Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (31 page)
Attica stared off across the bailey, where a squire was leading a limping horse toward the farrier. She was remembering the night of the banquet and the intent look on de Jarnac's face as he watched the jongleurs. If he had learned something of the conspirators plans that night, he had said nothing of it to her. But then, they had hardly seen each other. And even then, she thought, they had had other things on their minds.
The French princess went back into the hall soon after that, while Attica wandered about the bailey, too troubled to return to the crowded ladies chamber. In the end she found herself outside Stephen's tower room, not quite knowing how she came to be there.
Lifting her hand to the latch, she pushed the door open. The room hadn't been Stephen's for long, yet he had stamped it as his, the cool, damp air holding the faint, ecclesiastical fragrances of incense and beeswax mixing strangely with the scents of horses and dogs and leather and polished steel. She went to stand in the middle of the chamber, her eyes squeezing closed against a sudden rush of tears.
Oh, Stephen, she whispered, her heart heavy with the burden of what she knew she must do. I'm sorry. She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, feeling the pain of her decision settle deep into her soul where, she knew, it would always lie. I'm sorry, she whispered again, but you ask too much of me. More than you have a right to do.
She couldn't have said exactly when she had made her choice. Perhaps she had always known what she would do in the end. It had only taken her this long to admit it.
She opened her eyes, her breath easing out of her in a
long sigh. She saw his lute, still lying on the table, and she went to it, her fingers trailing across the strings, the sweet notes falling sad and lonely into the stillness of the moment.
Somehow, she made herself walk with proper decorum and what seemed like agonizing slowness toward the stables. Her legs were trembling, her breath coming shallow and rapid, the noise and movement of the yard whirling in a giddy blur around her. A woman peeling rushes to be soaked in fat for rushlights looked up and called to her. Attica quickened her step.
She felt such a deep, white anger toward Stephen for what he was doing that she was shaking with it. But he was her brother, her blood, the companion of her childhood and the hope of her house. Even though what he did was wrong and dishonorable, she could not let him die.
She could not let Damion kill him.
She flung herself through the stable doors into a cool dimness scented with horses and hay and fresh manure. Mary, Mother of God, she whispered in prayer as she led de Jarnac's black Arab out of its stall and saddled it with swift efficiency, please.
Please let me catch up with them
in time. Please don't let them kill each other. Please, please, please.
Gathering the reins, she was just hauling herself into the saddle when one of the castle grooms came through a door in the back.
Alons
, what are you doing?
She dug her heels into the Arab's sides to send the horse flying through the open doors and cantering across the packed earth of the yard. Chickens and pigs scattered, squawking and squealing and causing a charcoal burner to upset his cart. Someone shouted, but she pressed on, the stallion's hooves slipping and clattering over the cobbles through the barbican.
They burst out into the light again. The mist had burned off by now, the sun rising golden and hot in a clear blue sky. The west wind caught at her hair and billowed the skirt of her dress out behind her as she sent the horse plunging down the steep slope, through the narrow, winding streets of the town. She chafed, furious, frightened, as she stood at the river's edge, the Arab's reins gripped in her sweating fist as she waited for the ferryman to come back from the far shore and carry her across the Vienne.
All the while she waited, all the while the ferryman worked to haul her across the water, she was thinking. How much distance would a litter supposedly carrying a sick king cover in an hour? A league? Two? How far from the castle would Richard lay his ambush? An hour? More? The ferry hadn't even reached the opposite shore when she leapt off it, splashing through the shallow water and driving the stallion on, on.
She had chosen the Arab because of his speed and his endurance and his heart, and he gave her all she asked for and more. Dust billowed up behind them as they raced through fields of ripening wheat and rye, past ancient
vineyards and groves of walnut trees. The stallion's neck grew dark and shiny with sweat. The hot air buffeted her face and ears, the world narrowing down to the rush of the wind and the creak of the saddle leather and the relentless pounding of the Arab's hooves churning up the road.
An hour or so later, she had slowed the stallion to a walk to rest him on a long uphill stretch when the gusting wind carried to her the unmistakable, blood-chilling sounds of battlethe scream of horses, the throaty shouts of men, the clash of steel. Attica flung up her head, her heels digging into the Arab's sides just as a trumpet rang out, sounding three piercing notes.
She surged over the crest of the hill, then reined in hard, her heart slamming into her throat as she looked down on a wild melee of helmed and mailed knights, their horses plunging and squealing, their swords flashing in the sun as the blades rose and fell, hacking, hacking. Dust and the smell of blood hung thick in the air. Beneath her, the Arab capered impatiently as she sought helplessly to pick out the familiar forms of her brother and the man she loved from amongst that surging mass of horseflesh and mail and death.
