing with a quick
flare of temper. I shall have them seized and put to the torture immediately. If there is a traitor in my household, I shall know his name before nightfall. His name, and his game.
Your Grace, said Damion calmly, the minstrels know their songs, but not the messages they contain or even the code itself. It's doubtful they know who amongst all those seated at your table is actually in contact with Philip.
Henry rested his fists on his hips, his round head jutting forward intimidatingly. Are you saying I should let the knaves go?
I am saying that if you allow the jongleurs to play unmolested, then Philip will remain none the wiser to what we have discovered and we may continue to intercept his messages.
The king grunted in disbelief. Out of an entire evening's entertainment, how can you possibly know which melody contains a message?
The coded melodies always begin with the same series of notes. I'll know.
Huh. Henry seized the cup of ale from the trembling boy and drank deeply, his eyes narrowing in thought. You will sit beside me at the banquet tonight, de Jarnac, he said after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. We will let these damned traitorous jongleurs play. And then perhaps we shall see whether or not one of my men deserves to have his head on a pike, decorating my castle gate.
Yes, Your Grace, said Damion, bowing. For one moment he allowed his gaze to drift back to the battlements. But Attica and her brother had disappeared.
She sat beside the grassy banks of the castle's moat, her heart heavy with worry as she watched a couple of knaves
work to haul in the wicker eel traps and empty them into baskets. It was early evening now, the light spilling across the countryside in a rich, golden flood.
The water here ran clear, kept fresh by a stream that spilled into the Vienne. She drew her knees up to her chest, conscious of the heavy folds of soft midnight blue wool about her ankles, the weight of her woman's girdle lying low on her hips. It seemed strange, somehow, to be dressed as a woman again. She felt feminine, almost beautiful even, and yet, disturbingly, less free. A breeze swelled, shifting the tall reeds beside her with a faint sigh that sounded sweet and soft and vaguely melancholy.
And she knew he was there.
She turned her head, a smile touching her lips as she watched de Jarnac cut across the meadow, his stride lean and long-legged, the wind stirring the dark hair on his bare head. He wore a woolen tunic of rich brown trimmed at the neck and cuffs with bands of fine cream work embroidery. His chainse showed white at his throat, contrasting vividly with the dark tan of his skin. He looked magnificent.
He sank down into the grass at her side, a sparkle lighting up the depths of his green eyes as he let his gaze travel over her own finery in a way that reminded her how seldom he had seen her dressed as a woman. Sergei said I should find you here.
She wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them closer. I won't ask how Sergei knew.
Damion laughed softly. No, don't. He sobered quickly, his gaze searching her face. I take it your brother still favors your betrothal to Fulk?
She nodded, turning half away to stare off across the river. I will speak to him again tomorrow, after he has had time to think about it more calmly. He is angry now. He's been so
afraid that something must have happened to me on the road here. She paused. I have not told him of our feelings for one another. I fear that would only enrage him further.
There was a heavy silence. Then de Jarnac said, And if Stephen still insists you fulfill the marriage agreement? Have you thought what you will do then, Attica?
She hugged herself tighter, as if she could somehow hold herself together, as if she could keep her worldkeep
herself
from flying apart. Then I shall approach Henry and throw myself on his mercy. Stephen would never forgive her for it, of course. Her heart ached with the pain that thought brought, but she knew she could bear it, if the alternative was to lose Damion. The problem was, she didn't know what she would do if Henry refused to support her. She was afraid Damion would ask her that, but he didn't.
Attica?
She swung her head to find him watching her, his face taut with desire and need. Reaching up, he touched her cheek with his fingertips, his eyes taking on that hooded, sleepy look she knew so well. His head dipped toward her. Beside them, one of the knaves called out to the other, then laughed as the eel trap they were emptying fell into the water with a splash. Damion flashed her a quick smile and let his hand drop.
I must get back, he said, pushing to his feet. Henry is an impatient taskmaster.
She rested her chin on her hands, her breath easing out of her in a long sigh as she watched him stand up. I was sitting here, wishing we'd never had to come to this place. That we could simply have kept riding, just the two of us, forever.
Our forever will come, he said. You'll see. But then he left her there, to her thoughts, and to the lonely whispers of the wind.
*
She stayed beside the stream for a long time, reluctant to return to the crowded ladies chamber where she had been given a place. Slowly, the shadows began to lengthen and the church bells to ring. She knew it was time to go.
She had just risen to her feet when she heard a woman's voice behind her saying, I've been looking for you.
Attica turned to find herself confronting a handsome woman in her early twenties, richly gowned in crimson silk trimmed with gold braid. I have brought you this, said the woman, holding out a circlet of fine gold, wrought into the shape of entwined leaves and flowers with centers of precious and semiprecious stones. Standing on tiptoe, the woman placed the circlet on Attica's short-cropped hair, then stepped back, her head tilting critically to one side. There, the effect with the curls around your face is quite pretty.
Attica put up one hand to touch the gold circlet. But you mustn't lend me something so fine.
The woman smiled and shook her head. It's not a loan. It's a gift from Henry. An expression of his gratitude for your loyalty and courage. She held out her hand. I am Alice of France. I hear your name has been joined to mine on the list of reluctant brides to be handed over to their anxious grooms.
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