Richard's men had lain their ambush in the thick copse of trees that shadowed the stream at the foot of the hill. But they had been expecting only a small royal escort and were far outnumbered. Already they were breaking away in groups of twos and threes, scattering across the fields, fading back into the darkness of the woods.
As Attica watched, one knight, mounted on a familiar dun, his shield gone, spurred up the hill toward her. Behind him galloped a dark-helmed knight riding a black destrier and clutching a shield blazing with a distinctive red bolt of lightning. She had a strange sense of time spinning
out of control, of having been here, seen this, all before. And then she realized that she had, that this was the way she had first seen Damion de Jarnac, his shield gripped before him, his sword raised as he swept down on the
routiers
. Only this time he rode not to rescue her but to kill the brother she had risked everything to save.
She cried out his name, but it was lost in the tumult of battle and the squeal of the warhorse as de Jarnac reined in his stallion hard enough to set it back on its hocks, as if he'd suddenly realized the identity of the man he pursued and decided to let him escape. Attica's breath eased out of her in relief, only to catch again in dismay as she saw Stephen abruptly draw in rein and wheel. His lance was gone as well as his shield, but he raised his sword, defiantly yelling his war cry as he set his spurs to his horse and sent it charging at the black knight. Damion hesitated, then spurred his own charger forward. The earth thundered, the stallions pounding hooves sending up chips of sod as the men hurtled toward each other.
No!
Attica screamed, frozen with horror.
The two warhorses came together with a brutal crash. The dun squealed, going down on its side, its hooves flailing, the knight on its back hitting the ground with a ringing crash that sent his helm flying off.
The black destrier wheeled, half rearing up as the dark knight threw himself from the saddle. Stephen lay still, one leg twisted unnaturally beneath him, broken. He lifted his head, his hand groping for the sword he had lost. But the black knight was already upon him, his sword raised high, ready to deliver the coup de grâcejust as Attica sent the Arab flying down the slope, a hopeless cry of denial and impending loss tearing from her lips.
The wind gusted round him, bringing him the drumming of hoofbeats and the sound of Attica's voice, pleading,
Don't. Oh, God. Damion, no.
His head came up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Arab's flaring nostrils and flashing hooves. She flew down the hill toward them. He could see her golden brown hair gleaming warm in the sun, the skirt of her dark blue dress billowing out around her as she leaned low over the black stallion's sweat-stained neck.
Deliberately, Damion brought his gaze back to the man on the ground before him. His grip on the sword tightened for the kill. Only he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Attica's brother.
Do it, said Stephen, his voice harsh, his breath ragged enough to quiver the chain mail at his breast. For God's sake, kill me.
Damion shook his head, his blade swinging away. I cannot.
A queer smile curled the fallen man's lips. What would you do? He jerked his head to where the king's men were regrouping, rounding up their prisoners. With a broken leg, d'Alérion could never escape now. Let them take me back to Henry, to face a traitor's death? Do you think Attica will thank you for your mercy? Will she thank you when she's forced to watch them cut off my balls and pull out my guts? Will she thank you while I'm swinging at the end of a hangman's noose? Will she be pleased, do you think, when I'm drawn and quartered like a butchered hog? The fierce smile faded, overcome by a wild-eyed, trembling look of pleading. For the love of God, kill me now.
Damion brought the point of his blade to hover just above the place where the pulse beat in Stephen's bare neck. Stephen's eyes squeezed shut, his throat working as he swallowed. Tell her A hint of a boyish smile flashed, disappeared. Tell Attica she would have made a better knight than I have.
DamionOh, God, Damion, don't! Attica screamed. Dirt and small bits of stone sprayed through the air as she reined in the Arab and threw herself from the stallion's back. Without looking up, Damion drove the blade home. Stephen convulsed once, then lay still.
Stephen.
Attica's voice turned into a thin wail that blew away in the hot, dusty wind. She fell to her knees beside her brother, her face twisting with anguish as a dry, gut-wrenching sob tore up from deep inside her. Stephen, she whispered. Oh, God. Stephen, no.
She reached out, her hands trembling. She touched her fingertips to his face, cradled his cheeks in her palms. Stephen, don't be dead. Please don't be dead. With a moan, she gathered him up against her breast, her slim young
body bent and shivering as she rocked back and forth on her heels, her brother held close. Blood drenched his mail, streamed down his neck and over her hands and arms to soak into the fine cloth of her skirt, turning it dark and wet. No, she said again, shaking her head from side to side.
No.
Damion stared at her. The sky above suddenly seemed too blue, the sun shining on the bright green grass of the hillside too vivid to bear. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease her pain. But there was nothing he could say that would comfort her, and his throat felt too impossibly tight to let him push out any words, even if he'd had them to say.
Her head fell back, showing him a pale, haunted face and bruised, horrified eyes. He could count the beats of her heart in the blue veins visible beneath the fragile skin at her temples as she stared up at him. The wind blew between them, hot and dry and scented with death. You knew, she said, sucking in a deep breath that shuddered in her chest. You knew it was Stephen.
No. He sheathed his sword. Not until today.
Yet you suspected him. You suspected him from the very beginning.
When I first met you on the road, yes. But after that, not until I spoke to your uncle in Laval.
A shudder shook her slim frame. You lied to me. Before we reached the castle, when you asked me not to tell Stephen what we knew of the code. You
lied
. Her gaze slid away from him, back to Stephen. With careful tenderness, she laid her brother's body on the grass as if he were a sleeping child. She sat very still, her bloodstained hands flattened against her thighs, her head bowed.
You lied to me, she said again, her voice a torn thread. I could have warned him. But I didn't.
Damion felt the sun shining down hot on his mail. But inside he was cold. So very cold. I couldn't let you.
You couldn't let me? She looked up at him, her lips twisting in scorn, her head jerking as if in denial.
You couldn't let me?
God above. How could you
kill him
? She surged to her feet, wide-eyed, a sob bursting from between her clenched teeth as she threw herself at him.
You killed him.
She pounded her fists against his chest, the sharp links of his chain mail bruising and cutting her tender flesh, smearing them both with blood, her blood, and Stephen's.
You killed him
. Her voice broke, became a sob. You killed him. Oh, God. Why did you have to kill him?
Attica He tried to grasp her by the shoulders, but she jerked out of his reach. Splendor of God, what would you have had me do? Take him to Chinon in chains to meet a traitor's death?
She backed away from him, her eyes wide with pain and an anger that bordered dangerously near to hatred.
You could have let him go.
She swung away, her arms wrapping around her waist as she doubled over, an aching moan curling up from someplace deep inside her. Oh, God. You killed him. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she sank to her knees in the grass. She pressed her hands flat to her face, her chest shuddering with the effort to draw in breath.
I would have given up everything for you, she said, her hands sliding down to clench her skirt. I would have betrayed my house, my liege lord, my vow to God, all for you. And you she let out a horrible laugh you kill my brother.
I would die for you, Attica. Without hesitation or regret.
But I couldn't let Henry die, not because of my love for you. I couldn't look the other way while Stephen betrayed his lord to his enemies.
She stared at him. Her hands had left smears of her brother's blood on her cheeks and neck, the red standing out starkly against the white of her skin. You couldn't even look the other way while Stephen rode off ?
Damion tightened his jaw, unable to answer her. Because while it was true that, in the end, he had pulled up, it was also true that for a few, fatal heartbeats, the bloodlust of battle had pounded hot through him and he had begun to give chase.
A sob rasped painfully from her throat as she swung her face away from him, her eyes squeezing shut against the tears that now welled up hot and fast. He ached with the need to go to her, to enfold her in his arms and comfort her with his warmth and his strength and his love. But he knew this was one time his touch would bring her no ease.
His head lifted, his gaze caught by the flight of an egret that rose, white and graceful, from the reeds near the water's edge. He saw the lanner before the egret did, the hawk's dark wings spread wide, its curved beak bold against the blue sky as it hovered, then swooped, claws grasping. The egret let out a shrill cry and fell to earth, the lanner diving behind. And still Damion stared at the empty sky.
He was aware of Sergei reining in to slip from his saddle and go kneel beside Attica. The squire's hand touched her shoulder gently, and she turned to him, harsh sobs shaking her shoulders as she clutched him. Damion stood where he was, watching Attica turn away. Then he went to where Stephen lay, still, on the grass.
This at least, Damion thought, he could do for her.
*
Henry Plantagenet, King of England and Wales, and lord of more French lands than the French king himself, lay beneath a coverlet of thick marten fur in a bed curtained with scarlet silk. Though the summer evening was bright and warm, the shutters had been closed against the setting sun. A brazier glowed on the stone hearth in the chamber's corner, the bubbling contents of an earthenware pot nestled among the coals filling the room with a heavy, herb-scented heat.
Stepping into the faint glimmer of light thrown by the cresset lamp hanging by a chain from a bracket on the wall, Damion bowed. You wished to see me, Your Grace?
Henry struggled to push himself up on the pillows. I hear Philip's armies are overrunning what's left of Maine and Touraine. Is it true?
Damion met the English king's gaze unswervingly. Yes, Your Grace.
A draft swung the cresset overhead, the light flickering over a face shockingly pinched by illness. The fingers of one of Henry's hands plucked restlessly at the edge of the camlet sheet as his gaze drifted away. Perhaps it would have been for the best, after all, if Richard had succeeded in taking me today. A breath lifted his chest, then eased out in a long sigh. His gaze drifted away, and it was as if he spoke to himself, his words a broken murmur. I've dedicated my life to bringing peace, prosperity, and justice to my lands. I don't want to spend what might be my last hours watching everything I've worked for destroyed.
He brought his gaze back to Damion, his face hardening, his voice turning bitter and cold. I want you to send word to Richard and Philip. Tell them I've decided to agree to their terms. My subjects will swear allegiance to Richard, and he shall have Alice to wife on his return from his
Crusade. A growl rumbled his barrel chest as he added savagely, If she's lucky, perhaps the treacherous bastard won't come back.
Damion glanced at the regal young woman who sat, quiet and unmoving, beside the king's sickbed. Yes, Your Grace. He kept his face as much of a mask as he could make it. And Attica d'Alérion?
Henry swiped his hand through the air in an angry gesture. She'll not reward Salers and his wife for their treason by making their son the new comte d'Alérion. Stephen d'Alérion's lands are declared forfeit by reason of his defection, and I'm settling them on you He gave Damion a considering look since you didn't seem overly enthusiastic about being the Earl of Carlyle.
And the girl? said Damion again. Attica d'Alérion?
Salers can have her if he still wants her, but I doubt he will, now that she won't have the power of her brother behind her. Henry rubbed the back of his hand across his dry, cracked lips and nodded toward the silver ewer and delicate Venetian glass goblet resting on a nearby chest. Pour me some wine, he said, his voice becoming raspy. The girl can take the veil.
Damion moved to the heavy oak coffer decorated across its side panels with carved dragons and two-headed beasts devouring their own tails. I would have her to wife, Your Grace, he said, his hand almost steady as he poured the wine and handed it to the king.
Oh, you would, would you? Henry took the wine, a faint gleam of amusement lighting up his eyes. That does much to explain your lack of interest in Carlyle. He shrugged. Go ahead and take the girl too, if you wish that is assuming, of course, that she'll have you, with her brother's blood still fresh on your hands. Raising the
goblet, he drank deeply, then sighed in satisfaction, his head sinking back into the pillow. If I thank God for anything, he said, smiling faintly, it's that He's had the mercy to let me fall ill in Anjou, where a sick man can at least be assured of drinking a good cup of wine. He cocked one gray eyebrow at Damion. Ever spend much time in England?
Not a great deal, Your Grace.
Henry grunted in envy. It's true what they say, you know: English wine can only be drunk with the eyes closed and the teeth clenched.
Damion laughed while Alice of France reached forward to pluck the wine goblet from the king's slack grasp. You should rest now, Henry.
Henry threw a ferocious scowl at her and said, Stop fussing over me, woman. To Damion he added, Arrange the meeting with Philip and that bastard son of mine, so that we may exchange the kiss of peace. Only don't make the place of meeting too far.
You'll go in a litter, in any case, said Alice hastily, pulling the covers up under his chin.
God's righteous wounds, I'll do no such thing, he bellowed, his face suffusing with color as he struggled to sit up. I'll ride there on my own horse, like the king I am. I'm not dead yet.
Heavy banks of clouds raced in from the west, blotting out the thin sliver of moon and the stars and stirring up a mournful wind that shrieked through the narrow streets of the darkened town.
Attica threw a quick, anxious glance behind her, grateful in spite of her fear for the protective cloak of black secrecy the night wrapped around them. Stumbling, she threw
out one hand, running it along the rough stone wall of the building beside her, feeling her way carefully as she followed Sergei down the steep, refuse-strewn street.
As if he sensed her unease, Sergei's whisper floated back to her from out of the darkness. We're almost there, my lady.
A wolf howled in the distance. Attica gripped together the edges of her mantle with her free hand and tried not to shiver.
It didn't seem right, somehow, that she should have to creep through the darkness of the night as furtively as a thief or a spy. There should be nothing wrong with a woman wanting to give her brother a decent burial, nothing wrong with wanting to spare his body the final degradation of the gibbet, nothing wrong with depriving Henry of the pleasure of seeing Stephen's head on a pike, decorating the castle gate along with the heads of the other rebel knights who had been killed today.
Unfortunately, Henry hadn't seen it that way. He'd been furious to discover Stephen's body missing from among those brought back to the castle. She wasn't exactly certain how Sergei had managed to spirit her brother away, although she knew she had Damion to thank for it.
Damion
But the thought of him brought with it such a confused welling of hot anger and desperate longing that she jerked her mind away.
Here, said Sergei, ducking suddenly through a small arched doorway.
She followed him down a short flight of shallow steps, for the priory of Saint-Rémy was an old one, and over the centuries the level of the street outside had risen. She found herself in the side aisle of a small church with barrel vaults
and twin arcades of squat sandstone arches, dimly lit by candles that glimmered over fresco-covered walls and ceilings.
The French princess went back into the hall soon after that, while Attica wandered about the bailey, too troubled to return to the crowded ladies chamber. In the end she found herself outside Stephen's tower room, not quite knowing how she came to be there.
Lifting her hand to the latch, she pushed the door open. The room hadn't been Stephen's for long, yet he had stamped it as his, the cool, damp air holding the faint, ecclesiastical fragrances of incense and beeswax mixing strangely with the scents of horses and dogs and leather and polished steel. She went to stand in the middle of the chamber, her eyes squeezing closed against a sudden rush of tears.
Oh, Stephen, she whispered, her heart heavy with the burden of what she knew she must do. I'm sorry. She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, feeling the pain of her decision settle deep into her soul where, she knew, it would always lie. I'm sorry, she whispered again, but you ask too much of me. More than you have a right to do.
She couldn't have said exactly when she had made her choice. Perhaps she had always known what she would do in the end. It had only taken her this long to admit it.
She opened her eyes, her breath easing out of her in a
long sigh. She saw his lute, still lying on the table, and she went to it, her fingers trailing across the strings, the sweet notes falling sad and lonely into the stillness of the moment.
You are my hope
My life
My love
.
Somehow, she made herself walk with proper decorum and what seemed like agonizing slowness toward the stables. Her legs were trembling, her breath coming shallow and rapid, the noise and movement of the yard whirling in a giddy blur around her. A woman peeling rushes to be soaked in fat for rushlights looked up and called to her. Attica quickened her step.
She felt such a deep, white anger toward Stephen for what he was doing that she was shaking with it. But he was her brother, her blood, the companion of her childhood and the hope of her house. Even though what he did was wrong and dishonorable, she could not let him die.
She could not let Damion kill him.
She flung herself through the stable doors into a cool dimness scented with horses and hay and fresh manure. Mary, Mother of God, she whispered in prayer as she led de Jarnac's black Arab out of its stall and saddled it with swift efficiency, please.
Please let me catch up with them
in time. Please don't let them kill each other. Please, please, please.
Gathering the reins, she was just hauling herself into the saddle when one of the castle grooms came through a door in the back.
Alons
, what are you doing?
She dug her heels into the Arab's sides to send the horse flying through the open doors and cantering across the packed earth of the yard. Chickens and pigs scattered, squawking and squealing and causing a charcoal burner to upset his cart. Someone shouted, but she pressed on, the stallion's hooves slipping and clattering over the cobbles through the barbican.
They burst out into the light again. The mist had burned off by now, the sun rising golden and hot in a clear blue sky. The west wind caught at her hair and billowed the skirt of her dress out behind her as she sent the horse plunging down the steep slope, through the narrow, winding streets of the town. She chafed, furious, frightened, as she stood at the river's edge, the Arab's reins gripped in her sweating fist as she waited for the ferryman to come back from the far shore and carry her across the Vienne.
All the while she waited, all the while the ferryman worked to haul her across the water, she was thinking. How much distance would a litter supposedly carrying a sick king cover in an hour? A league? Two? How far from the castle would Richard lay his ambush? An hour? More? The ferry hadn't even reached the opposite shore when she leapt off it, splashing through the shallow water and driving the stallion on, on.
She had chosen the Arab because of his speed and his endurance and his heart, and he gave her all she asked for and more. Dust billowed up behind them as they raced through fields of ripening wheat and rye, past ancient
vineyards and groves of walnut trees. The stallion's neck grew dark and shiny with sweat. The hot air buffeted her face and ears, the world narrowing down to the rush of the wind and the creak of the saddle leather and the relentless pounding of the Arab's hooves churning up the road.
An hour or so later, she had slowed the stallion to a walk to rest him on a long uphill stretch when the gusting wind carried to her the unmistakable, blood-chilling sounds of battlethe scream of horses, the throaty shouts of men, the clash of steel. Attica flung up her head, her heels digging into the Arab's sides just as a trumpet rang out, sounding three piercing notes.
She surged over the crest of the hill, then reined in hard, her heart slamming into her throat as she looked down on a wild melee of helmed and mailed knights, their horses plunging and squealing, their swords flashing in the sun as the blades rose and fell, hacking, hacking. Dust and the smell of blood hung thick in the air. Beneath her, the Arab capered impatiently as she sought helplessly to pick out the familiar forms of her brother and the man she loved from amongst that surging mass of horseflesh and mail and death.
Richard's men had lain their ambush in the thick copse of trees that shadowed the stream at the foot of the hill. But they had been expecting only a small royal escort and were far outnumbered. Already they were breaking away in groups of twos and threes, scattering across the fields, fading back into the darkness of the woods.
As Attica watched, one knight, mounted on a familiar dun, his shield gone, spurred up the hill toward her. Behind him galloped a dark-helmed knight riding a black destrier and clutching a shield blazing with a distinctive red bolt of lightning. She had a strange sense of time spinning
out of control, of having been here, seen this, all before. And then she realized that she had, that this was the way she had first seen Damion de Jarnac, his shield gripped before him, his sword raised as he swept down on the
routiers
. Only this time he rode not to rescue her but to kill the brother she had risked everything to save.
She cried out his name, but it was lost in the tumult of battle and the squeal of the warhorse as de Jarnac reined in his stallion hard enough to set it back on its hocks, as if he'd suddenly realized the identity of the man he pursued and decided to let him escape. Attica's breath eased out of her in relief, only to catch again in dismay as she saw Stephen abruptly draw in rein and wheel. His lance was gone as well as his shield, but he raised his sword, defiantly yelling his war cry as he set his spurs to his horse and sent it charging at the black knight. Damion hesitated, then spurred his own charger forward. The earth thundered, the stallions pounding hooves sending up chips of sod as the men hurtled toward each other.
No!
Attica screamed, frozen with horror.
The two warhorses came together with a brutal crash. The dun squealed, going down on its side, its hooves flailing, the knight on its back hitting the ground with a ringing crash that sent his helm flying off.
The black destrier wheeled, half rearing up as the dark knight threw himself from the saddle. Stephen lay still, one leg twisted unnaturally beneath him, broken. He lifted his head, his hand groping for the sword he had lost. But the black knight was already upon him, his sword raised high, ready to deliver the coup de grâcejust as Attica sent the Arab flying down the slope, a hopeless cry of denial and impending loss tearing from her lips.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
The wind gusted round him, bringing him the drumming of hoofbeats and the sound of Attica's voice, pleading,
Don't. Oh, God. Damion, no.
His head came up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Arab's flaring nostrils and flashing hooves. She flew down the hill toward them. He could see her golden brown hair gleaming warm in the sun, the skirt of her dark blue dress billowing out around her as she leaned low over the black stallion's sweat-stained neck.
Deliberately, Damion brought his gaze back to the man on the ground before him. His grip on the sword tightened for the kill. Only he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Attica's brother.
Do it, said Stephen, his voice harsh, his breath ragged enough to quiver the chain mail at his breast. For God's sake, kill me.
Damion shook his head, his blade swinging away. I cannot.
A queer smile curled the fallen man's lips. What would you do? He jerked his head to where the king's men were regrouping, rounding up their prisoners. With a broken leg, d'Alérion could never escape now. Let them take me back to Henry, to face a traitor's death? Do you think Attica will thank you for your mercy? Will she thank you when she's forced to watch them cut off my balls and pull out my guts? Will she thank you while I'm swinging at the end of a hangman's noose? Will she be pleased, do you think, when I'm drawn and quartered like a butchered hog? The fierce smile faded, overcome by a wild-eyed, trembling look of pleading. For the love of God, kill me now.
Damion brought the point of his blade to hover just above the place where the pulse beat in Stephen's bare neck. Stephen's eyes squeezed shut, his throat working as he swallowed. Tell her A hint of a boyish smile flashed, disappeared. Tell Attica she would have made a better knight than I have.
DamionOh, God, Damion, don't! Attica screamed. Dirt and small bits of stone sprayed through the air as she reined in the Arab and threw herself from the stallion's back. Without looking up, Damion drove the blade home. Stephen convulsed once, then lay still.
Stephen.
Attica's voice turned into a thin wail that blew away in the hot, dusty wind. She fell to her knees beside her brother, her face twisting with anguish as a dry, gut-wrenching sob tore up from deep inside her. Stephen, she whispered. Oh, God. Stephen, no.
She reached out, her hands trembling. She touched her fingertips to his face, cradled his cheeks in her palms. Stephen, don't be dead. Please don't be dead. With a moan, she gathered him up against her breast, her slim young
body bent and shivering as she rocked back and forth on her heels, her brother held close. Blood drenched his mail, streamed down his neck and over her hands and arms to soak into the fine cloth of her skirt, turning it dark and wet. No, she said again, shaking her head from side to side.
No.
Damion stared at her. The sky above suddenly seemed too blue, the sun shining on the bright green grass of the hillside too vivid to bear. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease her pain. But there was nothing he could say that would comfort her, and his throat felt too impossibly tight to let him push out any words, even if he'd had them to say.
Her head fell back, showing him a pale, haunted face and bruised, horrified eyes. He could count the beats of her heart in the blue veins visible beneath the fragile skin at her temples as she stared up at him. The wind blew between them, hot and dry and scented with death. You knew, she said, sucking in a deep breath that shuddered in her chest. You knew it was Stephen.
No. He sheathed his sword. Not until today.
Yet you suspected him. You suspected him from the very beginning.
When I first met you on the road, yes. But after that, not until I spoke to your uncle in Laval.
A shudder shook her slim frame. You lied to me. Before we reached the castle, when you asked me not to tell Stephen what we knew of the code. You
lied
. Her gaze slid away from him, back to Stephen. With careful tenderness, she laid her brother's body on the grass as if he were a sleeping child. She sat very still, her bloodstained hands flattened against her thighs, her head bowed.
You lied to me, she said again, her voice a torn thread. I could have warned him. But I didn't.
Damion felt the sun shining down hot on his mail. But inside he was cold. So very cold. I couldn't let you.
You couldn't let me? She looked up at him, her lips twisting in scorn, her head jerking as if in denial.
You couldn't let me?
God above. How could you
kill him
? She surged to her feet, wide-eyed, a sob bursting from between her clenched teeth as she threw herself at him.
You killed him.
She pounded her fists against his chest, the sharp links of his chain mail bruising and cutting her tender flesh, smearing them both with blood, her blood, and Stephen's.
You killed him
. Her voice broke, became a sob. You killed him. Oh, God. Why did you have to kill him?
Attica He tried to grasp her by the shoulders, but she jerked out of his reach. Splendor of God, what would you have had me do? Take him to Chinon in chains to meet a traitor's death?
She backed away from him, her eyes wide with pain and an anger that bordered dangerously near to hatred.
You could have let him go.
She swung away, her arms wrapping around her waist as she doubled over, an aching moan curling up from someplace deep inside her. Oh, God. You killed him. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she sank to her knees in the grass. She pressed her hands flat to her face, her chest shuddering with the effort to draw in breath.
I would have given up everything for you, she said, her hands sliding down to clench her skirt. I would have betrayed my house, my liege lord, my vow to God, all for you. And you she let out a horrible laugh you kill my brother.
I would die for you, Attica. Without hesitation or regret.
But I couldn't let Henry die, not because of my love for you. I couldn't look the other way while Stephen betrayed his lord to his enemies.
She stared at him. Her hands had left smears of her brother's blood on her cheeks and neck, the red standing out starkly against the white of her skin. You couldn't even look the other way while Stephen rode off ?
Damion tightened his jaw, unable to answer her. Because while it was true that, in the end, he had pulled up, it was also true that for a few, fatal heartbeats, the bloodlust of battle had pounded hot through him and he had begun to give chase.
A sob rasped painfully from her throat as she swung her face away from him, her eyes squeezing shut against the tears that now welled up hot and fast. He ached with the need to go to her, to enfold her in his arms and comfort her with his warmth and his strength and his love. But he knew this was one time his touch would bring her no ease.
His head lifted, his gaze caught by the flight of an egret that rose, white and graceful, from the reeds near the water's edge. He saw the lanner before the egret did, the hawk's dark wings spread wide, its curved beak bold against the blue sky as it hovered, then swooped, claws grasping. The egret let out a shrill cry and fell to earth, the lanner diving behind. And still Damion stared at the empty sky.
He was aware of Sergei reining in to slip from his saddle and go kneel beside Attica. The squire's hand touched her shoulder gently, and she turned to him, harsh sobs shaking her shoulders as she clutched him. Damion stood where he was, watching Attica turn away. Then he went to where Stephen lay, still, on the grass.
This at least, Damion thought, he could do for her.
*
Henry Plantagenet, King of England and Wales, and lord of more French lands than the French king himself, lay beneath a coverlet of thick marten fur in a bed curtained with scarlet silk. Though the summer evening was bright and warm, the shutters had been closed against the setting sun. A brazier glowed on the stone hearth in the chamber's corner, the bubbling contents of an earthenware pot nestled among the coals filling the room with a heavy, herb-scented heat.
Stepping into the faint glimmer of light thrown by the cresset lamp hanging by a chain from a bracket on the wall, Damion bowed. You wished to see me, Your Grace?
Henry struggled to push himself up on the pillows. I hear Philip's armies are overrunning what's left of Maine and Touraine. Is it true?
Damion met the English king's gaze unswervingly. Yes, Your Grace.
A draft swung the cresset overhead, the light flickering over a face shockingly pinched by illness. The fingers of one of Henry's hands plucked restlessly at the edge of the camlet sheet as his gaze drifted away. Perhaps it would have been for the best, after all, if Richard had succeeded in taking me today. A breath lifted his chest, then eased out in a long sigh. His gaze drifted away, and it was as if he spoke to himself, his words a broken murmur. I've dedicated my life to bringing peace, prosperity, and justice to my lands. I don't want to spend what might be my last hours watching everything I've worked for destroyed.
He brought his gaze back to Damion, his face hardening, his voice turning bitter and cold. I want you to send word to Richard and Philip. Tell them I've decided to agree to their terms. My subjects will swear allegiance to Richard, and he shall have Alice to wife on his return from his
Crusade. A growl rumbled his barrel chest as he added savagely, If she's lucky, perhaps the treacherous bastard won't come back.
Damion glanced at the regal young woman who sat, quiet and unmoving, beside the king's sickbed. Yes, Your Grace. He kept his face as much of a mask as he could make it. And Attica d'Alérion?
Henry swiped his hand through the air in an angry gesture. She'll not reward Salers and his wife for their treason by making their son the new comte d'Alérion. Stephen d'Alérion's lands are declared forfeit by reason of his defection, and I'm settling them on you He gave Damion a considering look since you didn't seem overly enthusiastic about being the Earl of Carlyle.
And the girl? said Damion again. Attica d'Alérion?
Salers can have her if he still wants her, but I doubt he will, now that she won't have the power of her brother behind her. Henry rubbed the back of his hand across his dry, cracked lips and nodded toward the silver ewer and delicate Venetian glass goblet resting on a nearby chest. Pour me some wine, he said, his voice becoming raspy. The girl can take the veil.
Damion moved to the heavy oak coffer decorated across its side panels with carved dragons and two-headed beasts devouring their own tails. I would have her to wife, Your Grace, he said, his hand almost steady as he poured the wine and handed it to the king.
Oh, you would, would you? Henry took the wine, a faint gleam of amusement lighting up his eyes. That does much to explain your lack of interest in Carlyle. He shrugged. Go ahead and take the girl too, if you wish that is assuming, of course, that she'll have you, with her brother's blood still fresh on your hands. Raising the
goblet, he drank deeply, then sighed in satisfaction, his head sinking back into the pillow. If I thank God for anything, he said, smiling faintly, it's that He's had the mercy to let me fall ill in Anjou, where a sick man can at least be assured of drinking a good cup of wine. He cocked one gray eyebrow at Damion. Ever spend much time in England?
Not a great deal, Your Grace.
Henry grunted in envy. It's true what they say, you know: English wine can only be drunk with the eyes closed and the teeth clenched.
Damion laughed while Alice of France reached forward to pluck the wine goblet from the king's slack grasp. You should rest now, Henry.
Henry threw a ferocious scowl at her and said, Stop fussing over me, woman. To Damion he added, Arrange the meeting with Philip and that bastard son of mine, so that we may exchange the kiss of peace. Only don't make the place of meeting too far.
You'll go in a litter, in any case, said Alice hastily, pulling the covers up under his chin.
God's righteous wounds, I'll do no such thing, he bellowed, his face suffusing with color as he struggled to sit up. I'll ride there on my own horse, like the king I am. I'm not dead yet.
Heavy banks of clouds raced in from the west, blotting out the thin sliver of moon and the stars and stirring up a mournful wind that shrieked through the narrow streets of the darkened town.
Attica threw a quick, anxious glance behind her, grateful in spite of her fear for the protective cloak of black secrecy the night wrapped around them. Stumbling, she threw
out one hand, running it along the rough stone wall of the building beside her, feeling her way carefully as she followed Sergei down the steep, refuse-strewn street.
As if he sensed her unease, Sergei's whisper floated back to her from out of the darkness. We're almost there, my lady.
A wolf howled in the distance. Attica gripped together the edges of her mantle with her free hand and tried not to shiver.
It didn't seem right, somehow, that she should have to creep through the darkness of the night as furtively as a thief or a spy. There should be nothing wrong with a woman wanting to give her brother a decent burial, nothing wrong with wanting to spare his body the final degradation of the gibbet, nothing wrong with depriving Henry of the pleasure of seeing Stephen's head on a pike, decorating the castle gate along with the heads of the other rebel knights who had been killed today.
Unfortunately, Henry hadn't seen it that way. He'd been furious to discover Stephen's body missing from among those brought back to the castle. She wasn't exactly certain how Sergei had managed to spirit her brother away, although she knew she had Damion to thank for it.
Damion
But the thought of him brought with it such a confused welling of hot anger and desperate longing that she jerked her mind away.
Here, said Sergei, ducking suddenly through a small arched doorway.
She followed him down a short flight of shallow steps, for the priory of Saint-Rémy was an old one, and over the centuries the level of the street outside had risen. She found herself in the side aisle of a small church with barrel vaults
and twin arcades of squat sandstone arches, dimly lit by candles that glimmered over fresco-covered walls and ceilings.
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